Post by jonathan whittaker on Aug 10, 2010 11:57:43 GMT -8
jonathan michael whittaker
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name: brianna!
age: 21
gender: lady
writing experience: long, long time! maybe 6 years or so now, of writing that hasn't sounded like someone put something in my cereal that morning (im hoping...).
how’d you find us?: we will always have paris!
a favorite book: "the secret history" - donna tartt
other character(s): -takes a deep breath- anika, christophe, kate, eli, alexandre, darren
name: jonathan whittaker
age: 20
citizen? upper or lower schooling?: citizen
previous residence: england originally, but he's lived in paris for 3 years
eye color: green
hair color: blonde
height: 6' 2"
distinguishing features: small scar flecked across his cheekbone
four good personality traits
four bad personality traits
three quirks
important people
history
It’s been four years, and still he cannot will himself to forget.- - - - - - -
Camille died in the spring. They spent their last moments together on a cold bathroom floor - the yellowed tiles making her pale skin appear porcelain. Her heaving body against his chest – her petite frame shuddering as the empty pill bottle rolled away from her weakening grasp. Then the last jerk of her quivering body as life stilled in her gray eyes. On the cold bathroom floor, they had clutched at their last moments together.
He remembered snow falling on her eyelashes as their shallow breaths met the chill air like smoke from their lips. He felt even then, the feeling of his lips pressed against her soft mouth as they held each other in the cold. He knew then he would never love anything like he loved Camille. It became a promise that bound him.
He had never expected to find her there – it was only to be a passing glance into what he thought would have been an empty room. But she had been there, her delicate frame lying on the hard floor as the party had continued downstairs. He thought he knew her, thought he understood. But she had blinded him to the truth.
They had grown up together, in their close-knit group of friends in the suburbs of London. It wasn’t until secondary school, when all of them began to grow up, did they notice each other. For a year and a half they were together. It was as blissful and naïve as young love could be. Camille was always struggling with herself, however. Lending to strange waves of anger and depression, often caused by a strife at home. But through her death, she was bathed in a white light that no amount of darkness could penetrate.
After that night, Jonathan succumbed into a numbing static that no one was able to retrieve him from. He had been accepted into the University of the Arts in London but had given that up. He spent his days sleeping, or re-reading books. Sometimes he sketched, but quickly tossed them as soon as they were finished. He went through therapy from his parent’s pleadings but he refused to speak during his sessions. He wasn’t ready to move on, and never wanted to be.
After months of this, his parents thought it best to move him elsewhere – a fresh start. He had an aunt who lived in Paris, and was able to get him enrolled into the International Preparatory Academy of Paris for the last few years of his high school education. They didn’t understand that he couldn’t start his life over. It had been stolen from him that warm spring night.
He existed in a fog. Seeing Camille in everything he did or saw. His love of reading grew – books being one of the few escapes his mind could find. He met a few individuals along the way, but none of them stayed. After school ended, his parents expected him to continue on to university, either in France or England. But Jonathan had found Saint-Michel.
He had visited the sleepy coastal town in his senior year and found himself enamored by its charm. Even he couldn’t deny its beauty. He found a job opening for a clerk at the local bookshop, and the year after high school he moved to Saint-Michel.
It’s been years now, and although time has begun to heal him – he is still lost in clear memories amidst a foggy reality. It will take more than time to bring him back from reliving that night in hopeless agony.- - - - - -
He had pressed her crumpled form into his, wanting nothing more than her chest to swell in a sob as his did. But it never did, and he was left alone. They told him when they found him, he was still holding her.
He could never let go.
if you could be anywhere, where would you be? "somewhere that i'm not reminded of her"
character’s play-by: mathias lauridsen
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