GUERRERO, STORY MORDECAI Apr 5, 2012 17:58:19 GMT -5
Post by STORY MORDECAI GUERRERO on Apr 5, 2012 17:58:19 GMT -5
[classy=apptite]STORY MORDECAI GUERRERO
18. BROKEN. SENSITIVE. PANSEXUAL. LONELY.
[classy=appdesc]Oh, hey Albuquerque ! Look who's it is! It's Story Mordecai Guerrero! Oh, uh... perhaps you know them by their nickname, Store, Storybook or Cat? Anyway, this certain blessing in disguise came to us on October 13th, and grew up to be a hefty 6’1”. You can always tell it's Story because of their black hair, brown eyes and plugs, facial piercings, tattoos, colorful hoodies, scars, mixed race, and skinny as fuck. Not to mention they've gotten themselves about forty tattoos! You know, everyone says they look like Travis Mills ? I personally don't see it though ....[/classy]
[classy=app1]The fat lard of a principal looked over his papers with a rather disinterested attitude. He noticed you sitting down, but doesn't really have the courtesy to look up from his desk. To you, he says out loud. "Let's begin sha'll we? Tell me the basic details about yourself." With a cough, he shuffled through is papers and glanced at you once through his small eye glasses.
Story’s legs bounced in the chair and he looked down at the cup filled with writing utensils. He picked at his finger nails and fiddled with the bottom of his shirt, taking longer to answer that he really should have. “I’m Story. Story Mordecai Guerrero,” he spoke in a small and shaky voice. “I’m eighteen but a junior…’cause I hadta’ take a year off. I was in the hospital..” He trails off before he can explain why, raking fingers through the fringe of his hair and tugging a bit. “I was told to tell you that…I got medical complications. Migraines, bronchitis, asthma…” He trails off again and traces one of the scars on his hand with his thumb. “And problems eating and nerve damage and brain damage.” His left hand trails up the right sleeve of his hoodie and poked just above his elbow, then up to his shoulder, which he pokes as well.
With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, threw his glasses on the desk and ran his chubby fingers through thinning, greasy hair. He pinched the nose of his bridge and closed his eyes tightly as he said, "You know about the truth of this place. Now, I didn't invite you personally, my staff did. So please, give me a run down of your power." With his eyes still shut, the principal gestured with one arm toward you to begin.
His lips purse a bit and then contort into a frown, eyes narrowed in concentration. "I...dunno' how to explain it. I don't really....think about it most of the time. It just happens. Messes everything up." He plays with the front of his hair a bit, curling it around his finger. "Things from my imagine come to life. It's not like...illusions where the stuff only comes alive to certain people. It's like...made out of light. You know? Um...I feel the light stuff. Particles I think it's called, and whatever I want the thing to be gets made out of the light." His hands wave and flail as he tries to speak with them, attempting to demonstrate with his fingers what he's trying to explain. "I don't really...control it well. It mostly happens when I have night terrors. I wake up and whatever monster I was dreaming about is right there. Funny...'Cause I'm light sensitive. Gotta' wear sunglasses indoors 'cause it hurts my eyes. I didn't really figure it out until the day I got freed. I never really thought about what was happening 'cause I never had time to. As a kid I got punished for doing things I don't remember doing, but remembering back I was doing it with my power all along. Just didn't realized, ya know. It's exhausting. Hurts my brain and makes my headaches even worse than normal."
Finally, his eyes opened groggily. However, he wasn't much warmer. He yawned loudly and largely as he looked over your paper. With eyes watery and face red he continued, "I see why we would have invited you. Let's see..ah yes. Mind telling a bit about your family and where you're from?"
He flinches when the principal’s eyes open and looks away immediately, focusing once again on the cup filled with pens and pencils. His arms wrap around his chest and his toes wiggle in his shoes. He is quiet, eyes shutting tight and exaggerated the Asian heritage in him with the curled line they make. “I…Couldn’t you just…read the police report?” he speaks hesitantly, voice quiet and shaky and expression caution. He expects to be hit for this but when he isn’t he chooses to proceed. “I was born in New Mexico. Albuquerque. Mi padre was a dealer and mi madre was a junky. She had two other kids but they’ve been with their dads. Then another brother from my same dad too, Antonio. A year older.” His eyes are still closed and his arms wrap even tighter around himself, taking his time with speaking. “Mi padre….he used to beat us. A lot. And when I got fussy he’d blow smoke in my face from his joints.” His hand goes into his hand again and buries in the front of it. “Rip me out of bed by my hair. Tie me to the heater. Smack my head against the t.v. if I tried to watch.” His voice becomes choked as he continues on. “I tried to run away once and he ran over my leg with our trailer.” He opens his eyes into thin little slits and taps his right knee. “They hadta’ put pins and stuff in there. Some are still there. I have metal in my head and my shoulder and arm too.” He taps each spot and then goes on. “He used to get me to give him handjobs and blowjobs. Get super high and take me “to the park”. Drive me to his friends and he’d tie me to the bed…”
He trails off as tears start pouring from his eyes, bringing his knees to his chest and curling into a little ball on the chair. “And he’d leave us there. Me and Toni. And if he was too tired to do it himself he’d…” He trails off into choked sobs. “Barrel of a gun. Broken bottle. Whatever he could find that would fit up there. He whipped us too.” His face buries in his knees and he stays like that for a long time. “Do I have to keep going? I can’t talk about it any more.” His head shakes violently and his eyes are puffy and read from his crying. Tear stained cheeks. “I can’t talk any more. They should have sent a police file about it all.” He waves a hand toward the desk.
The file he’s speaking about tells of how Story and his brother were sexually and physically abused from infancy to ages seventeen and eighteen (for Toni). The night his father finally went to jail for it police were called to their trailer with suspect of a “domestic dispute” only to arrive on the scene to Story’s father having beaten Toni to death with a bat and was hitting Story in the back and side of his head. Police shot him and upon recovery he was sent to prison without parole. Story spent half a year in and out of the hospital to try and fix all of the damages done to his body. Broken ribs that never healed properly, nerve damage from being whipped, cognitive delays. The file also has an Individual Education Plan outlining his mental delay and learning disability caused by his neglect and multiple concussions. After months of therapy he was sent to AMG.
While you were talking, the principal had made himself comfortable by leaning back in his chair and intertwining his fingers. "Hmpf. You should fit right in. May I ask, what are your plans in the future? Outside of AMG?"
Never good with compliments, he doesn’t believe that he will fit in anywhere and thus gives a small shake of his head. “I dunno’,” he admits. “Never thought about it. I didn’t think I’d get this far.” Once again he falls silent, thinking long and hard about what he wants to do. What he knows he could do. “Maybe...a daycare. Work in a daycare. ‘Cause I really love babies and my brother says I’m good with kids. Or maybe write kid’s books, if I can learn to spell.” More confidence in his tone and a tiny little smile.
He looks much more interested now, rather awake and in a slightly better mood. "Tell me, do you have any hobbies?" he inquired, creating soft jazz hands at the word 'hobbies' as if to mock it. "You're aware that it may be difficult to continue these on the island, as you may not leave outside of break?" It was more of a statement than a question.
“I paint and draw and stuff,” he starts, beginning to open up. This guy can’t be all that bad. He can’t be as bad as some of the other principals he’s had. “That’s all really. My parents didn’t let me do anything like that. Just artsy stuff. Painting and sketching.” He shrugs indifferently. “That’s fine. I actually…have a question about break. What if we have no where to go?” His question spoken so softly he’s not even sure the principal heard it.
The principal crossed his fat arms and leaned on his desk. In a much more serious tone, he asked, "Be honest, child. How do you feel about all of this...supernatural stuff?" his shoulders shrugged as he said it.
He thinks about it for a long time, turning the question around in his mind. He had honestly never given it much thought. “It’s scary,” he admits cautiously and leaves it at that.
He leaned back on the chair that squeaked under his weight. "I see. Personally, I have mixed feelings. Anyway, we're finished now." The Principal grunted loudly as he got up to shake your hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you, do you have any questions for AMG?" he added, as he let go of your hand and buzzed the receptionist to lead you out.
He stands and moves so he’s behind the chair he’d been sitting in and grips the top of it nervously. “What if we have no where to go for breaks?” Repeats his earlier question with round, watering eyes, desperate for an answer. For a home.[/classy]
[classy=app2]dee. time lord. alien.[/classy]
[classy=apptite]FACE CLAIM [/classy]