Post by adrienne mallory rivers on Jul 15, 2010 18:03:03 GMT -7
ADRIENNEM A L L O R YRIVERS
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"the tennis racket tastes like bananas"[/color][/size][/center]
nicknames : none
age : twelve
birthday : October nineteenth
orientation : She is not attracted to anyone
group : Level 3
illness : Severe catatonic schizophrenia
canon or original? : Original[/font][/size][/ul][/ul]
weight : sixty-four pounds
body : Very thin, stick-like.
eyes : Round and a bright blue-gray, they always seem empty-looking.
hair : Straight, dirty blonde, and stringy. It often hangs in her face, there are bald spots from where she pulls it out, and the ends are always split and ratty because she chews on her hair.
distinguishing features : Many scars on her arms, legs, and abdomen from clawing herself with her fingernails.
fashion sense : Usually whatever the nurses put her in, things like stretchy leggings and t-shirts, nothing that she could hurt herself with.
play-by : Abigail Breslin[/size][/font][/ul][/ul]
- Classical music
- Compulsive straightening
- Holding rigid poses
- Puzzles
- Memorizing things
- Repeating others
- Eating non-edible items
- Numbers
- The taste of her blood
- Aggressive thunderstorms
dislikes :
- Therapists
- Doctors
- Nurses other than hers
- Her family
- Taking her medicine
- Talking
- Pleasant weather
- Being restrained
- Overwhelming visual stimuli
- Being cold
strengths :
- Puzzles
- Math
- Holding rigid poses
- Memorizing things
- Swallowing things whole
weaknesses :
- Talking
- Taking instruction
- Is always cold
- Can turn aggressive
- Rarely eats food of her own accord
habits :
- Eating checkers
- Memorizing numbers in the phone book
- Compulsive straightening of her things
- Pulls out her hair
- Chews on her hair
- Claws at herself with her fingernails
- Writing complicated equations
fears :
- Being cold
- Most medications
- Doctors
- Nurses (except hers)
- Therapists
- Speaking in English
- Thursday, both the day of the week and the voice in her head.
- Being awake at five twenty-three am
- Her things being moved
- Forgetting something
secrets :
- What the voices tell her to do
- She likes to eat game pieces when the nurses aren't looking
- She wants to escape
- Her fear of Thursday (the voice)
personality : True to her current place of residence, Adrienne is quite literally insane. She has never had a moment where she is free from the symptoms of her mental illness, medications and therapy do not seem to help. Adrienne never speaks aloud in English, unless she is repeating something said to her; but most of the time the noises that come from her lips are total jibberish without pause, almost as if she is speaking in tongues. One of Adrienne's favorite hobbies is memorizing numbers, particularly phone numbers. She knows over three thousand, and will often mutter them to herself under her breath. She is very possessive when it comes to her things, if someone even breathes on something of hers the wrong way she can spend hours straightening it. If frightened, Adrienne can turn violent, but it's usually herself that she attacks rather than other people.[/font][/size][/ul][/ul]
father : Scott Fischer, 49, druglord
siblings : None
other : None
birthplace : Detroit, Michigan
significant other : No one
pets : None
overall : Adrienne's mother, Bethany, got hooked on meth at the tender age of fourteen, and became an instant addict. Adrienne was conceived about a year later, when her desperate, broke, mother slept with her supplier to satisfy her addiction for a couple of hours. Throughout her pregnancy, Bethany continued to use drugs, which the doctors believe might have caused Adrienne's schizophrenia. She was born onto the streets to her homeless, drug-addict mother on a cold October evening. Now there was a bigger problem for young Bethany, the baby screamed for the drugs that she was dependent on. Unable to afford to keep herself and the baby's drug needs satisfied, Bethany abandoned Adrienne two weeks after giving birth.
When the screaming baby was found in a garbage can the next morning, it meant orphanage after orphanage for the little Adrienne. None of the establishments could put up with her never-ending cries for the drugs her tiny system so desperately craved. Things only began to get worse as she grew older in the foster home she was finally placed in. At the mere age of five, in a flying fury, Adrienne strangled her foster parents' two-year-old son, the woman came into the next room to a horrible scene, Adrienne was dragging the corpse around by the wrist, like some sort of deranged doll. It was then that Adrienne was landed in the asylum in Massachusetts. She quickly was seen as a good target for experimentation, as Adrienne would never tell.[/font][/size][/ul][/ul]
age : fifteen
experience : four years
other characters : no others, yet
contacts : PM only, please.
anything else? : ...
sample : [/size][/font][/ul][/ul]
Blaize had gotten home from work late that evening, he had stayed until closing time. His mother and father had already gone to bed, but in seeing that the light in his sister's room was still on, Blaize decided to check on her before turning in. He knocked quietly, no answer. He knocked a bit more loudly, still no reply. Blaize turned the knob, and was surprised to find it unlocked. Emily wasn't there, he did however, see the piece of paper on her dresser. It was a poem. Then on the back there was an intersection. Blaize felt his blood turn to ice.
Without thinking he took off, running toward the address. He knew it well, it was on the way to the train station. Before he knew what was happening Blaize was sprinting, not caring about the cars honking at him as he jaywalked across streets. When he came to the abandoned portion of the highway, he saw on the empty street below a crumpled figure in pajamas. He knew those nightclothes, Emily. He was too late. Blaize fell to his knees beside her lifeless body, ignoring the pain as his bony kneecaps collided against wet asphalt. Tears burned at his eyes.
Blaize brought her broken body into his lap, holding Emily close. Her body was already beginning to grow cold. He was too late... Blaize tightened his grip on the corpse, allowing himself to cry. He did not move for the longest time, he didn't even reply when someone gently said his name.
Without thinking he took off, running toward the address. He knew it well, it was on the way to the train station. Before he knew what was happening Blaize was sprinting, not caring about the cars honking at him as he jaywalked across streets. When he came to the abandoned portion of the highway, he saw on the empty street below a crumpled figure in pajamas. He knew those nightclothes, Emily. He was too late. Blaize fell to his knees beside her lifeless body, ignoring the pain as his bony kneecaps collided against wet asphalt. Tears burned at his eyes.
Blaize brought her broken body into his lap, holding Emily close. Her body was already beginning to grow cold. He was too late... Blaize tightened his grip on the corpse, allowing himself to cry. He did not move for the longest time, he didn't even reply when someone gently said his name.
