Post by Failure on Jan 5, 2018 14:40:42 GMT -5
i'm tired of wasting breath
i am a failure.
i was born into this world 264 years ago in 1753.
i was born again 240 years ago in 1777.
i look as though i am in my mid twenties.
i pledge allegiance to no man or organization.
i am a woman with black hair and red eyes.
i am 152 cm and 43 kg.
i am a very outgoing person who thrives off human interaction, although i am very curt and find it hard to maintain friendships.
i am resourceful and quick witted when in a pinch, but i'd much rather go for the more obvious approach regardless of just how bad it seems.
i am brave and heroic when needed, but selfishness is always the easier route.
i was born in 1753 and lived a mundane life.
between my 12th and 21st (1765-1774) birthday i was to be wedded four times. each marriage failed.
on my 23rd birthday (1776) my pregnancy was announced. nine months later my baby was born dead.
my heart broke at the sight and i, too, died (1776) shortly after my baby was sent to the morgue.
as a soul, my chain ate itself in no more than a week and i had turned into a hollow.
my days as a hollow (1776-2017) were mindless feedings that favored high risk, little reward targets.
by the time the 21st century came around, i had walked the line of permanent death multiple times.
i tore my mask off in the summer of 2017.
i'm tired of nothing left
i would describe myself as a short, thin woman with an overly sexualized body. my wide, hourglass figure starts off with a pair of massive breasts that often prove to be more trouble than they're worth, and then ends with an equally pompous rump. even more ostentatious is my ghostly white skin that pulls over my lanky limbs and constantly reminds me of my clear lack of muscle on most of my body. my eyes are often called the most captivating given their bright, crimson color. some remark that they glow like blood in the moonlight, but i always dismiss such poetic claims. from my head spills inky, black hair that clings to my body as if it's covered in grease and grime. i assure you that it is, in fact, clean, however.
i done the traditional white of las noches despite my vehement rejection of joining their rank. mostly, it's purely out of coincidence. i favor a long, white gown that leaves a subtle trail in the sand as i walk, thus leaving the bottom of it frayed and tattered. i wouldn't call it a wedding gown as it's too simplistic, but not a robe either due to how thin and frail the material. the strapless gown hugs my torso and hips, pushing and pulling against my skin as i walk, and then fans out around my bottom half. from the very bottom and all the way up to my hip, there is a long, ragged slice along the left side that allows free movement on my end.
my broken mask is the remains of a demonic veil that had covered my entire face and reached down well past my chin. after breaking it, only the pointed horns jutting from the front of my forehead remain. the horns are attached to my skull with a thick band of the bone-like material that thins out as it wraps around my head. the mask itself stops just short of reaching my ears.
my hollow hole is at the base of my neck. i purposely keep it hidden with a bulky, black collar that has a broken chain dangling from the center.
i would say my spiritual body is like rotting corpse. it's dark and ominous and glows an unnatural red as it pours from my body like blood. it pools around my knees like a heavy mist, or as if i'm wadding through the blood of a thousand men. most describe it the sensation of my spiritual presence as knowing death is coming, but being unable to do anything about it. affectionately, this has often earned me the nickname of the reaper in white.
i'll tear the whole world down
i consider myself a very matter-of-fact person who values cutting to the chase rather than playing with my food. i enjoy the company of good people and actively seek out anyone who's willing to spare just a moment for me. however, no matter how hard i try to earn their favor, it never lasts long. for one reason or another -- it's always something different -- my relationships crumble before me. maybe i said something wrong. maybe i did something unmoral. maybe i just never actually clicked with them in the first place. whatever the reason, the end result is always a failure.
i'd like to consider myself a sort of hero when push comes to shove. i love the thrill of risking my life for others, or going where no man has gone before. i live to push the limits of what i'm capable of and stretch every rule as thin as possible, for better or for worse. i would happily jump in front of a train for someone, even if i don't necessarily like them, but deep down i just like the thrill of learning how it feels to get run over by the train. my life is constant risk versus reward battle where risk always wins and very seldom do i earn any reward.
as you might have expected, i'm a persistent type of person who never knows when to give up. some people call it being stubborn, or even just insanity, but i genuinely believe there's always a chance for change. somehow, someway something will change in my favor and i can break this cycle. that is my hope and dream. i will never lose sight of this dream and refuse to let anyone convince me otherwise. it's all i have to give me hope for tomorrow.
i wish to achieve all that i have lost. i want to find my soulmate and be given another chance at raising my daughter that was never given a chance to live. i want to be surrounded by friends. i want people to love me. i want to earn the respect of my peers. i wish to conquer what once conquered me. i wish to be a success.
i'll tear the whole world down
my curse is that of failure.
my weapon is a study rope that moves like an extension of my own arm. it's not a whip, i assure you. it's simply a brown string of thick rope about 91 centimeters long. i hardly use it for actually attacking someone, but it would make for a great noose if the opportunity every arose. for the most part, i tend to just keep it looped around my belt on my left side hip.
my power gives others what i cannot give myself. deep down i know there are far better people out there who deserve more than i'm asking for, and to those people i truly want to help them. i do everything in my power to raise them up and help them achieve their goals and bring to reality their dreams. more often than not, this comes in the form of amplifying their attacks while at their side. granted, this requires constant physical contact on my part, but maybe once i've mastered this skill i'll just need to kiss them or give them some of my blood for prolonged effects after i leave them.
i'll bury the sunlight
my origin is a droll one. i was born to a moderately wealthy family in eastern virginia and was held in high regards as the first -- and only -- born child of a well liked man. my mother was a particularly skilled seamstress and my father a powerful landlord. in my early years, i was raised mostly by a charming slave woman with strikingly dark skin. fresh from the shop, my father would say to her on more than one occasion.
as i grew into my body and learned basic talking, walking, and other necessities, i quickly became marked as a troubled child. while my fellow toddlers were quick to catch onto what the babbling noises the adults said were, i just tilted my head and cooed at my parents. children around me were running in circles, screaming at the top of their lungs, but i always seemed to stumble and fall flat on my face. a late bloomer, my mother would assure me.
once i finally grasped the basics of existing in this world, my mother was quick to shove more and more skills onto my plate. cooking, sewing, cleaning, even some reading here and there. i cooked twice before i was banished from the fire pit. first time, i had nearly cooked myself and the second time i ruined a favored pot and pan. sewing i had equally bad luck with. i would always prick my fingers and stain the fabric with blood. the shirts i did make never fit quite right. mother said i just didn't have the eye for cleaning. no matter how hard i tried, i always missed some stain or batch of dust.
funnily enough, i did take to reading as well as any other girl in my position. sadly, i never learned much due to lack of time. it's hard to say how well i would have done if given just a little more time.
by the time i reached ten, my parents were excited to see me off to my own man and home, but word spread quick of the klutzy child i was and not too many fish nibbled at the line. though i tried to be funny and witty to all the boys that i met, i had a nasty habit of frustrating those around me. sometimes i'd ask too personal of questions. sometimes i'd just be mean until they couldn't stand to be around me. other times i would flat out ignore them. it took nearly two years before my father caved and simply arranged a marriage for me.
the first boy i met was four years older than i was. he was a light haired boy from georgia who's widowed mother owned a plantation. my father wanted to marry into her business so that his reach could extend to the other colonies. when i was to meet my soon to be husband, i found him to be a quiet, timid boy. i really couldn't resist teasing him mercilessly and laughing at every silly thing he said. it was in good fun, i assure you, but after i started pushing him around too much, his mother backed out of the marriage.
i met my second boy three years later. he was part of a fabulously wealthy family who had reached out to my father. i think they wanted to buy my father's slaves, but he only agreed if i were to be married into their family. at first, i clicked very well with the boy who was much closer to my age. we laughed and smiled and even shared a kiss on the first night we had met. i thought maybe this was what love was, but by now i should have figured something would have gone wrong. i grew inconsolably distraught when it was time to say our goodbyes. i screamed and cried and broke many of my family's decorations all in front of the stunned mister and missus and my father. i punched and kicked and bit and did everything i could to plead with them to let the boy stay.
my father did not hear back from the other family.
after those two incidents, my father shoved me to any boy that passed back. a few more times something serious started to bloom, but it never really went anywhere. the boy moved away, the boy mysteriously disappeared, the boy became disgusted with the thought of being with me. always something new.
shortly after my 23rd birthday in 1776, the colonies were nearing panic as war broke out here and there. the fight for freedom against the supposed evil europeans. senseless murder, my mother and i had agreed on. my father was soon drafted into the war where he proudly fought alongside his fellow men against invading british fleets. my mother found herself sewing clothes and rags for nearby ragtag units. she and my father soon began traveling around to achieve their liberty while i stayed home to tend to the slaves and various chores.
shortly after my parents had left, i found myself infatuated with a young british man who had gotten separated from his squadron. we spent only a night together, but that was all i needed. anything longer than that and i risked breaking his heart. under the moonlight on my family's farm, we made slow, passionate love. we kissed and promised to be together forever. i told him i loved him and would never leave. it was the best moment in my life.
in the morning, i awoke before him and left to tend to the slaves. i was almost instantly questioned by a group of disgruntled citizens. they openly asked if i had seen any british men in the fields. i hardly gave it a second thought before mentioning that one was inside my house. looking back, i was lucky they only lynched him and not myself. i was even luckier that word hadn't spread to my parents.
when my parents returned months later, i had easily assumed why my stomach was growing larger, but didn't bring it up to them. unfortunately, they were quick to notice. at first, i tried to deny my pregnancy and assured them i had simply just been eating more than usual, but my parents didn't care. my mother was overjoyed with the thought of being a grandmother, whereas my father was eagerly awaiting me to tell him who i would be married to. i looked him dead in the eye and told him of my night with the british soldier.
both of my parents were overcome with anger and disappointment. after a thorough beating from my father, i was evicted from the household. while on my own, i spent most of my time charming men into letting me stay the night with them, or sleeping under the shade of a tree. i had a pretty enough face that lended people to offer me food. worse case scenario, i would return home late at night and have one of my former slaves bring me food. the slave who had raised me cautioned me to eat more and even though i agreed i was always more hungry, something felt wrong about doing that. i only ate what was necessary. i let myself sleep in the cold, rather then risk hiding away in a barn. i never took much care to protect the growing lump in my stomach, yet i cradled my baby every night and sung to them as if they were alive.
many moths later, i was struck by the pain of birth. confused and scared, i crawled to my parent's front door and begged shelter. they couldn't refuse me and soon my mother was holding my hand and promising me it would be okay. a doctor joined her shortly thereafter as well as a priest. though it was the most pain i had ever felt in my life, giving birth to my child was the single greatest moment i had ever experienced. the moment it was done, i smiled and reached for the child in the doctor's arms.
he didn't hand me my child. instead, he passed the silent bundle of blood to a nearby slave and then went to washing my legs.
i called out for my child once more. my mother squeezed my hand and looked to the doctor as if she was hiding some horrifying secret.
it was oddly quiet wasn't it? weren't babies supposed to yelp and scream at birth?
i called out once more. finally, the doctor reluctantly responded.
my rise to power is a depressing one. the news of my child being born dead was more than i could take. tragedy after tragedy wrecked havoc over my life for so long. so long i endured it. but this one i couldn't stand through. officially, i died of blood loss during the birth. i think i died more of a broken heart.
directly after my death, i was ejected from my body and found myself a ghost wandering the estate. i never felt particularly drawn to any one person or place, though i did visit my grave every day. i was buried with my child, but the tombstone made no mention of the little girl that my corpse clung to. my parents didn't want to advertise their whore of a daughter, i supposed.
during my time as a ghost, i felt myself spiral into despair. i recanted my life and all the mistakes i had made. i lingered on the ways i could have acted different or changed myself. slowly, i grew to realize something that shook me to my very core. the realization of just why everything seemed so horribly wrong in my life. i don't think my heart could handle it. as soon as it had dawned on me, i felt myself get eaten away by pain and whiteness.
i don't recall much of my hollow life. i was a tall, lanky creature with fearsome jaws and a forlorn voice. a siren, i think. any person who dared listen to my song felt themselves overcome with adrenaline. their chests would puff up and they'd dare the darkness to fight whatever beast called to them. of course, they would always died by my hands. i would eat them slowly from the bottom up. i gave them every chance to call for help, to be saved, or to summon an unheard of power to stop me. to them, i was just toying with them and torturing them until they couldn't take it anymore.
when i was maybe a century old, i felt myself growing bored with the simple person who wandered into my traps. i knew of the shinigami who sought to cut down all like me. i knew to avoid them. but my self preservation faded away slowly until i finally started to tease the tiger in the cage. i lured on in like i always would with the humans. i let him scream and make all the noise he wanted as i chewed on his legs and pinned him down. i waited eagerly for his friends to come save him. they did not.
unsatisfied, i pounced upon a small team of shinigami shortly after. no tricks or songs, i went straight in for the fight. they fought with tooth and nail, beating me back over and over and spilling more of my blood over the grass. only when my vision blurred and fear started to grip me did i end the game. i killed all three of them and ate them instantly. i then retreated to lick my wounds and stake my claim on the western coast of the growing american world. once fully healed, i continued to pick fights with growing numbers of shinigami.
more than once i nearly died, but every time i felt as if i was putting back together what was left of my heart. something about the brush with death left me satisfied and fulfilled. only when i started to bite off more than i could chew did i retreat. gangs of shinigami were sent to corral me and my terrorism against my former homeland. full squads chased after me in hopes of putting down the beast that killed without reason. even i, who seemed to want nothing more than to die, fled to hueco mundo for safety.
weakened and mostly unfamiliar with the desert, i soon became easy prey for the far stronger monsters that lurked there. every day was a fight. decades went on and i wondered if my wounds would ever heal. part of me hoped not. i would run around when i felt them begin to seal, muscles tearing them open and bringing a new wave of pain. the scent lured in even more hollows. it wasn't long before my mere presence was drawing in vast numbers of hollows, all eager to kill my weakened soul.
i don't really know who won that gruesome fight, but what i do know is that it made me something... emptier. a large, lonely monster that towered over any structure i had ever seen. i was like a child strapped into a carriage, watching the world go by as someone else pulled on the reigns. this went on for an unbearable amount of time. a century, maybe more. even i grew restless, or was that because the souls around me were agitated and i was simply feeding off their emotions?
my call to action is short but beautiful. to say a war broke out between the souls within this vessel made it seem too real. it was a battle of willpower. thoughts and motives clashed against each other. unknown faces roared out against those trying to oppress them. all the while, i sat in the corner and watched it unfold. our vessel groaned and meandered in search of something while the souls slaughtered each other in their vain attempt to reach the top.
it went on and on and on. it never ended. all the screaming. all the fighting. blood. crying. pain.
something in my soul snapped. i don't know how or why, but i found myself looking out from the vessel's eyes, its hands reaching up as i willed it. i don't think it really clicked in my mind that i had somehow risen to the top of the souls. all i cared about was silencing their screaming which now sounded more and more like that of a child's.
i brought the vessel's hands to its face and pulled. i pulled with all the strength i had until everything went black for the second time in my life.
The lack of capitalization is a stylistic choice to fit into the theme of the character and create consistency between her personality and the fact that this is a first person app. With that in mind, I ask that I not be docked for only lack of capitalization in terms of grammatical errors.