ROSS, SHANE DEVAN Apr 27, 2012 21:54:29 GMT -5
Post by SHANE DEVAN ROSS on Apr 27, 2012 21:54:29 GMT -5
[classy=apptite]SHANE DEVAN MICHAEL RYAN MITCHELL ANDERSON ROSS
SIXTEEN. DEPRESSED. ANGRY. QUESTIONING. DISINTERESTED.
[classy=appdesc]Oh, hey Cape Cod! Look who's it is! It's Shane Devan Michael Ryan Mitchell Anderson Ross! Oh, uh... yes, it certainly is a mouthful, isn’t it? Anyway, this certain blessing in disguise came to us on November 4, and grew up to be a hefty 5’9”. You can always tell it's Shane because of their dark brown hair, dark brown eyes and constant angst. Not to mention he’s got a million scars. You know, everyone says they look like Skandar Keynes? I personally don't see it though ....
[classy=app1]I guess I’ve got to be a pretty rare case. They didn’t know what to do with me but there was no fucking way I was going through an interview to attend a school I didn’t even want to be at. There’s a reason I dropped out. And that reason is because I do not fucking want to be here. I don’t think I can put it more simply than that. But they were determined to have me give my side of everything, so they wouldn’t let Tracy just do it for me. Which pisses me off because the last thing I want at a freak show like this is for some lady I don’t know read my mind to get personal information out of me. It’s like being with another fucking shrink only I don’t get to censor anything.
They didn’t even introduce her to me. They just brought me in, sat me down, and she was there with her giant doe eyes and pink dress suit and tablet of paper. And I could feel her digging into my head. I don’t know if there was really a physical sensation there but I was far too aware of what she was doing to be comfortable.
“So, Shane, tell us a bit about yourself,” the principal said. He was a greasy sort of man that reminded me of what James could look like if he didn’t have places to go and people to impress all the time. It disgusted me to think about it.
Whatever they asked me, though, I would refuse to answer. Not even in my head.
I guess the mind reader was good at her job, though, because as she pleaded, “Just one thing about yourself?” I could feel my mind cooperating.
Shane Devan Michael Ryan Mitchell Anderson Ross. It’s overwhelmingly long so mostly I just use Shane Devan Ross. I’m sixteen. A sophomore. I dropped out of public school because I hated it there. I’ve been fighting depression since I was eleven and I have problems with anger a lot. I don’t eat if I can help it and my self-esteem is down in the negatives somewhere, if it was a scale.
Is that really what I consider to be the basics about myself? The name and the age and stuff was okay but why did she need to just start pulling out all the personal stuff that I don’t even tell my parents. Why is this happening to me?
The doe-eyed lady scribbled things on the papers in her lap, then looked up at Slimeball and nodded. He continued, asking about my power, which was just one other thing I didn’t want to tell these stupid people. I want them to get out of my head and get out of my life and just let me go back to being miserable on my own. It’s easier that way. I’m used to things being that way. Why can’t we all just keep on being that way?
Sometimes, especially when I’m more depressed than normal, I’ll start shaking uncontrollably. It starts at one place in my body and spreads throughout, and then I’ll split in two. But the other me is not me anymore. It’s me, yeah, but I’m younger. I can do it on command sometimes, too, but I don’t like to. It’s painful and humiliating. My younger self would hate what I’ve become. There are times, though, when I need a reality check. I use it to make myself realize that everything I’ve worked for, however little that is, is at least something. And my past self, like, from before all this depression shit... they deserve a chance too.
Where is this all coming from? I don’t think like this. Wherever she’s getting these thoughts, that part of my brain is not me. My brain’s been so clogged with the self-loathing for so long now that I don’t have room for thoughts about the past and the future and I’m just stuck in right now. And right now sucks.
More scribbling. More nodding.
“So, can we have some background, then, Shane?”
As if I have a choice.
My biological parents are people I’ve never really met. They were both on drugs and had a lot of sex and had a lot of abortions and then eventually they couldn’t do it anymore and they were stuck with me. My dad bailed at some point and my mom overdosed and died when I was four. After that I spent two years in governmental care which was total shit and worse than I can even think about. Tracy and James adopted me when I was six and I’ve spent my life since then with me. Tracy’s okay but James is total shit and I hate him. Um.
Is “um” a legitimate thought?
I guess I was normal most of my childhood. A little more temperamental then most kids, but okay. I didn’t ever make friends well but I guess most of the time I didn’t want to. But things were falling to pieces when I got older. By the time I was eleven, I was struggling to find reasons to do things and reasons to smile and I stopped participating in things or trying at school or smiling and just before my twelfth birthday, I started cutting myself. It got worse from there and I just started feeling worse and worse. I’ve tried to kill myself before but I’m not good at it. Either that or Tracy and James are really good at catching me. I spend most of my time in my room trying to figure out why the fuck I can’t function like a normal human. Depression is fucking depressing.
Little memories and thoughts mixed into a mess of nostalgia, which is weird because I’m not nostalgic in any sense. I could see Tracy’s cafe and the words I carved into my walls and being a kid with Jane and trying desperately to get the blood off the sheets that day I cut deeper than usual. Most of the things I saw were negative and made me want to get out of my head, but every so often was something that reminded me why I was so bad at killing myself. I think the pink suit lady was trying to make me want to live, which isn’t going to work because even baby me doesn’t make me stop wanting to die most of the time.
I think she realized that she wasn’t getting anywhere with the grand awakening, so she finished her notes and then had the principal ask the next question. This time, he was curious about the future.
I never think about the future. That’s a rule. I want to be dead by the time I’m eighteen.
Oh my God what if they tell Tracy that. Dear God don’t let them do that.
That’s why I never try to summon a future version of myself. I’m afraid I’ll get a corpse or worse. And. Yeah. I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow, much less years from now.
When the pink lady gave her signal, the principal started again.
“No.” I answered that one aloud. What was I supposed to do? Everything is pointless. Which makes me sound totally like a stereotypical emo kid but in some ways I guess I am.
He asked his next question right after I answered. “Last one, I promise.” He sounded strained, like he was the one having his mind intruded into and robbed.
“How do you feel about all of this supernatural stuff?”
I hate it. I couldn’t hate it more than I already do. It just makes my complicated life more complicated and I don’t fucking need that. I don’t want to be forced to see myself as I once was. I don’t want to do it of my own accord. I want it to all go away.
Finally, though, that was it. The principal offered his hand to shake mine but I refused, just turning to leave once he said I could go. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the suit lady handing him the notes on me. Disgusting. They act like I don’t feel completely dehumanized when they page through my mind like a book. And Tracy wonders why I don’t like talking to therapists.
[classy=app2]kirsten. eastern standard. female.[/classy]
[classy=apptite]FACE CLAIM [/classy]