Post by NOELLE LEAH RAMON on Apr 22, 2012 19:52:42 GMT -5
[classy=apptite]NOELLE LEAH RAMON
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[classy=appdesc]Oh, hey new york! Look who's it is! It's Noelle Leah Ramon! Oh, uh... perhaps you know them by their nickname, Elle? Anyway, this certain blessing in disguise came to us on March 20th, and grew up to be a hefty 5'6". You can always tell it's Noelle because of their blonde hair, green eyes and red bruising marks all over her arms. Not to mention they've gotten themselves a tattoo! You know, everyone says they look like Lily Loveless? I personally don't see it though ....
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[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.
Basic details? You say that as if I'm some number with a short description to go by. If you weren't such a desensetized bastard you would know I'm a person, and not just another thing to add to your self of caged animals. Whatever, I'm stuck here regardless right? Its this or those fucking experiments. My name is Noelle Leah Ramon, I grew up in Brooklyn. I went to an art school that my uncle had couldn't even pay for without loaning money from this really fucked up guy Rafael. I told him I didn't want to go to school with those colorful assholes, he told me to shut up and be grateful. I guess I am, it really helped me a lot growing up... I went there since freshman year, so I'm a junior at AMG now. I've never been good with talking to adults. I've heard girls at my old school use this special voice when talking to people above the age of 25. I don't fucking understand, just because you have a couple of years on me doesn't mean I owe you my respect, you earn it or you screw off. I'm pretty defensive, I don't like new people and I rarely talk in front of them. Unless I have to, then I just hate to and act like a bitch... kind of like this. I can see you looking through my file you fatass. I have been dignosed with depression, and I don't really tell people. Mostly, they just don't care. I spend my time in my room painting... and when it gets really bad I do this.
Noelle lifted her long sleeve shirt to show him her arm up to her elbow, where it appears she has pinched and picked at her skin until blood came through or purple bruises have appeared
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.
Have you ever had a really vivid dream that you wake up thinking you were already awake to begin with? Covinced that you're being screwed with, that you were living then and are sleeping now and the world has just flipped on you? That's what I can do. I can see people's dreams, their nightmares, things they don't even know make them happy, things they don't know make them sad, scared, excited. Those subconcious and dreaming thoughts that come to our head. Those secrets we don't know yet. I can't read minds, don't write that down, but I can read something deeper. Sometimes people question the things I can see, sometimes they try to hide it away, but that's their chapter that I can read like a book. Then it goes on. I can see these deep thoughts and details about a persons mind, their personality. Those very important events and moments that change who we are. I can make them real, I can make them come back to life. I've only done it a few times before to people, but its hard. I experience it with them, i feel it with them. Sometimes, it makes me cry but when I finish making them live it, making them feel the pain of their mother dying, making them sexuallty arrosed by the same sex so much that they cry because they've been denying it to themselves for years, then I can sometimes, usually, feel it too. At least a little.
To sum it up, I can project illusions. They don't have to be from someones mind, they can be from my own. I've done little things, I've let a little girl smell flowers in the middle of a train station, they smelt like roses or tulips, all flowers smell the same to me.
I did something terrible, a long time ago. I was young... I was only ten. I found my mother screwing another man, my father wasn't ever a very good person. He stole, he left us, he broke my mother to make her this slut that wasn't my mother. I think she was a prostitute. I broke, I fell apart one night when this guy she brought home hit me, tried to touch me. I made him kill himself... and she took the gun from his back jean pocket... she killed herself. I made her do it too. I didn't mean it, I lost control. I saw it happen, I saw her want to end her life over and over again, I saw all the horrible things he had done with that gun. My mind went wild. I don't remember anything for a week after that... I was told by my uncle that I fainted.
I've only ever experienced it all one other time, how I got here. A girl in my class was calling me a dyke, they took my hair and started cutting it with a knife in an alley way. They were pretty girls, they had a lot of money, and neither of them were very talented in their majors. I lost it again, I was terrified. I just let my mind go, and that's when it happened. I don't remember what happened that time, I can't even tell you. All I remember is being woken up on a plane on the way here with government officials. I don't know if they're dead, I don't know if they're alive. I know I did something bad, and I know I won't see my uncle for a very long time...
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?"
I grew up in Brooklyn. I've lived in the same apartment, and my dad lived with us for a long time. He was sent to prision for awhile. I think my mother told me he was stealing, robbing some toy store. That was my fourth birthday. I guess you could say I never had a very sheltered childhood. Those babyproof locks, that crib, I didn't get all that nonsense. I think my mother had deperession. I remember making myself hot dogs when I was only five, on the stove. I had to take care of myself a lot of the time, she'd lock herself in her room. My father came back when I was six, but he wasn't a much better person. I remember the smell of pot in my house. The huge men he would bring home, he would get money that way. I knew at seven what it was like to be high. I wasn't given weed, that would be fucked up. But you learn from observing. I saw it all. I think by the time I finished the first grade I knew more drugs and toxins than I did multiplication tables.
My father left when I was seven, I don't know where he went I never saw him again and was told to never speak of him. That's when my mother really lost it, I mean I knew she would bring men home even when my father was there, in the house. I don't understand it now, I mean maybe they had a business together. But drugs, and sex and rock n roll, they were apart of my childhood. I don't think I would have turned out much different if I had the babyproof locks and crib. I slept in the same bed my whole life, it came down from the wall, and it was what it was.
Anyways, for three years in elementary school I wasn't the most liked kid. I came to school with haircuts I had given myself, I wore large boys clothing and never really smelt all tht great. I didn't know better because I was all I knew. My teachers always asked questions, and I think I got away by making them think I looked different just as they were about to tell me that they didn't think I was taken care of. Give them that false sense of hope, because no teacher really wanted to get me out of the house, all adults are like that. They think kids belong with their parents. I didn't, I never did... really, I don't belong with anyone.
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?"
Future? I don't want to be a fuck up, I don't know what else to tell you. I think I'm screwing that up already by getting caught and being brought here. I hate this entire idea, sticking people away just because they're different. Haven't you ever heard of the holocaust? That's where this is going... don't think I won't be questioning all of your fucked up decisions.
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, I paint a lot. I love painting, drawing. I love taking those dreams to paper. I can continue that with any place or any thing, that's what's beautiful. I can paint with a stick in the ground. I don't do much else, I read a lot, but thats to escape this shit life. I don't know what else.
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.
Its another fucked up thing to put on my fucked up list. I'm sure if i learned more about it, it could be something not so fucked up. Some kids have it right, but some kids always have it right. I don't, I used mine to kill. It was ugly, I see it every night before I shut my eyes.. I hate it, I need to learn it. But I hate what this place stands for - oppression.
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.
Can I leave now?
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