Post by Bevan Kris Gray «« on Oct 29, 2011 21:47:56 GMT -5
[/justify]Bevan Kris Gray, BADGERSTAR
tall, quiet man with dark-blonde hair and green eyes
roleplayed by Badger ; human persona of Badgerstar
NAME – Bevan Kris Gray
GENDER – Male
AGE – 21 years
GRADE – Junior
MAJOR – majoring in photography, minoring in creative writing
RESIDENCE – NHU dorms
CURRENT JOB – student librarian ; tutor ; photographer
HOMETOWN – London, England
CLOTHING STYLE –[height][/height]
To school, I wear nice shirts, trousers, and sometimes tight-fitting sweaters. If I have an appointment with a client, I will wear a suit without the jacket—so basically shirt and tie. I do, in fact, know how to tie my own tie. If I am going to a film or just out with some mates, I wear darker-coloured blue jeans and a tighter-fitting t-shirt. Common theme with my wardrobe: I do not like clothing to be loose or baggy. When I go running every morning, I wear basketball shorts—the only clothing I feel okay with being looser around my body. I also wear running shoes and keep my phone in my pocket—I don't wear a shirt because the morning breeze just feels too great against my skin. So, to answer your question, I guess my regular style is...business casual?
PHYSICAL STATURE –[height][/height]
I suppose the first thing you would notice about me would be my height. I'm rather tall, 6'2". I have always been tall, even as a child; though year six was when I hit a big growth-spurt. As a lad in school, I was rather lanky and lean; but I've broadened and filled out since then. I've never been overweight; if anything, I was too skinny. When I lean over bare-chested, you can see a portion of my spine stick out into my skin; a chameleon back, my aunt called it. I'm not ripped nor have massive muscles - in fact, I've been told I look young for my age. Whether that is a compliment or an insult, I am none to sure. I suppose, if I worked at it, I could achieve more muscle - but I don't see much point, since I don't have a girl to impress. What I might be lacking in developed abs, I make up for with the strength in my arms and legs. I jog the town early every morning, which keeps me in shape; I must have a high metabolism, too, because I pretty much don't read labels, and eat more junk food than I should. I have developed muscles in my arms, and developed muscles in my legs from running.
My fingers are thin and long, and though I have never gone to a salon or anything, I keep my nails clean and really short. The only rings I have ever worn were my wedding and engagement rings with Selia, and I have only recently begun to keep those in my dresser. I wear an expensive watch I inherited from my father, and a thin twine ankle bracelet I got from one of my aunt's students a few years back. My legs are long and muscled, and it feels more comfortable to wear tighter jeans—I have been told I can pull them off. My feet are thin, but long, a shoe size of about 9 UK.
My skin is in the middle: being English, I am on the lighter side. However, I am not so pale that my skin colour is the first thing you notice about me, and neither am I incredibly tanned. As surely you can tell by now, I speak with a noticeable British accent - I lived in the outskirts of London most of my life. Since I am well past puberty, my voice is even and has a deeper tone.
HAIR/EYES –[height][/height]
My hair is a dark blonde colour, and sometimes looks sort of coppery in the light. In primary school, my aunt always kept my hair cut properly short, but now that I make the decisions, I've let it grow out; and it does, sticking out all over the place. I have natural curls in my hair that I I usually stuff into a beanie or cap. If I'm meeting with a special client, I'll part it at the side and slick it back, but otherwise I pretty much don't have a hair-care routine, unless you count shampooing in the shower. Thankfully, none of my hair has begun graying or receding - the males in my family have a history of keeping their hair long into life, so I'm thankful I inherited that trait.
I have a rather defined bone structure, and a strong chin; my nose, Aunt Violetta told me, is the only piece of my physical appearance I have inherited from my mother. I have never liked the feeling of facial hair, so I always keep myself clean-shaven. My eyes are set into my face, and are a dark green colour; a few different clients have told me they are jealous of them. Personally, I don't see much in the colour of eyes, but in the expressions within them. My eyes are heavily lidded, and my eyelashes are thick and dark. I also have thick black eyebrows, and dimples I have never really cared for. My smile changes my entire face - I suppose it is up to you whether the change is positive or negative. I do not have any redness or discolouring in my skin; when I am nervous or embarrassed, however, my face feels hot and a slight rosy colour tints my cheeks. I have a strong chin, probably one of my most defining features, and I had braces as a lad, so my teeth are white and straight—never had a cavity, I am proud to say. (This is surprising, because I have quite the sweet tooth). My neck is averagely long, and my ears are average, as well. I have full lips, with a pinkish tint.
OTHER APPEARANCE –[height][/height]
As a child, I had a lot of freckles across my face, because I spent so much time outside. As I've grown older, my freckles have faded greatly, though if you get really close to me you can still see a few across my nose. Otherwise, I do not have any special birthmarks. I have a tattoo of a crescent moon on the left side of my torso. Some people do not like tattoos, because they worry about how it will look if they gain weight when they age, but I have never regretted mine, and I do not worry about all that - because I do not expect to gain weight any time soon.
GREATEST STRENGTH –[height][/height]
I am well educated and have a passion for my future and present work. My build and my daily jogs keep me fit and very fast. Being observant produces quality photography, because I take notice in the small details. I am excellent with computers and technology in general. I am the perfect bloke to befriend, because I am a brilliant listener and will allow you to do most of the talking.
FAVORITE HOBBIES – photography, reading, writing, running
THINGS THAT PLEASE –
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I would choose Apple over Microsoft any day, and I have invested money in my phone, laptop, and canon cameras and equipment. I love London; after graduating I plan on moving back, though this small town is starting to grow on me, as well. My favorite type of weather is thunderstorms, because the noise helps me sleep, and I love jogging in the rain—the chance of getting struck by lightning is what makes it exciting. I love the movie The Illusionist. My favorite show is The Office—the British version, of course. I don't have a lot of free time, but I enjoy reading when I can, and I am pretty much always listening to music. Keane is my favorite band. I also have a sweet tooth: I'll pretty much eat anything with chocolate in it, and it is a wonder why I am not overweight. Besides coffee or milk, I just drink water; I have never liked the fizziness in soda. I am most definitely an early morning person, and I never need an alarm clock. And like I said before, I like clothing to be snug against my body.
TOUGHEST OBSTACLE –
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Even in school, I have never been the most popular, or the guy who had all the friends—I am always in the middle, always average. When I was young, I always imagined myself a husband and wife by now. I am single; I do not see myself as the most attractive, either, because I work and study most of the time and past girlfriends have found me dull. I feel like I made mistakes with Selia—I did not protect her. The guilt will always be with me.
THINGS THAT DISPLEASE –
[height][/height][/justify]
I dislike Microsoft, and Nikon equipment never works as well. I have never eaten very healthy, and the worst of all vegetables are carrots. I cannot think of the last time I slept in, or the last time I went to sleep before 11 o'clock. I have never liked sunny days or any degree of heat, which is why London is perfect for me--and Miala weather is rather nice as well. I don't understand pop music, or its appeal. I do not care too much for dogs, I love most other animals, but I hold a rather prudent fear of horses. I refuse to date a woman who is taller than me; this must be some kind of masculine pride, but with me being so tall, this has never been an issue. I was born in the town of Barnes, but its too quiet; I like the hustle and bustle of London's city streets. I find most American accents rough, their spelling incorrect, and their speech patterns very odd; there has only been one American who has made me think otherwise.
ORIENTATION – straight
PERSONALITY SUMMARY –
[height][/height][/justify]
I have a vivid passion for photography, and I have spent my entire life perfecting my art.
I am quiet, though that doesn't mean I am shy. I have never been one to just strike up a conversation with a stranger—especially one of the female persuasion. However, once you begin talking to me, I have no problem coming up with a reply; I am just not as entertained by the sound of my own voice as some blokes seem to be. When I am nervous, I tend to ramble a bit off-topic, or say things I do not mean. Once you and I become more familiar, however, I start to talk a lot more and might even crack a lame joke or two. Not that you are guaranteed to laugh.
I have a soft spot for children, and they are beautiful to photograph; I love the innocence that shines through in every capture of a child. Eve since my marriage with Selia, I thought children of my own would be a part of our future together; however, I am not so sure about things now. If I am ever blessed with another wife and kids, I have always hoped for a son—though a baby girl would be just as magical. I have always loved animals, especially cats; I hold no fear of spiders, snakes, or badgers—though I am terrified of horses.
I have never been one to jump to conclusions, or to make any rash decisions. I am rather logical, and I look over every decision carefully, reviewing the positive and negative effects before executing an action. I keep close track of my money, and I always make sure I have enough to pay for the necessities before I spend on anything frivolous. I have always had a knack with reading people's expressions; I can see emotion clearly in body movements and gazes. Rather than be the center of attention, I would much rather fade into the background, where things are simple and easy.
I am uncertain in my faith, and the question of religion is always a struggle for me. I attended church every Sunday as a child with my aunt, but the preacher never made much sense to me. Meeting Selia changed me; my faith in God grew, and I understood so much more about His word. But her passing...now I only know that He exists, because Selia was too beautiful a person to just disappear. I was baptized when I was eighteen, and I volunteered a lot with the events at our church. But if God is truly merciful, why does he seem to find so much humour in screwing with my life? Selia would have told me He is just testing my faith, but now, I don't think I have any faith left to test.
INFLUENCES –
MOTIVATIONS/GOALS –
HISTORY –
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I was born two weeks before my mother got the phone call. April 10th, 1990 - I was a healthy infant, born right on schedule. My parents had tried to have children before, but their first child, Charles Peter, was a stillborn, and Emilia Nevada past soon after they left the hospital. My siblings are buried in the cemetery that also holds both sets of my grandparents, who all passed away due to old age before I was born. My parents, Peter Gray and Cynthia Weathers, had grown up together. Their parents were family friends, and neighbors as well. My aunt, my mother's sister, had told me their history; how Cynthia was in love with Peter from the start. They were close friends, attending the same primary school, and even after they attended separate private schools they stuck together like glue. My father was ambitious; he had always been interested in the Royal Navy, and had his heart set on that course of life. My mother was a home-maker; she wanted lots of kids and her only job to be raising them and keeping the house tidy. My father didn't seem to want children - he wouldn't be home much to see them, anyway, but my mother was beautiful, and at least some small part of him must of loved her, because he refused to leave her and agreed that they would at least try.
My father worked his way up the ranks, becoming an officer rather quickly. He sent checks home to his wife, and he would try and come home when he could. My mother found she was pregnant in the summer of 1989; she was twenty-two years old, then. It took time, but she got word to my father - who returned with a very reserved letter of congratulations, and that he would try and come home to visit the baby soon. Aunt Violetta always told me my father was a quiet man, a strong and frigid presence; she has also told me we have the same kind of thoughtful expression. My mother had a rather easy pregnancy, but she was devastated when Charles was delivered. The news to my father had gotten lost in the mail, and when he finally did return home six months later he had bought a new crib and a bouquet of flowers for my mother. That was when the depression started; it was only after she found herself pregnant again that she returned to her cheerful self. Emilia was buried alongside her brother, and by then my mother was on the verge of a breakdown. My father took a small leave of absence, and took care of her at home for a while; she cheered right back up when I was conceived. A sick sort of way to live, if you think about it; my father left abroad, and my mother, Aunt Violetta told me, was "just as perky as always".
I was the first and only one of their children to survive two weeks; my mother named me "Bevan", which means "young soldier" - for surviving what my siblings had not. Violetta told me my mother loved me the most; she was so protective, and wouldn't let anyone else hold me for more than a minute. She said I was a beautiful baby, and their friends would always remark on the similarity between my father and I. Those were the good days, my aunt had told me; then the phone call came.
My father and his ship were attacked by pirates at sea; and not the Captain Hook you see on the TV. These pirates had guns, not plastic swords, and they killed my father and the crew, took their ship, possessions, and clothes, and left their bodies to rot at sea. They were found a week later, and my mother got a phone call expressing the Navy’s deepest consolations, and that Peter Gray's body was being shipped back to England for his burial. I never liked Peter Pan.
After his death, my mother became even more protective of me. I lived with her in our small house in London until I was in year three of school; the first year, Aunt Violetta told me, she took great care of me. My mother kept our home spotless, and I was always healthy and happy. She invited friends over often, and they took their children along to play with me; I was cooed over and tickled, and Aunt Violetta said she almost never heard me cry. About a year after my father’s death, it finally hit her that he would never come back. She had refused to see his body at the funeral, and instead they had him concealed in his coffin throughout the ceremony. I suppose it was because she was always so use to him leaving for months that it didn’t seem like anything had really changed. My mother had convinced herself that he would soon come home, as he always does; but this time, when he didn’t, things did change.
Aunt Violetta said it started with her diet. She stopped eating, and began losing an unhealthy amount of weight every week. Then she had mood changes; she would be extremely happy one day, and repressed and saddened the next. My aunt moved in down the street with us; at the time she had told my mother that she had received a better job offer – which, she did – but the truth was that she was worried about her sister, and even more about me. My mother had always smoked, but now she was going through a pack a day; she started bringing alcohol into the house, and would sit in front of the tele and spend her evenings drinking. She stopped giving me baths; stopped changing my diapers. Violetta came to our house daily, to clean me up and rock me to sleep. She would keep me over at her house as long as my mother would allow; once, on a particularly gruesome night when my mother was hopelessly drunk, she didn’t even notice my absence until two days later, when she stormed into Violetta’s home screaming about calling the police. Her sister took her to the doctor, and Cynthia was diagnosed with depression. My aunt invited my mother and I to live with her, but she refused; I would cry every time that Aunt Violetta would take me back to my mother’s home. Once, when I had accidentally called my aunt “mother”, my biological mother screamed at her and demanded she left the house. That was when things turned; my aunt went to court, and fought my mother for custody. Violetta would tell me later that it was hardest decision she had ever made; she had never believed in tearing children away from their parents – especially if one is all they have – but she truly believed that my mother was not stable enough to give me the proper care. The evidence stacked up, and my aunt was given full custody over me.
We moved to the other side of London, away from my mother in Barnes, and I attended school, took regular baths, and was finally toilet-trained. Violetta had always been my real mother; ever since I began to live with her, I called her “mum” and my biological mother “Cynthia” – she didn’t deserve such an endearing title. My childhood was rather normal after that; I attended nursery and primary school. I received gifts – always new cameras or camera equipment – for birthdays and Christmas. My aunt brought me to church every Sunday, and we said a prayer before every meal. Blaire actually attended the same nursery as me; but we were too young, and I was too shy, to remember her, or to talk to her even if I had noticed her at the time. When I entered year nine, I was accepted into Bales Private School, and attended there the rest of my school years. I was never the most popular, nor was I a complete dork. Never the smartest, or the best at sports; but I was also never the dumbest, or the worst player. I wasn’t a ladies’ man, and I didn't have many relationships throughout school - until Selia, of course. I was a good boy, and never caused trouble with my aunt; I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink, I didn’t have sex, and the small handful of girlfriends I did have only broke up with me because they thought I was too dull or didn’t pay enough attention to them. I wasn’t the loudest, or the shiest; I was always middle, and always average.
My biological mother moved to Ireland when I was eleven, and I’ve never had anything to do with her. I had heard something about my mother having other children, but I’ve never looked into it.
Most would say were were too young to be in love - and I would have agreed with you. Selia Moon was the best thing that ever happened to me. We attended the same school - I had known of her since I was ten, and always admired her from a distance, but it was only when I had to interview her for the school's newspaper did we have our first conversation. She was a year older than me, and had moved her from America when she was eleven; absolutely gorgeous and completely unattainable. I kept having her come back for follow-up questions, though they weren't really necessary - she must have caught on, too, because it was the third go-around when she bluntly up and asked: "Bevan, will you please just ask me out, already?"
Selia laughed at me, of course, but she did say yes - and I don't think my heart has ever beat faster. It was early afternoon on a Saturday; a simple lunch date in my favorite cafe. When the check came, I paid, but she asked the waitress for a spare piece of paper and pen. She scribbled something down and stuffed it into her purse; I suppressed my curiosity and didn’t question what she was doing. After, we walked around the city, essentially patrolling the borders of London. We paused at this small, quiet park and sat down on a bench, watching the pigeons: we talked about a variety of topics – how she was interested in modeling, how I became interested in photography – and somehow our conversation turned to religion. She told me that she had always been a devoted Christian, and had been baptized at age eleven; when she asked me about my views, I didn’t have much of an answer. Aunt Violetta raised me as a Christian, too, and we attended church every Sunday – but my heart had always been far from the worship. I explained this to her, and she surprised me again by asking me about my parents. By this time we had arrived in front of her home, and it was nearly 9:00 PM. She spared me of recalling the buried memories by changing the subject: “Bevan, thank you. I had a wonderful time.” She looked at me expectantly. I puzzled over it; did I do something wrong? “I had a great time, too, Selia.” I had lost my confidence from before; “…so, I suppose this is goodbye. I'll see you as school,” I extended my hand. She rolled her eyes and laughed, taking my hand and pulling me forward, kissing my cheek. “Goodnight, Bevan.” She let me go, walking away and turning back to wave one last time before disappearing into the home. I looked down at my hand; that slip of paper was inside. I unfolded it: it was her cell phone number, and her name, Selia Moon. I would call that number the next day, and many days afterwards, and she would kiss me with that same lipstick many times after.
I still have that slip of paper, locked in a small box in the first drawer of my dresser; if I tried to call that number now, all I would receive is silence.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
We dated for about nine months before marriage. We were married for only a year, but our relationship was something that made me feel like I had known her for a lifetime. You’ve had that experience with someone, haven’t you? We didn’t really enjoy the same things – she liked to surf and keep up with the elections in America, I had never been to a beach in my life and didn’t care for politics – but we really connected, something that I can’t really explain. She use to joke that we were a match made in Heaven, and maybe we were. We were opposites in many ways; she had a great relationship with her parents, while I...well, you know that story. We went on a few dates, and (I feel silly saying this) but we were “officially dating" after about two weeks. She was like no other girl I had ever dated before; she was drop-dead gorgeous, and I hadn’t felt more attracted to any woman before, physically or emotionally. She had a certain presence about her; she commanded a room by simply entering it. I had always thought she would have made an excellent lawyer, or maybe a politician – some sort of position of leadership. She was a very strict Christian, and the only physical contact we had before our wedding night was a kiss on the lips – and even those didn’t last nearly as long as I would have preferred. She talked about God a lot, and tried to get me to come to church with her on Sundays. I did, and at first I didn’t understand a lot of what the preacher was saying; she’d explain it to me afterwards, and I finally began to grasp that little thing those sermons always talked about—faith. I began to pray even when Selia wasn’t with me, and it was the happiest time I had ever had in my entire life.
We were young, but we were in love - do not ever try to persuade me otherwise. We were both eighteen when I brought up the idea of marriage. It was a bit of a shock to my aunt, but even more a surprise to her parents. Her parents said no - they were completely against the idea of her being married before college. Her mother got it into her head that I was trying to corrupt their daughter - they immediately made plans to move back to America, where their daughter would attend college in their hometown in North Carolina.
It was at that time that I realized I couldn’t bare the thought of her returning to America; I couldn’t bare the thought of her ever leaving me. She was able to sneak out of her house - the first defiant action she had ever taken against her parents - and we went out together. Selia had always enjoyed the fancy things, so I had an expensive dinner at her favorite restaurant and then walked her down to the park that we had first conversed on our first day. I was incredibly nervous, and had retched in the loo at the restaurant. I had rehearsed my words for weeks before proposing, and had saved up my money for the ring for sometime. When we got to the bench, we talked about small things, and I remember her asking me if I was feeling sick; she was wearing a beautiful blue dress that night. I took a deep breath, forgetting everything that I had memorized, and got down on one knee, holding her hands and told her what I was really feeling: that I loved her, didn’t ever want her to leave, and I wanted nothing more than to call her my wife. She got teary-eyed and said yes before I even finished the question: Selia Kaylee Moon, will you marry – Yes, yes! I did the research, and we eloped a week later. We were married outside under the stars, and it was a beautiful sight. I rented a hotel room, the best I could afford at the time. I had never made love to any woman before, and never she to any man; so our wedding night – if a bit awkward at first – was something incredibly special.
We didn't tell her parents; we planned on waiting, like the wished, until after be both finished school to officially start our lives together. She even began to consider the possiblity of school in America---she was homesick, and she missed her friends and her family. I thought Americans were ridiculous – I remember making some remark about how silly it was that they had their steering wheels on the left side, and she got really angry. The arguement escalated, and she stopped talking to me. Her parents bought back their house in the town of Miala, and the plane tickets were purchased. Selia was easily accepted into the college there.
That was probably the biggest mistake of my life – I let her go without saying anything. I didn’t sleep that entire night, cursing myself for being so daft. Like I had said when I proposed, I just couldn’t imagine a life without her. It took me five days to realize this, and I woke up in the middle of the night as soon as I realized how idiotic I was being. It was early in the morning for me; late in the evening for her. As soon as I got a hold of her, I apologized for everything and told her I loved her. If moving closer to her family was what she wanted, I said, then I was willing to move to America with her. I hadn’t heard her so excited in months; she had already been looking at houses, and – once our money was converted to American dollars – we would probably have enough to rent a small apartment in Miala. She had to leave after that; her and a few friends were going out to dinner. The last thing I ever said to her was I love you, Selia; she told me she loved me too, and she planned on telling her parents about our marriage very soon. I told her I’d be waiting for her to come home; she hung up before she could hear me.
The drink didn't keep me drunk long enough, and the smoke was only useful in making me cough. Like my mother, I too got a call. It wasn’t from the government, though; Selia’s mother was the one that called me. Her mother, sobbing and sobbing; she told me that when Selia had gone out with her friends, she had left the restaurant for a minute to grab something from her car, and hadn’t been seen since. I departed from the airport two hours later; and arrived in America very early that evening. That was the first time I had ever left England; I met her sister at the airport, and she drove me to her parent’s home. I was interviewed by the police: asked about our last phone conversation, where I thought she might have gone, and if she ever had any thoughts of suicide or suffered from depression. They had a search out, and I offered to help, but the police declined and said that only professionals could assist. I didn’t know what to do with myself; I was a worrying wreck and would leap to my feet and sprint to the phone whenever it rang. Three days later, they found her body.
She had been raped and killed; her body disposed of in a dumpster fifty miles from the restaurant. I hadn’t cried when my father died; I didn’t whimper when my aunt fought my mother over me in court; sad movies or sad stories don’t phase me. But Selia’s death…losing my wife, I locked myself in the back room of her mother’s house and wept, truly wept. I stayed in there for hours, until my eyes were dry and itchy; Selia’s mother will tell you that she found me sitting with my knees pulled up to my chest in the corner of the room, on the floor. I don’t remember that much; only that the movies where the widower blubbers like a baby – the dramas that I would make fun of Selia for watching, because no real man would ever cry like that – finally made sense to me.
Her mother has her wedding dress; I have our wedding rings, that piece of paper with her phone number, her watch, an old tube of her pink lipstick, and a love letter I had written to her when we dating but was too scared to send all in a small box in my dresser drawer. Without Selia, I was lost; I didn’t know who to turn to, didn’t know what to do or where to go. I had money saved up from various jobs, and money given to me from my parent's passing, so I moved out of my aunt's house and rented my own apartment. I spent a lot of time in bars, drinking. I started smoking, too, going through a pack of day. All faith in God that I had begun building was destroyed; it was a foul, foul game that the Lord was playing with my life. Selia would say that God loves everyone, sinners and saints alike – but I thought He was just cruel to me. Those dark days only got worse once they found guilty the man who had murdered my wife.
WARNING: this section discusses some mature content.
Mr. Simon Mort – that was his name, the name of the only person whose blood I wanted on my hands. He was easily found guilty, his trial held in America – there were fingerprints, and the thirty-year-old man had a history of disrespect and abuse to women. He wasn’t given the death sentence, but instead would serve a lifetime in jail. It was then that I became angry; I had never hated anyone so much in my life. I registered two shotguns and kept them in my apartment; I fantasized about finding this man in his jail cell and shooting him dead. He didn’t deserve to live; he deserved to die a slow, painful death and to rot forever in Hell. I hoped that he regretted his actions, and I hoped he would regret hurting my wife every day of his life. I contacted the jail that he was sentenced to and scheduled a visiting time; I told the police that Selia and I were Christians, and she would have wanted me to forgive the man for what he did – which, she probably would have, but I wasn’t nearly as devoted as she was. I traveled back to America and visited the state prison.
I met with him in a secure room; his hands were in handcuffs, and two policemen were just outside the door – they had told me to yell if I needed assistance. We sat and looked at each other from across the table; he had a smile – a smile – on his face. First, I introduced myself, and told him that I was the husband of the woman he tortured and murdered. He laughed; laughed. “What do you want, Mr. Gray? Clearly you are not here to forgive me, as you so convincingly lied to the American police – that’s a crime, too, you know.” He was English, too; a crooked smile across his lips.
“I want you to know that I hate you, and I will continue to hate you every day that you sit in your jail cell rotting, and I’ll hate you after you die, and I pray every day that God sends you to Hell.” I said. He wasn’t phased; he leaned calmly back in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk and placing his upheld hands behind his head. “That isn’t all you want to know, Mr. Gray.” Mort replied coolly. He leaned forward suddenly, his face inches from mine.
“You want to know why I did it; how I did it. Did you want to comfort yourself in knowing your name was the last that she screamed before she died? Because it was, so be comforted; no, she clearly was not having an affair – she was definitely in love with you.” I wanted to kill him; I wanted to kill him. He told me that they had actually been talking for some time; that she had known him from church; that he had been attending their church in a sort of “soul-search” and they had discussed philosophy together many times before she left for London. She was gone for years, of course, though she had said she’d only be gone for a few months; “I was jealous of you, Mr. Gray. I had developed some feelings for her, too; but I was too old and too out-of-place to ask out such a fit bird – not that that stopped me from fantasizing about her. That’s probably something we both have in common, don’t we?” He grinned. “Except those dreams are something that she willingly experienced with you, while with me I had to use a little bit of force…” He told me that he had “kept tabs” on her, and found out when she had returned to America – though then he learned that she was already married. “I have friends, Mr. Gray, a group of friends who would have done much, much worse to her had I let them get their dirty paws on her; you never would have seen her body at all – the left-overs, perhaps, if the police did a very careful search. You should thank me, really, that she died so peacefully.” He described to me the details of her death, a story that I will never, never repeat. Well, once he got to the part where she pleaded for him to let her go, I was done.
I leaped across the table and tackled him to the ground; I slammed his head against the tiled floor and punched both his eyes, and his nose. I pounded him against the floor and wished I had snuck in a knife, or some sort of weapon. It took both watch guards to pull me away, and even then I still struggled; Mort – with eyes blackened and his face ragged and bloody, his nose broken – simply laughed. I spent a day or two in jail for attacking the man – but it was worth it, and my only regret was that I didn’t have enough time to strangle him dead before the police stopped me.
Mort called out to me I was escorted away: “It was nice talking to you, Mr. Gray. When I get out – because, believe me, I will get out – I’ll be sure to pay you a visit like you have so nicely done for me.”
[/center][height]So a year past; that was the loneliest time of my life. I wasted my money on alcohol and cigarettes; I had a friend that dealt in drugs, and I tried that for a while, but toxins like that only succeeded in keeping me in the loo retching all the following day—and the high never lasted as long as my friend always promised. Looking back, I’m thankful that the few injections I had weren’t enough to get me addicted. After Selia past away, I couldn’t stay in the same house – I couldn’t sleep in that same empty bed. I moved to America, where I worked odd jobs and worked on my photography. My portfolio was enough to get me accepted into the college - the one that Selia would have attended, North Highland University. I spent a lot of time my freshmen year outside; getting fresh air forced all the thoughts out of head, and I could focus on silly things, like the color of the sky or the way that birds fly in perfect formation. Night is always the worst – I have nightmares, horrible nightmares. And if they weren’t nightmares, they are dreams of my memories – and somehow those always seemed worse off.
I've cleaned myself up, and this small town that I live in helps me relax. I'm quite good in school; I've set myself up as a school tutor, and I make some easy cash as a student librarian. I work as a photographer for various school events, and overall I would say that I am...content.
So I'm healing, slowly.[/height]
