Post by delia madain on Jul 8, 2010 15:41:36 GMT -8
delia coralie madain
[/i] on.
name: PAM !
age: ...old hag age.
gender: female, kthx.
writing experience: A little over a year and a half.
how’d you find us?: …well. I found you eons ago, and was a heinous and inactive beast. I re-found you through Melinda&Katja.
a favorite book: Actually, idk. If I say Looking for Alaska, I feel flaky, so Ima go with Les Belles-Soeurs.
name: delia coralie madain
age: nineteen [19] years old
upper or lower schooling?: upper
previous residence: new york, new york
eye color: pool blue. or pool-liner blue, if you prefer.
hair color: somewhere between light-brown and honey-blonde.
height: 5',8"
distinguishing features: has her nose pierced, as well as a set of surface piercings on her either of her hips. don’t forget the barbell through her right nipple ! she swears it didn’t hurt.
four good personality traits
four bad personality traits
three quirks
refers to others using a wide assortment of bizarre pet-names, among them : honeybee, tiger, miss thang, and stella.
shimmies her shoulders and wriggles her hips quite frequently, particularly when feeling agitated or excited : a letting loose of pent-up energy, generally accompanied by laughter.
prefers to sleep with her hair done up in princess leia buns, claiming it gives it body, and a beachy-feeling wave when she lets it down in the morning. [/ul]
important people
history
Delia Madain was a kicker from the start. She was a mover and a shaker, and she was more than enough to drive her unsuspecting mother up a wall, or two, or four, without even having blessed the woman with her presence yet. Some mothers, you see, delighted in the sweet thumping of their unborn children’s still-forming limbs against their abdomens; Heather was not granted such a privilege. She was always sick, and when she wasn’t sick, she was eating, and though she knew it surely couldn’t do much good for the sickness, she couldn’t help herself; she was always hungry. All she could do was wonder why and how her first pregnancy hadn’t been anything quite like this. And wonder she did, pre-post-during pregnancy, how twins – and boys at that – could have possibly been easier to handle than this one little girl. Wide-eyed and sweet-faced, she didn’t seem like much, and one mightn’t have believed she was. Anthony didn’t, and he was her father, but then, he’d never been around to see terribly much.
He was too busy – he was much too busy – being important, being in charge, being with others. It was no secret. He was a business man, and a sinfully successful one at that; he had other matters to attend to, from meetings in collusion, to pretty women whom he swore up and down, in far too frequent fights with Heather, couldn’t hold a candle to her. Yet he saw them anyway. Sometimes, one just isn’t enough. Other times ? It is.
For Delia it was. It always was, even when she was too young to realize, too wide-eyed, too bushy-tailed, too gleefully innocent to see. She’d always been close with her siblings, you know. Even as a child, active as she was, never dormant, ever running from one thing to the next, they were always close. After all, a girl could have adventures, could roam the world with a spyglass in hand, and a sweet set of Crayola’s safely in tow, but what fun would that be when all by her lonesome ? No, a girl needed companions, and Dee ? She was a girl who found all that she needed in the sanctity of her own home. No need for a daycare with a slew of live-in playmates. Why go out to find strangers when company was a hop-skip-gallop away ?
In Annabelle she found a sweetheart for tea parties, a darling to dress up with. All daisy-chains and scatter chassés, Barbie-doll haircuts and chatty-Cathy spring afternoons, they were sisters, in every sense of the word. Ethan was a thriller, a chiller, bismillah, and even when he could do naught but toddle on, he knew very well, with the help of sister-dear, how to push the proverbial envelope. He ran too far, waded in too deep, talked a little too loud, and all the way, it was never quite certain, in this camaraderie of combustion, who was following whom.
Though it was clear – crystal clear – that in matters of her older brother, Phineas took the lead, grabbed the reins, and Dee ? She just went along for the ride, with wide-eyed adoration, and sweet smiles of sincere solidarity. He taught her comic books and skateboarding, dabbled in philosophizing and ever-striving for nirvana; don’t forget enlightenment of musical direction. There’s a reason, after all, that the bubble-pop Spice Girls were quickly cast aside in favor of pseudo-angsty Silverchair. He led, she followed, and his word was law; they were both quite happy to abide by it.
And Wes ? Wes got jibes, and Wes gave stern looks, only half-marred by the smiles hidden behind them. He got wide grins and reluctantly gave them back, for he’d always been the serious one. Most of all though, he got candy-floss kisses and murmurs of everything that was wrong in the world, coupled with whispers of all that was right. Cuddles, he learnt, were very, very right. Just how right this was, however, remained to be seen. They had years to go, and grades to glean, and other relations to make.
Dee, for one, had to poke around, had to see what she could see. The world was her school, even though she’d never really taken to school, in the formal sense of the word. But then structure, in most senses of the word, hadn’t ever really been her thing. She was clever in her own way, and perceptive if nothing else, but the girl couldn’t quite seem to sit still, couldn’t satisfy herself with simply being told, being instructed and confined, without anything to say about it, without a chance to do. For want of a better word, she was somehow terribly bored, even while armed with a fierce curiosity. Her grades were decent, both in primary and secondary school : above average in some subjects – English, Music, tous les Arts Plastiques – and in others – the Sciences, Geography, her mother’s beloved Math – they were not.
However, the schoolyard, in her case, and its later successors, were of much more interest. She’d always been friendly, eternally requiring company, forever wanting noise, to have some kind of commotion, and others ? They seemed to have taken quite well to her. Generally sweet-tempered, and game for anything, she entertained and was entertained, and was more than happy with this. She had friends and she had foes, though the friends seemed to outnumber those. But always, she brought it back home, to siblings one through four.
Home, it was nice. For her, at least. Momma didn’t understand her, was too calm and composed, too utterly proper to ever understand her, but she loved her nonetheless. Daddy adored his daughter-darling, and he adored her to bits, spoilt her as much as he could, and never regretted a moment of it. Dolls and toys ? She had them. Vacations abroad ? They were hers. More dresses than any girl in the world could wear ? In her closet. Money was not an object, and her family was the old-money sort that somehow managed to spend and save, to be frugal when it suited them, and flagrant when it did not. They liked to look good and had the means to ensure they did, but who would’ve guessed what went on behind closed doors ? The overly suspicious and the awfully cynical, perhaps, but surely not too many.
Daddy dealt with dirty money, on occasion, probably far more than he ought, and Daddy dealt with dirty women, but we already knew about that. Momma, she was in love with someone else, and no-one knew, but all suspected. No-one could blame her either, mind. She wasn’t a stranger to harsh words and love taps from Anthony, though neither were the boys, truth be told. No better way to toughen up a young man, no method that rivaled this one when trying to discipline a boy : Anthony Madain was a firm believer in physicality, always in his boys, though never-ever the girls. They were his baby-dolls, weren’t they ? They were meant to be sugar-sweet and delightful, which they most often were, although Dee had her own share of skeletons in her closet, of things she’d prefer were left unsaid.
There was Wes, wasn’t there ?
Oh, how there was. She’d always loved her brother. Just a bit too much. She was a touch too loyal, too affectionate, too entwined in his life. It had never been a problem growing up; they never anticipated it would become one. As far as most know, it never really did. Unfortunately however, it would appear that most are ignorant to much of that which happens around them, even when it stares them straight in the face, and has for an absurdly, obscenely long while. You know, the summer Delia turned sixteen, everything changed : unprecedented, unanticipated, irreparable. She hadn’t meant for it to, and if you’d broached the topic with her, only months – weeks ! – before she’d have responded with unabashed, girlish surprise. Though perhaps this would’ve been but a cleverly coy feint.
She’d always liked concerts, loved concerts, relished them, for the pulsating energy of neon lights and raucous cries, of pounding bass drums and squealing guitars, that could only ever emanate from a wild rock show. She petitioned to attend as many as she could, scoured newspapers and magazines for upcoming events that promised a good time. And when she could ? She enlisted others in her musical crusades. Phineas was an ever-eager companion, and she had plenty of friends to count on if all else failed, but her favourite camarade - and by far the most elusive and evasive - was Wes. Rambunctious noise, he claimed, simply wasn't his thing. But she begged and she pleaded, the way only little sisters can, and with the help of pouting lips, sad eyes, and just a dash of luck, he conceded.
For a while, they had a good time – a great time, they’d both have argued – the band was good, the weather warm, the beer refreshingly cool. They were under-age, she notably more than he, but neither of the pair was a stranger to wanton disregard of such strictures, nor were they without a good set of fake papers. Besides, they’d always been tall for their ages. They wandered, they wriggled in time to the music, they wove their way easily through the crowds, with backbeats thumping and an exuberant frontman – Caleb, was it – cheekily imploring them to make some noise.
It was around midnight, and they’d both had a few beers. Maybe two or three...or four. Definitely four for him. She might've had five. Might've. She really couldn't be sure of that. Not that it really matters though… She turned around, red plastic glass in hand, head bowed as she swayed in time to the music, and when she looked back up, it was greeting her : that Face. Eyes half-glazed, lop-sided smile, hands raking through the hair sheepishly. It was a look that screamed lust and desire far louder than any words ever could. She’d seen it before, and she’d see it again, but never had she imagined that she’d see it from Wes.
Dee knew, in the back of her mind, that any other normal human being would've blushed, turned away immediately, and run, quick like a bunny, to the bathroom to wonder if it had been a trick of the light, or what. Not her. Swinging her hips with every step, she approached him and slipped her arms around his neck before kissing his cheek. Still giving her that very same look, he slid his arms around her waist, effectively locking her into his firm, strong grasp, and then murmured gently against her lips, his breath warm and sweet, laced with the smell of beer, Hey.
One word. One tiny little three-letter word. Just one word, meaningless anywhere else, but a tantalizing invitation here. She whispered it right back to him, pressed her warm forehead gently against his. And then before she truly realized what she’d agreed to, he kissed her. And it was everything she’d ever wanted. Everything she’d wished for and fantasized about for as long as she could even remember, but had been too scared to share with anyone, even – consciously - herself. It was wrong and right, and soft and hard, but as far as she was concerned, it was so, so perfect. When he pulled back, his big, hot, sticky palms cupping her flushed cheeks, and looked at her with those soft blue-grey eyes, so much like her own, she knew nothing would ever be the same again. Not then. Not when they went home together that night, her tip-toeing quietly into his room instead of hers. Not any other night that would follow. Certainly not now.
She was in love with him, in every sense of the word, head over heels, and heart a-fluttering. Delia Madain would’ve done anything in the world for her brother Wes. And she did. No-one had to know – no-one did know – and they liked it better that way, logically for the preservation of what they had (how she longed for it to last…), but in a more sentimental sense, it was more special this way, when kept a secret. She was sixteen and stupid : she believed in all this and she kept it up longer than most who knew her would’ve thought possible. Hey. She did what she had to so she could keep what she wanted, and it never occurred to her that perhaps…this was wrong.
Of course, she knew in the back of her mind that most would think it was – it was why she’d never told anyone, not even her confidante above all others, Phin – but for her and Wes ? It was different to her, as nearly every situation in which the self is implicated seems to be. So she covered up, and she held on, tight as she could, to her brother-dear. She saw other boys – not seriously, of course – but only so as not to raise a suspicious brow. Dee hated it more than he did, but it couldn’t be helped; her family and friends would wonder what had suddenly thrown off her interest in those pretty boys from school. She swore she never felt a thing for any of them though, and this was mostly true. Why would she when as soon as she went home, she could have all that she thought she really wanted ?
For nearly two years, life went on in this manner, and Dee was so very happy for this. Then along came Oliver, with his shaggy dark hair and his mischievous half-smile. He was funny, he was witty, he was undeniably clever, and she thought the way he read Sartre was incredibly cool. For the first time, with his arm draped casually around her shoulders, she could honestly say that she liked they guy she was traipsing around with by day. Wes, naturally, was not pleased. She didn’t have to say anything – you can be sure she didn’t – but it was there, that elephant in the room : she was interested in this guy, and she…was tired. Not of Wes, never in a million years of him, but of hiding. The glamour of the forbidden had finally worn off, and she wanted something…real. Something that didn’t require locked doors and complete emptiness in the house, that didn’t mean driving hours away from town to go on a movie-date : she longed for normalcy and she grew painfully aware that this was something her brother could not give her. Not here, at least. Not in New York.
She stuck it out with Oliver for a record-breaking twelve weeks, but he went too far, he wanted too much : he wanted more than she could offer. His hands hovered at the waist of her shorts, and his breath was hot against her neck, the tip of his nose pressing gently into her skin. Come on. It was a soft and quiet request. Please ? It was unusually polite. Her back was arched, her eyes were lowered, and she shook her head quickly. I can’t… And she couldn’t, indeed, but this time, it wasn’t simply loyalty that held her back, it was a shame that was both unfamiliar and unwanted. She felt tainted, marred, as the weight of the skeletons hiding in her closet toppled out and onto her. I have to go. She did. I’ll call you. Never happened.
The morning after, she presented herself in her brother’s room, hands on her hips, and jaw defiantly set. She had an ultimatum for him, because she…was going away. She’d decided. She was going to school abroad – wherever she was accepted, but she was hoping for France – and he had two choices. He could come with her – she so wanted him to – and they could do this thing for real. Figure something out to make it work. Or, he could stay here, stay home, but it wouldn’t stop her, and she wouldn’t do this when she came back during holidays. Her mind was met up, she was wholly set; Wes knew it, and it gave him a sinking feeling in his chest. So he leaned forward, and he kissed her jaw.
She is here, and he is in New York. His choice should be obvious, so she tries to forget.
if you could be anywhere, where would you be? In your room, sugar. Okay, no, I’m joking. The beach, definitely the beach. Ocean City, baby…unless you happen to be Gene Simmons. Then my correct answer actually is your room. Don’t forget your boots.
character’s play-by: kershaw, abbey lee.
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mercier
arcséne
TBD