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Post by && RACHAEL LARSON. on Jan 22, 2007 3:40:56 GMT
YOU;;
OOC name; oh no. its sarah again.
CHARACTER;;
Full Name; Rachael Delilah Larson
Age; Twenty Two
APPEARANCE;;
Build; Rachael’s build is not the most usual one you might find. She has had weight problems since she was a child, never the skinniest girl in her class. She was a bit heavyset until puberty, when the weight was distributed amongst her body to form perhaps the most ‘delicious’ of curves. Most people would appreciate being so… “bootylicious.” But not Rachael. For her, the extra baggage she considered herself having was the source of numerous problems, the worst of which being her eating disorders. She’s gotten better about harming herself in this way, but in times of desperation, she will either not eat anything, or throw up what she has eaten. It’s a horrible thing to do, but for a girl like Rachael, it seems only normal.
Hair; Her hair is a light brown in color, naturally wavy and soft. She likes to keep it long, brushing the small of her back. She will color it when the idea comes to mind, but usually it stays its natural light brown. She will straighten it if she pleases, but most likely refrains from doing so, merely so that she does not leave her hair dried out and damaged. She’s also been known to curl it softly, which is easy with her already wavy tresses.
Eyes; Rachael’s eyes are a warm, chocolate brown, which complement her tanned skin. They are a nice size, not small and squinty, but not bug-eyes either. They usual sport golden eye shadow on their lids, and a bit of mascara on her dark eyelashes. Eyeliner is something Rachael will wear if she’s trying to look nice, but on an everyday basis she will refrain from doing so.
Nose; Rachael’s nose is rather typical. It’s rather wide down its shaft, widening even more around her nostrils. It is without freckles of any sort, and does not protrude more than should be expected. She’s not all that fond of her nose, but then again, who is? It’s merely something that’s there, sporting a few little scars from shards of glass.
Lips; Her lips are full, plump, and naturally a brownish-pink in color. She usually puts a thin coat of gloss on them, nothing else, for any other color would look strange and unnatural on her face. You don’t see much of her lips, however, because usually you’ll find her biting on her lower one uncomfortably, merely because it distracts her from whatever awful memories are going through her mind.
Tattoos; Rachael sports one tattoo on the inside of the upper part of her right arm, on her bicep. It says “runaway” in flowing script, in memoriam to the numerous times when she tried to runaway from everything herself. It was not in reference to the new song by Ludacris—that song, actually, did make her feel a pang of guilt in her heart, but she had gotten this tattoo before the song was released. People often inquire about it, but she hates talking about anything from the past. In fact, she has yet to tell anyone about her childhood, or Big Ray, or Jake. And when they ask about it, she will shrug them off. They don’t need to hear about it.
Scars; Ah, scars. Where doesn’t Rachael have scars? They run down her arms, legs, torso and face. The scars on her stomach and back are most noticeable, followed by her arms. The scars on her face are perhaps the least noticeable, smaller but still there. Her worst scar is at her hairline, long and cruel, but hidden by her brown locks.
Flaws; If anything, Rachael truly despises her hips. They are quite curvaceous, and actually slightly appealing to some people, but she finds them useless and fat. She stares at them in the mirror, bringing on a new onslaught of bulimia or anorexia.
Piercings; Currently, Rachael has two piercings, one in each earlobe. She isn’t quite into having ten pounds of jewelry in each ear, and so she sticks to one per lobe. She usually will wear studs or the occasional hoop, but other times she won’t wear any earrings at all. It depends more on her mood than anything else, or what would look good with her outfit.
PERSONALITY;;
Personality; Rachael is a rather complex person, perhaps one of the most complex you will meet. Her moods can swing faster than you could imagine, but somehow she always manages to cover it up as quickly as possible with some sort of fake, forced smile. You can’t really put one image of her in your mind, there are so many different sides. Whether she’s that angry girl who you can see screaming, the scared young woman who is haunted by her fears, or the fake, slutty girl who will do anything to make you think she’s okay.
Perhaps we should start with the most common side you will see, but perhaps the least sincere of them all: the pretender. She will be smiling sweetly, perhaps even flirting, acting like just another ditz. This side is horribly optimistic, and desperate to please anyone. She wants you to believe everything is okay, that she’s okay. And honestly, she does a pretty good job of it. It’s hard to believe that she’s so troubled, and you’re drawn to that smile, those sparkling eyes. It’s the side most people know, the side that gets her friends. But it’s not sincere, and it’s not earnest. It’s fake, it’s all pretend.
Who is she really? I’ll move to the deepest truth. Rachael is a scared woman. She’s scared of most things—her father, her past, trusting, loving. Just thinking about any of the aforementioned things make her break down inside, make her recoil, make her hide inside herself. She’s afraid of letting people know what has really happened. She doesn’t want anyone to treat her any differently because of it. She likes her games, likes her throne of lies. It lets her pretend she was that perfect little girl, the one everyone wanted to be. While really, she was abused, broken in two, torn apart. While really, she’s still vomiting in the toilet, starving herself. All to be that perfect girl. But she’s not. And perhaps that is what scares her the most.
Ah, but what is the scariest side of Rachael you’ll ever see? The anger. The anger that has been brooding in her heart since her sixth birthday, since her father’s first blow. If you manage to see this side, it is most likely not because she is angry at you. It’s merely that you’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The large ball of anger lets itself loose like a spinning tornado, trying to diminish everything around it, if only to make herself feel better. It’s pathetic, but coming from someone who has never had the attention be on herself, maybe its legitimate. It’s practically impossible to tell. Whatever the reason, this side is perhaps most feared by anyone who has witnessed it. Rachael will spin out of control, yelling, screaming, until she sinks down to the ground, overcome with realization. She’ll proceed to plaster on that fake, sickening smile, and you’ll begin to doubt anything you’ve been told about this mysterious young woman.
Rae tries to be an independent person. It’s why she never wants people to know about her abuse. She doesn’t want their pity, doesn’t want them to feel bad for her. She’s never felt control, so she strives it with her whole being. It’s why she starves herself sometimes, why she yells when you try and treat her like some lost little kid. She wants control. She craves it. Maybe she’s a power freak. Maybe she just wants a taste.
Likes; – People who don’t ask questions
- Pretending
- Acting… normal.
- Dancing
Dislikes; – Nosy people
- Those who see past the fake smiles.
- The idea of love
- Men
PAST;;
Family;
Raymond Larson
Forty-Seven
Abusive Ass
D’elia Majoria Larson
Thirty Nine
Oblivious and Useless
Kerry Larson
Twenty Six
Boy Gone Wild
History; October the Seventeenth, year One Thousand Nine Hundred and Eighty Four. A child was born. No trumpets sounded, no parents looked at her giddily. It was a kid and a dysfunctional family. Things were already a living hell.
Her mother was a drug addict, diagnosed with AIDS shortly after Rachael was born. Her father was abusive, an alcoholic. Mom was black, dad was white. Different as night and day. As a mere toddler, little Rae clung to her older brother, watching the fights unfold, watching the blows be dealt. She didn't understand why her daddy was so mad, why her mother sobbed. It didn't make sense. This didn't look anything like the families on the Sitcoms she sometimes watched when she was home alone. Her daddy didn't make her peanut butter sandwiches on slices of Wonder bread while she talked about school. Her mother didn't fix her hair in the morning. She couldn't figure out why they didn't live like that.
Rachael didn't enter school until the law stepped in. They told her parents that if they didn't put her in school, action would be taken against them. They didn't do anything about the beating, the verbal abuse. But a young girl of six finally entered the first grade, behind in schooling, and struggling. It was that year her father's blows turned on her, her mother seeming to lose her daddy's interest. She'd ask him why as he came in each night, ask him why he was doing this. Why he was hurting her. Why he was hurting his family. And Big Ray never answered, just told her to get down. Fearfully, the girl would obey.
He'd touch, prod, give himself satisfaction from a mere seven year old. And when she protested, said she was tired, as it was always at all odd hours, he'd bring the belt to her body, its cold metal buckle cutting into her smooth, baby-soft skin. She told herself she deserved it, this anger, this violence. She'd done something to deserve it. She wasn't good enough for anyone, not even her own daddy. And so she took it all, didn't tell anyone. Even at age seven, she was a bottomless pit.
People asked about the cuts at school, why her face was swollen, why she fell asleep during class. She'd make up excuses, and people believed her. She'd fallen down the steps, she'd stayed up too late reading. And Rae hated to read. But they all accepted it. They didn't want to have to search any further through this troubled, awful little girl.
Age nine, Rachael was asked to write a paragraph on why she was special. The whole class had to do it, and they all said because they were pretty, funny, smart, or nice. Rachael stared down at her paper, neatly printing four words and handing it in. I AM NOT SPECIAL. Her teacher was furious, lectured her, sent her to the principal. Principal Burns contacted her parents. Her mother merely waved her away, holding the needle to her arm. Her father brought the belt to her. Kerry went and did things Rachael didn't even want to think about, didn't want to guess about. Life rolled on.
At age ten, she ran away for the first time. Her daddy knocked on her door, and she grabbed her bag, throwing herself out the second story window. She hit the ground running, grunting as tears blurred her vision. She heard Big Ray screaming furiously, and it only made her run faster, not knowing where to go, but knowing she had to get somewhere. But it wasn't long before he followed. She tried to make different turns, tried to escape him. Finally, as she hid under a car, he gave up. She stayed in the park that night, sobbing. It wasn't long before her daddy had called, put a sign up for her. He was out again the next day. Her freedom didn't last long.
The beatings were worse after that. It didn't matter what she did, she always got them. Her self esteem kept dropping with each blow, each cut bearing the mark that she was imperfect. People recoiled from her at school. She wasn't smart, wasn't outgoing. She was an awful student, her grades settling as permanent D's in each subject. She never brought her report card home anymore. There wasn't anyone who'd bother to sign it. She was good for a beating, good for her father to let out his stress, but otherwise, she felt useless.
At age twelve, puberty had taken its course, gracing Rachael with perhaps some of the best of assets. Her breasts were not slow in development, and her curves were extremely noticeable. The boys began to tease her, push her, and she merely let them, because that was what she was used to doing. The teachers looked the other way, the boys touched, she let it happen. And it was then that her dad threatened her life. She came home late, having had a problem with a few members of the opposite sex, rushing and disheveled. Her dad picked her up by the collar and held her over a full bathtub, yelling and screaming as she quietly let him. That was all she could do. All she could do was let them win.
Finally, he threw her down, leaving his child soaking wet in a full tub of water. The water was cold, so cold in fact that she could hardly move. But she pulled herself up and went to sleep, only to have Big Ray come in and let her have it again. And she decided she had to do it again. She ran.
It took a good deal of planning this time. She wouldn't let Big Ray catch her. This was her chance. So she figured her routes, figured her timing. She pulled money from her mother's stash, the money that only they knew about. Her mother usually used it to get herself stoned on heroin, but not this time. This time it was to free her daughter. Not that she knew that. She was passed out on the sofa.
By the time her daddy returned home, Rachael had left, and he was infuriated, beating his wife before setting out to look for her. She expected to be out of the city by then, but the whole plan had gone awry. The bus line had been stopped, her only map being outdated. So she was stranded, scared, and out of places to hide. It took three days for Big Ray to find her, and when he did, he dragged her home, raped her, and left her unconscious. Finally the girl awoke, too sore to make it out of her bed. Her mother and father left her there, and she slept, school far from on her mind.
Things were quieter for the next two years, until Rachael's fifteenth birthday. She had her nightly touches, sometimes it went even further, to rape, but she'd managed to pretend to have hardened herself to it. It still hurt her each time, both physically and emotionally. The bruises never healed, the scars never went away. She would always be imperfect.
When Rachael was fifteen, she got pregnant. Not from her father, but from a boy. She'd lost all hopes to make it up to her father, and let herself run wild, sleeping around and going to parties, getting drunk and smoking pot. It had left her in a daze, and when she learned she was with child she nearly died. She didn't know what to tell her parents, what to tell her daddy. She had no money for an abortion, no way to have the child any other way. So her brother, her only confidant, took her out to the backyard where he kicked her stomach each night until she miscarried. It was brutal, painful, unethical, and disturbing. The girl wasn't quite the same afterwards. She withdrew, put on a fake smile, pretended everything was okay, regardless of the rapings and beatings that went on at home. She didn't mean anything in the long run. No one would care if she told them.
She ran away at sixteen, a bruised, scarred, tormented girl with a large fake smile plastered to her face. She made it all the way from Pasadena to Los Angeles, a lost young teenager who would do anything for money. She slipped from job to job, but no one wanted an uneducated seventeen year old. She held very few for more than a month, and each one stacked on top of another. They turned off the next potential employer. It was a downhill spiral. And to add to it all, Big Ray came looking for her, posting fliers up around town. She saw them, and tore them down ecstatically, people grabbing her and asking what she was doing. She prayed her daddy wouldn't find her.
She never continued a college education. She was a street performer for a while. She could barely read, barely write. She didn't know how to fill out a resume, didn't think she should bother. So she sang or danced, getting the occasional dollar bill or two and a bit of applause. And it was during these years that Rachael met Jake. He was tall, strong, handsome. On their first date he called her beautiful. She didn’t believe him, but it helped her self esteem nevertheless. She felt like she was worth something. But that feeling only lasted a few weeks.
Jake was in a group of guys, guys that danced. They battled at clubs, all taking turns trying to “school” each other. They needed something, someone to get themselves to the top. It was how they made money, what gave them the ability to stay alive. Their food rested on their performance last night. Their dancing was important. Rachael was sucked in quickly, becoming one of theirs. She put on the ridiculous tops, short shorts, and danced. They beat her too, telling her that this way she’d become even harder, so that no matter how many times she fell, she wouldn’t be broken. But the thing was, she was already broken.
The crowd seemed to love the fact that “The Kings” now had themselves a princess, especially one that looked so tough. True, Rae sported numerous scars, some large, some small. There were bruises all over her body, and her hands were rough and callused. But she kept on dancing. She was mistreated by the crowd, having her body touched as she walked off the floor, even her own fellow dancers misusing her. But it was something she felt that she could do, even if it left her so lost, so confused. And Jake seemed to adore her as she shook what she had, her body rolling to the music, letting everything fall away for those few seconds of ignorant bliss. It was her time to forget.
She continued to date Jake, sucking up his compliments like a vacuum. She almost mistook the whole relationship for love, until that first blow. She said something wrong, did something wrong, made some sort of wrong move in the dance, and his fist met her shoulder. She slammed against the wall, gasping for air, confused. He stared at her, looked away, and continued on as if it had never happened. She did the same. She let him win, she let everyone else win. She didn’t have any choice in the matter.
Weeks passed. Rachael walked in to find her now so-called boyfriend pulling off the panties of some whore. Rachael merely ran out of the building, only to have Jake follow her. She insisted it was over, that he could go back to that woman. This angered Jake, and he threw her against the brick wall of a nearby building, the bricks cutting into the back of her skull. He struck repeatedly, hitting her shoulders, head, torso—everything. She let him beat. She couldn’t make him stop. So why bother?
She tried to avoid him, but then other members of the dance crew started asking questions. She didn’t want to dance anymore. She didn’t want to be with him anymore. But she had no choice-- at least that was how it seemed. So she took the beatings in stride. He beat her every day at that point, not caring about a reason. She was his doll, his toy. And he treated her horribly. And as she fell to the floor, gasping after his whacks, he would smile nastily and say, ”I love you, bitch.” Those words hurt more than any sort of blow he could deal out, and he knew that. She gave him power. She kept him going. All he did was take, and she was getting to the point where she had nothing left to give. He didn’t call her beautiful anymore. He called her worthless and fat. It was at this point, at the age of nineteen, when Rachael became unstable in her eating patterns.
Her exact condition fluctuated. For a few months she’d eat very little each day, starving herself until she collapsed. Other times, she’d eat so much she felt sick, run to the bathroom, and let it all go. It really depended on how she was feeling. The anorexia was her normality, the bulimia only at times of extreme desperation. She wanted to be worth something. She wanted to be someone’s perfect girl. She wanted to feel like she had a say over something. She wanted to lose her curves, be all muscle, all hard and all strong. No softness. She wanted to become that empty shell.
She became much thinner over time, hollows forming under her eyes. Her bones showed, but she didn’t find it enough. While regurgitating her meal one night after a performance, a woman walked in and caught her. At first, Rae intended on making sure she never told anyone, beating the idea out of her, but then the two began to talk. They shared stories, and the other woman, Erin, got her to stop abusing herself. No more throwing up, no more not eating. And so she did so, regaining each curve, the hollows filling in. Erin had come just in time, as the crowd was not appreciating such a bony dancer anymore.
But then, Erin was shot in a drive-by. She was a member of a gang, not all that active, but in one nonetheless. It was payback, Rae was told, for a murder done but only a few weeks ago. Man for man, life for life. Rachael felt lost without her dear friend, and slowly her habits came back to her, though not with the same intensity as before. She had no one to tell her to stop, no one to tell her that she was hurting herself. So she kept on, her bones protruding once more. She liked the constant pain in her stomach. It let her know that she was doing something. She was making a difference.
Later that year, no matter how little she ate, Rachael’s belly grew in size. She was scared, she knew this feeling. She was carrying Jake’s child. She told him fearfully after he struck her repeatedly, and this only made him angrier. He told her to abort it, to get rid of the child. She shook her head, telling him that she’d been through that once before, and once was enough. She was going to keep the baby. It would be hers. He began to threaten her, his hands around her neck, but finally he gave up. He told her to come to her senses, or she’d lose him. The dance group shunned her, too. What good was a pregnant dancer?
[to be continued, too long]
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Post by && RACHAEL LARSON. on Jan 22, 2007 3:41:19 GMT
CONTINUED
Nine months passed, each one more excruciating than the next. When her time came, Rachael was all alone in the hospital room. The nurses all treated her coldly, some stupid twenty one year old who’d gotten herself knocked up—that was what they saw. But she stayed strong, all through the delivery. And when the baby left her body, all was quiet. There were no crying noises, no sounds of life coming from the child. The doctor tried to revive the little boy, but it was useless. The babe was stillborn. Aching and scared, Rachael went home, and kept to herself for weeks after the delivery. All of that pain, both physical and emotional, had resulted only in more pain. The hope she’d felt had ended up smacking her in the face.
She crawled back to Jake, begging for his forgiveness. He grinned maniacally, and nodded. The abuse picked up not long after it all. You may ask why she hadn’t just left him afterwards. The trouble was, he was all she knew. He had her locked in his firm grip, there was no escaping him. So she took it all back, from the beatings to the criticism. She thought he was worth it.
Months passed until the day she lost him, or he lost her it might be better said. “Does this hurt, Princess?” he shouted at her one day, throwing her to the floor, a cruel grin on his face. He kicked at her sides, pressing against the fresh bruises, ripping at the healing cuts. She gasped for air, managing to gasp out a choppy, “No.” Her breaths were shallow, and her head spun, but a crazy grin spread across her face, her eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t hurt one bit,” she repeated softly between gasps. He stopped kicking, stopped throwing, and stared at her. “What did you say?” he asked angrily. “I’m not worthless! I am somebody!” she shouted, beginning to laugh, still laying on the floor. He growled, picking her up by the shirt, slamming her against the wall.
“You’re nothing,” he screamed, his breath reeking of alcohol as he stayed nose to nose to her. “That’s what you think,” she said through a smirk. He began to completely deal out his blows, hitting her head repeatedly until she sank to the floor, bleeding, dizzy, and delirious. “You’re nothing!” he said, his voice shaking. She managed a shaky laugh as tried to get to her feet again. She stepped towards him, and he took a step back, almost afraid of what this insane woman might do. She picked up a brick, and hurled it at him before tumbling down to the ground again. It struck the corner of his head, sending him back staggering.
“Are you so sure about that?” she coughed, struggling to keep herself awake. Blood ran into her eyes, and she wiped it away with her hand, which then trailed to the gash on her forehead. “ARE YOU?” she shouted, shaking her head, wearing a disgusted grin. But he had fallen to the ground, too, not dead, but unconscious. The neighbors had called the police after hearing the ruckus below them, and they were there shortly, at first trying to arrest Rachael for attempted second degree murder, but after re-assessing the situation, they realized what had happened. She was taken to the hospital in a different ambulance than Jake, her wounds treated. The next day she was hounded with microphones and cameras for news stations. They all wanted to know about the woman who’d finally stood up to her abuser.
“How could you be so brave, Miss Larson?” one reporter asked her. It was the only question she answered. She didn’t want Big Ray finding out where she was. “I wasn’t brave,” she told him plainly. “I was stupid.” They all seemed unsettled by this answer, by such a depressing outlook. She felt no better now that she was without him. She still bore scars, still had the bandages around her head, arms, and legs. She wasn’t brave, wasn’t admirable. She was imperfect. She would never be good enough.
Rachael lay low for a while, even though Jake had been ordered to stay away from her, backed up with a hefty restraining order. But she didn’t trust it. She had a feeling he’d be back. She just didn’t know when. She has since re-entered the public eye, with her scars and fake smiles. She wanders from job to job, living off the few dollars she can make. She sleeps on park benches, on subway trains, but always manages to make herself look presentable. She doesn’t try to mooch off of others, doesn’t want them knowing she can’t support herself. So she continues on, lying, pretending. Hoping.
PRESENT;;
Pets; None
Siblings; BROTHER—Kerry. Location: Unknown. Relationship: Drifted.
Children; None.
Education; Elementary—completed; highschool dropout.
Job; Currently Unemployed.
CITY OF ANGELS;;
Celebrity; Beyonce Knowles
Sample Post; blahhh. from another thread…
Other; *edited by admins* [/blockquote] |
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