Post by thesmartdrink on Jan 2, 2010 21:47:35 GMT -5
VINCENT JAMES KAISER.
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* FEELS JUST LIKE WE'RE LOSING CONTROL.
and if you let go, then i'll let go tonight.[/center]
[/size][/font]TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF.
"i'm dr. kaiser--a failure as a son, a well accomplished doctor to my boss, and 'vinnie baby' to the ladies, who are strangely convinced that i remind them of sean o'pry. at twenty seven, my dad is not impressed with my PhD nor my undeniable success as a doctor and has emotionally disowned me as his son--he has never been a fan of science or other 'evil' practices that go against fate or the 'power of God.' my family is has taken on my father's view and my mother is dead so i suppose i am without much of a support system--then again, they weren't much to begin with, and never respected my interest in science or, in the words of my father, 'the work of the devil and the road to doom and despair.' my patients do not agree, in fact, they are quite satisfied with my medical knowledge and understanding of the human brain--i have helped many physically, to heal and renew their lives, but there is an emptiness in me when i realize that i do not have the ability to reach past the science and cure them of the scars they have adopted by the fear they have of themselves. i can't help them and their 'souls possessed by the devil' according to my father-- they are 'hopeless causes that will burn in hell for good reason.' however, i do not agree--i fear i know how they feel. surrounded by mentally and physically ill patients, my boss, and abandoned by my father, i am quite lonely and many times, i find myself harboring similar thoughts as them, from the agony and weariness of waking each day and finding myself alone. at times i fall asleep with a lady in my arms but by the morning, she is gone and i find that the hollowness of my life hangs over my breath--it's inescapable and haunting but i do not allow anyone to see my suffering in fear that i will not be seen as a doctor, but as the patient. i am too proud to admit that my father's treatment of ignoring me is slowly working and the poison of desire for another person to enter my life is settling in, nearly peeking desperation."
TELL US ABOUT YOUR MEDICAL HISTORY.
[/size][/font]"i am just a doctor at the facility, but admit that every human in the world suffers from an incurable disease--a mental corruption. i suppose i can admit that i my loneliness is beginning to take its toll and yet, i fear commitment and betrayal. i do not trust the world for i see it through a scientific eye--emotionally, i do not know how to satisfy my desires, for i long for company and yet resent the chains that time brings. its my personal battle, one that i fight alone and have been throughout my life. i tame my sanity by modes of conscious thought and i have become my own doctor--the comfort that my knowledge of how the brain and how humans work help me understand myself but there are things, such as my strong fear of being alone forever, that i have not yet been able to untangle from the twisted yarn ball of life. i believe i need help, from someone other than myself--only hope, and the frequent company of woman in my life have kept me from surrendering to the obvious fact that i am slowly lingering at the doorstep of depression. i cling to a better day, and survive on this hope--with out, my entire faith in myself would crumble. "
HOW CAN WE ACCOMMODATE YOU BETTER?
[/size][/font]"i focus on my work, and i hate distractions that pull me away. i never let anything get personal--most say i have a cold exterior that is unapproachable, and hauntingly mysterious. they believe i have a life outside of my work, that i go home to a wife and kids, that i am busy with other things--work, however, has become my life and though most wish to believe that they know me, or are under the deranged impression that they do, i hide my thoughts, my emotions and my silent whispers for help behind intellectual words, distant pronouns, and generalized statements that keep me away from entering the reality of their life--i wish to be a figure of help for them, but not their friend, or glorified hero. if they would know of my insecurities and lonely life, they would lose faith in their own recovery and not trust that i could assist them. and if i lose this, i lose myself--under this logic i live, that if i cannot help myself, my only hope is to see that i can help others and then maybe, i will one day help myself.
i drink wine, smoke a cigarette and sit before the fire--this is my comfort. everything fades as i sink into thought and i can be relieved of all the haunting reasons of my loneliness--my rebellion against my father, my incapability to embrace a loving woman, my fear of failure. it all just, disappears. women call me a man with class--the type that watches ballet, plays chess, and ballroom dances. i think this is just because i dress nicely--button up shirts and slacks. women like that kind of thing. i like neatness and this shows in my house--spotless and organized, it seems like no one lives there and that it is simply just there, for eyes to see. i suppose this is because i am hardly at home, except to sleep. i am a perfectionist my boss says, and hate to see myself fail in others eyes--my father being the exception.
i do not like to fail, to let someone down, or be blamed for anything--even if i am responsible for it. i hate anything with violence, and i am often tagged as a introvert and passive though my attitude towards work is passionate and driven. i accept change, i move on quick--i am attached to nothing, and have nothing in my life that i would die for. i fight for nothing, and live just to serve--i am a shadow, and hate to be rewarded, given too much attention, or complimented. though i am lonely, i keep it hidden well, and keep myself away from people who seem too clingy, or too outgoing--they annoy me. it takes a long time for me to befriend people--i don't invite them in and do a splendid job in scaring them away. i prefer people who are the same, and are relaxed, and quiet."
TELL US ABOUT YOUR PAST.
[/size][/font]"i grew up in germany, but father immigrated to america when i was ten after my mother died. i have three siblings, two younger sisters and a younger brother--i was the eldest and expected to succeed fully in my father's eyes. i failed, by high school i found a strong interest in science. end of high school my father refused to pay my college tuition just so i could do the 'devil's work.' i left home, staying at a friend's house until i was rewarded with a scholarship to a respected college of medicine. there, i earned my PhD and i am fresh from school--i was picked up here, much to my surprise, and i am doing well. but i know there is more to life than this--that i can do better."
IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE?
[/size][/font]"..."
THE MASTERMIND BEHIND IT ALL.
[/size][/font]hey, my name is zoe[/color] i have sixteen[/color] tracks spinning on my record. this is my first[/color] character. i have been roleplaying for five years[/color]. the password is silicone and saline, poison inject me, [/color].[/font][/size]
[/blockquote][/blockquote]
Silence haunted a small room that lay in sinister shadows. Not a twitch of movement dared to exhale into the suffocating air as what was still, remained as so, and what had the ability to move in the flick of a desire, froze obediently upon a stern demand born from the reign of frustration. There was a thought circling the tension--a thought floating on a deep pain, clenching a heart as his beats began to fade, faltering in its own rhythm as passion whispered a farewell. It left the lungs clinging to the air by gasping breaths and left the being to battle the shameful pinches of tears that urged forward to swell from the eyes; an attempt to free the soul from the imprisonment of a lonely suffering and hopeful to coax a caring being to listen to the soft words of a wallowing heart. This thought lived on the silence, rested on a departing tear, vanished in a clenched jaw and effortlessly resurrected in the lost breath that returned in a tired sigh. When the silence slipped away into an exhale, the thought still remained--a sour curse on a troubled soul that curled within itself, clenching its heart and not understanding the reason for the unstable ground it rested upon that promptly began to fall away. It shifted beneath him until at last, only the tense, mercilessly air remained that was far too selfish to uphold a broken body and instead of satisfying the plead for grace, it allowed him to fall. He continued to eternally tumble, with the feeling of failure, betrayal and hopelessness cursing him but he never was rewarded with the relief of reaching the end, of colliding with a solid foundation and of surrendering to all the adversaries who flew about him--who mused over his wingless fall, who took joy in his confusion as the poison of deception settled in his blood, and who offered a hand, lighting his hope as he reached, yearning in his desperation to reach a sense of stability before they withdrew their offer and instead, spectated his descent.
A steady wind blew over his flame of hope that lived boldly in the worst of conditions. He held on to the prospect of a companion, admitting that this one comfort, rather it held truth or not, was the only part of his life that kept him sane and withheld him from publicly wallowing in his own self pity. It was the single object of his desires; to awaken this flame of optimism into an inferno of truth, to devour every doubt tossed at him by his bitter adversaries and to live with a freed breath soothing his dried lungs--he wanted to taste just a morsel of the fruit of life. He wanted to break the chains of fear, shatter the dictatorship of doubt and deny the attempts of the past to hold him back. For it was at the fault of these adversaries that brought to him the painful thought that lingered on his mind at a constant existence--the thought of loneliness.
The absence of a hand in his was haunting; the silence produced by a single being was terrifying. The yearning of his soul was even more disturbing; it was a longing that remained unnamed, untouched by the attempts to place into words for the desperation for one to understand him and to have the pleasure of receiving his trust, had been buried far beneath a simple desire and slowly, it became an undying need. It was the savior of the pain that made him ensnare his heart and that tortured him with an unnamed devil of rage. He felt weak, tired and weary emitting a helpless whimper when a flicker of hope proposed a revolution. He needed another soul, a strong heart that could carry him on wings of recovery--that would forgive him for his sour antics and dismiss his shameful weakness in the face of conflict. This longing was left unsatisfied; he scared others with his deep wounds, chased away those who would pour ointment in the scars, making them throb with a greater pain and remained untouchable--if they did not attempt to treat the injuries, they were accused of treason to his recovery, and promptly dismissed. There was no solution in sight save the introduction of a caring heart, that did not offer more pain--he was wretchedly sick of pain--who stood by him and did not ask for anything in return, aside from his recovery. He wanted the loneliness to cease--he endeavored to be loved but did not claim any interest in loving in return and thus, the lonely spell remained, drying his breath, slowing his heart and twisting him in a confused agony.
He remained alone, with silence as his only company and misery as the only evidence of his life. In the dark room, he reluctantly welcomed the familiar face of solitude despite the shifting movements outside his office. The world was alive, working in a haste to keep death off the welcome mat at their door--it seemed a lifelong conviction to avoid the rotting breath of disease and to find the cure; a promise of perfection, of normality or rather, the innocent comfort of hope. He knew the secrets behind these petty amenities and of the eerie shadows that were created through the beams of life they produced; at least with absolute darkness, all is known. With the gift of light, and the side affect of shadows, it is easier to turn a blind eye to the entire image of truth and therefore skew a vision into a betraying vision of perfection--death was more grave when unexpected for the salutations were silenced in sudden occurrences. At least he knew the entire face of his pain, at least he knew the truth and at least this pain could not betray him--this was the only comfort he managed to pull from his situation but perhaps even this cast a light of hope that sheltered him from the full concept of his fate and perhaps when the hope was diminished, the dark would appear blacker than before. Perhaps, maybe, there was no knowing a definite answer--and perhaps, maybe, he was doomed to fall even faster.
He sat in the dark, motionless and cold in his chair. His gaze was cast forth into a deep abyss, as the single thought poisoned his mood to a foul stench. For a moment longer, he was lost before he regained his sense of place by a longing, unnamed and primitive, for a smoke. From his pocket he retrieved a cigarette and lit it with a lighter; a small breath of embers struggled in the dark before he inhaled, coaxing a stale exhale of gray to linger before him. He smirked coldly, oddly satisfied by the distraction. He withdrew the cigarette from his lips, holding it to hover as he leaned forward and turned on a small lamp at his desk. The light flooded the room with weak rays, revealing his calmed face that remained free from the expressions of his soul; it was blank, cleaned with a brush of perfection, untouched by the breath of pain. A knock on the door prodded him to retreat in his chair, reclined with his back against the soft cushion, cigarette still in his hand despite obvious rules against it. He glanced at the door, reluctant to let anyone in but gently murmuring a word of invitation, "Come in." The words remained unattached from his soul for it feared any intrusion, it remained isolated and frightened; and through shame of this face, it remained hidden behind a calm and controlled disposition that claimed to have wanted nothing from the world and boasted an expression of contentment.
A steady wind blew over his flame of hope that lived boldly in the worst of conditions. He held on to the prospect of a companion, admitting that this one comfort, rather it held truth or not, was the only part of his life that kept him sane and withheld him from publicly wallowing in his own self pity. It was the single object of his desires; to awaken this flame of optimism into an inferno of truth, to devour every doubt tossed at him by his bitter adversaries and to live with a freed breath soothing his dried lungs--he wanted to taste just a morsel of the fruit of life. He wanted to break the chains of fear, shatter the dictatorship of doubt and deny the attempts of the past to hold him back. For it was at the fault of these adversaries that brought to him the painful thought that lingered on his mind at a constant existence--the thought of loneliness.
The absence of a hand in his was haunting; the silence produced by a single being was terrifying. The yearning of his soul was even more disturbing; it was a longing that remained unnamed, untouched by the attempts to place into words for the desperation for one to understand him and to have the pleasure of receiving his trust, had been buried far beneath a simple desire and slowly, it became an undying need. It was the savior of the pain that made him ensnare his heart and that tortured him with an unnamed devil of rage. He felt weak, tired and weary emitting a helpless whimper when a flicker of hope proposed a revolution. He needed another soul, a strong heart that could carry him on wings of recovery--that would forgive him for his sour antics and dismiss his shameful weakness in the face of conflict. This longing was left unsatisfied; he scared others with his deep wounds, chased away those who would pour ointment in the scars, making them throb with a greater pain and remained untouchable--if they did not attempt to treat the injuries, they were accused of treason to his recovery, and promptly dismissed. There was no solution in sight save the introduction of a caring heart, that did not offer more pain--he was wretchedly sick of pain--who stood by him and did not ask for anything in return, aside from his recovery. He wanted the loneliness to cease--he endeavored to be loved but did not claim any interest in loving in return and thus, the lonely spell remained, drying his breath, slowing his heart and twisting him in a confused agony.
He remained alone, with silence as his only company and misery as the only evidence of his life. In the dark room, he reluctantly welcomed the familiar face of solitude despite the shifting movements outside his office. The world was alive, working in a haste to keep death off the welcome mat at their door--it seemed a lifelong conviction to avoid the rotting breath of disease and to find the cure; a promise of perfection, of normality or rather, the innocent comfort of hope. He knew the secrets behind these petty amenities and of the eerie shadows that were created through the beams of life they produced; at least with absolute darkness, all is known. With the gift of light, and the side affect of shadows, it is easier to turn a blind eye to the entire image of truth and therefore skew a vision into a betraying vision of perfection--death was more grave when unexpected for the salutations were silenced in sudden occurrences. At least he knew the entire face of his pain, at least he knew the truth and at least this pain could not betray him--this was the only comfort he managed to pull from his situation but perhaps even this cast a light of hope that sheltered him from the full concept of his fate and perhaps when the hope was diminished, the dark would appear blacker than before. Perhaps, maybe, there was no knowing a definite answer--and perhaps, maybe, he was doomed to fall even faster.
He sat in the dark, motionless and cold in his chair. His gaze was cast forth into a deep abyss, as the single thought poisoned his mood to a foul stench. For a moment longer, he was lost before he regained his sense of place by a longing, unnamed and primitive, for a smoke. From his pocket he retrieved a cigarette and lit it with a lighter; a small breath of embers struggled in the dark before he inhaled, coaxing a stale exhale of gray to linger before him. He smirked coldly, oddly satisfied by the distraction. He withdrew the cigarette from his lips, holding it to hover as he leaned forward and turned on a small lamp at his desk. The light flooded the room with weak rays, revealing his calmed face that remained free from the expressions of his soul; it was blank, cleaned with a brush of perfection, untouched by the breath of pain. A knock on the door prodded him to retreat in his chair, reclined with his back against the soft cushion, cigarette still in his hand despite obvious rules against it. He glanced at the door, reluctant to let anyone in but gently murmuring a word of invitation, "Come in." The words remained unattached from his soul for it feared any intrusion, it remained isolated and frightened; and through shame of this face, it remained hidden behind a calm and controlled disposition that claimed to have wanted nothing from the world and boasted an expression of contentment.
