Post by OLIVER JAMES STANLEY on Dec 27, 2010 3:00:34 GMT
( OLIVER JAMES STANLEY )
THE ROLEPLAYER THE ROLEPLAYER
THE ROLEPLAYER THE ROLEPLAYER
ohai there, i’m jenni, i’m fifteen and i’m from england. only my name’s not really officially jenni it’s actually some foreign unpronouncable name because i’m half thai and my parents thought it would be funny to give me a name that really challenges every substitute teacher that tries to read my name on the register. but everyone calls me jen anyway so my real name’s really kind of unneccessary it’s more just a talking point. insert deep breath. i also have tufty short hair. it defies gravity. it’s GREAT.
i ramble an awful lot. that’s probably all really. c: i took like a year off roleplaying, but i've been at it since i was about eleven. n_n! blaaaah i'm so ridiculously tired i've gone just a WEE bit crazy myself.
THE BASICS THE BASICS THE BASICS
well, this is a bit awkward. my name’s oliver james stanley. i’m not exactly in love with the name - i don’t look like an oliver james stanley - but i suppose it isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. most people call me ollie; i prefer it to oliver. it still doesn’t suit me, but it’s better. i’m a seventeen-year-old heterosexual male, and they have me locked up with the crazies. my girlfriend always compares me to this guy in her fashion magazines. i was always very upset she looked at him, i remember crying because she had a poster. she said his name was stas svetlichnyy, or something like that. i’ve looked him up a few times and i have to say, i’m better looking.
THE PERSONALITY THE PERSONALITY
i’ve always liked rain. i think it’s the smell. it’s got this amazing, fresh scent, like it’s cleaning the air, washing everything away. i love the noise it makes against your roof, the dew that clings to the spider webs, the droplets the race down your window. it’s connected strongly to my childhood. it’s sort of nostalgic to me. i like classical music, anything apple-flavoured, the colour purple, and isabelle, who is, without question, the most beautiful girl in the world. i more than like her. she’s my world, and she’s the only person who really knows me, and knows i don’t belong here, with the crazies.
i don’t like loud noises. i know that loud means anger. when you raise your voice, you’re angry. when people get angry, they shout horrible, ugly things that stick to you. i don’t like this - this stupid, depressing, screwed up madhouse, and the scumbags and freaks inside. there are murderers and rapists in here. i know i don’t belong here. i hate liars. i would hurt a liar, and really enjoy it. i also don’t like being alone. sometimes belle goes away, and it’s the worst feeling in the world. it’s the loneliness i can’t stand, and this great big gap she leaves behind every time she leaves. she doesn’t leave much; she knows i don’t like it. i hate dogs too, and they hate me. not sure why, probably because i kick them.
i want to get out of here. because i hate everyone i’m forced to live with and i don’t belong here. that’s goal one. goal two is the cliché, mushy happy ending. marriage and two kids with belle.
i’m a really loving, honest person. i give it my all, no less. i would never hurt anyone i care about. i would never be deceitful or unfaithful. those are the sort of people who belong here, not me. i’m intelligent, too. hell, i never put it to good use, but i know what two plus two is and how atoms bond. i’ve always been driven, however, though not in my education. i never give up on a cause i believe in.
i suppose every man has his flaws. i don’t like to admit to them - i’m not proud of them. i’m too emotional sometimes. i can be too controlling. i ought to let belle see her friends and socialise. but i can’t. she’s mine, and i wouldn’t blame any man for wanting her. so if nobody sees her, nobody wants her. i hold grudges. i won’t ever forgive my parents for not sticking up for me, for sending me here. i can’t ever forget something that happened, something that hurt me so badly.
THE HISTORY THE HISTORY THE HISTORY
to be honest, my childhood went pretty smoothly. i guess it’s expected that i’d have had some sort of traumatic experience along the lines to lead me here. nothing went wrong in my childhood, nothing went wrong at any stage, actually, until i was about fourteen. i’ve always been close with my mom. not so much with my dad, but it was more due to the fact he was out working a lot than we didn’t get on. i was an only child, so all the attention was centered on me. i never wanted a sibling, because from about the age of five i think, i had a best friend called isabelle. you’ve probably gathered where it heads. she came round an awful lot, and we were incredibly close. i had other friends of course, but they didn’t really match up. they were just sort of time fillers for when i was at school, because belle went somewhere else. i was honestly so, so content.
as we got older, mom stopped getting involved as much. i didn’t pay attention to it at first, but every time i brought belle up in conversation, her lips twitched, as though she didn’t like her. i couldn’t imagine what belle could have done to upset her, but i always neglected to bring it up. i didn’t want to fight with my mom, i loved her a lot. but i loved belle too, and i knew i would defend her if mom said she didn’t like her. we would argue. i’d hate that. so i stopped speaking to mom about belle, which seemed to sort the problem for ages. one day my dad called me into the living room. he looked angry, and mom was holding back tears.
“it has to stop, oliver.” his voice shook. “right now. these conversations.”
i blinked, dumbfounded, at him. “what conversations?”
i realised he wasn’t angry. my dad himself, who i had never seen cry, was fighting to hold back tears himself. “that girl. isabelle.”
“isabelle?” i felt the surprise jolt through me, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. i couldn’t keep my voice from ringing out shrilly. “why? what did she do?”
“ollie...”
“no, mom. you’ve made it pretty clear you don’t like her. i don’t know what she’s done, but i don’t think you guys have the right to pick and choose who i hang out wi--”
“she isn’t real, oliver!”
i cried a lot that night. fifteen and blurting my eyes out. i know it’s pathetic. i faltered, though, for a moment. face buried into a tear-soaked pillow, i questioned whether the love of my life was real. pretty screwed up, right? it’s one of those weird, philosophical moments where you think, hey, is this real? or is my whole life just a dream? like, something from the matrix movies. i thought about it, considered how her skin felt under my hand. how the light hit her eyes. then she was sitting next to me as i cried into my pillow, stroking my back. nothing had ever felt more real. my parents were either tapped in the head themself, or ... i didn’t know. maybe she really was invisible? but she was real. she was bloody real, and no therapist or counsellor ever managed to convince me otherwise. they gave up on me in the end. sent me here, too ashamed to keep me under their roof, i suppose.
my parents told me my girlfriend was a figment of my imagination. i don’t understand why they can’t see her. why nobody else i’ve met can, either. we sort of toyed with ideas. like, maybe i can see ghosts. supernatural ideas i never used to believe in. she’s confused, too. she has a family who sees her. she goes to school, she’s friendly with the lady at her local café. to suggest she doesn’t exist is bull.
THE CREDIT THE CREDIT THE CREDIT
this application was made by the wonderful miaday parade and is not to be used anywhere else by anyone! it's been adjusted slightly from the old knives + pens application from the previous site.
