Post by lane bathory on Sept 10, 2010 15:51:26 GMT -8
lane jermain bathory
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name: larisa
age: twenty-three
gender: lady
writing experience: forever and a day
how’d you find us?: i am in this site’s blood, okay hehe
a favorite book: the witching hour by anne rice
other character(s): none yet, but just you wait...
name: lane jermain bathory
age: seventeen
citizen? upper or lower schooling?: lower schooling
previous residence: metz, france
eye color: bright hazel
hair color: mink brown
height: six foot
distinguishing features: a myriad of dark, sinewy burn scars that creep across his lower torso and belly button
four good personality traits
four bad personality traits
three quirks
important people
historyLab-rat. Freak. Abandonment issues. Problems with authority. Suicidal. Manic. Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Borderline Personality Disorder. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Disorder, disorder, disorder.
Always the same, every time the same. It didn’t matter what hospital he was sent to, what ridiculously priced settee he lounged on, what eyes he looked into hiding behind studious bifocals – it was always the same fucking tune, every fucking time. It was all rather disgusting, wasn’t it? Couldn’t his father simply accept that he’d raised a royal fuck-up rather than try and find medical explanations for his unfortunate son? The answer for the past several years had been most assuredly ‘no’.
Lane felt like he spent a good portion of his integral years on couches, talking about his feelings, his past, his present, his future. It never did any good – truly. He didn’t know who these doctors were kidding, but it certainly wasn’t him. He’d been in the system too long, he knew the ins and outs; he knew he was a hopeless case. Write it in your file, close it, shove it in a drawer and let’s forget this whole thing, shall we? If only.
If only everyone would just forget the things he’d done. Was going to do. Would never stop doing.
Twenty-one years ago Lane Bathory’s mother Elane passed away.
Twenty-one years ago Lane had come into this world and snatched Elane’s life away.
That was how his family saw it. The woman left behind five other children and a doting husband. She also left behind a son who was essentially identical to her, a persistent reminder of what was lost. They looked at Lane like a murderer. As a child it didn’t make sense – the ominous stares, the constant brush-off, the utter neglect for him as a human being. He grew up fast, though. Eventually it was made clear what he’d done. He was a born murderer – a destroyer of good things. No one wanted that – no one wanted him.
Despite his vast family, most of Lane’s childhood was spent alone. Feelings of misery and uselessness prevailed this time, dark storm clouds roiling and swelling within him, slowly seeping out as he grew. At age nine he was already lashing out at the world, causing the havoc everyone expected of him, hurting people because he could. He got attention for it – people looked at him, talked about him, some even wanted to be friends with him. The only people who refused to take notice of his cries for help was his family.
Age thirteen; life was already going downhill, fast. Lane enjoyed daring death. If his life was useless, then let him die. If he was worth something, he would live. So far he was alive and well, living proof that something somewhere deemed him worthy enough to walk the Earth. As he sat smoking inside the dilapidated barn that his mother and father had built in a time before his existence, a single ash dropped from his cigarette into the old dusty hay at his feet.
It didn’t take long for the entire structure to go up in flames. Lane remained inside, desperately trying to put out the fire. He was frantic, manic to extinguish the flames from the only place that had ever really reminded him of his mother. The act was futile, though, and even as the establishment came crashing down upon his head he remained inside. Maybe it was for the best.
When he awoke in the hospital, he knew something was broken inside of him. It wasn’t the physical broken rips, or the burn scars across his torso from a flaming rafter crushing him in the fray. Pathetic, depressed Lane was nowhere to be found. He had been a useless creature, anyway. Totally unnecessary. What Lane really needed in his life was someone confident, self-assured, in control, and completely self-reliant. So, he would take on the task himself.
The barn incident was the last straw for Tibor. In a final desperate act to appear as a caring father, he began the endless tirade of sending his son to therapists around the Europe, each one more bizarre than the next, all in the name of ‘figuring out what the hell is wrong with you’. He assumed Lane had burnt down the barn on purpose, as an act of wilfulness. That was all Lane had needed to hear in order to truly realise he was alone in this world. He had himself, though, and it couldn’t get any better than that.
The more therapists Lane was sent to, the cockier he became. The more in control he became. The spotlight was on him as it should have been all those years as a child kept in the dark. He wanted this to-do made over him, he did. He deserved it by now. The pills, the medication, the therapy that came along with… well, that could be dealt with. He didn’t take the meds, he sold the pills, and therapy was a breeze to lie through. Lane was terrific at playing like he was fine, when in truth he went out every night, got fucked up and tried to find a new line to cross, a new boundary to destroy. Every day was a dare; there were no days for truth.
Lane has been attending the Academie since the fire. Despite being flown around for the occasional doctor inspection, his home base has been centred in St. Michel, far away from the ignorant eyes of his father and family. He kind of likes it there. Well, as much as he can enjoy institutionalised learning systems. He probably just enjoys the students and civilians of St. Michel – they are so fun to fuck up.
if you could be anywhere, where would you be? home, if i had one.
character’s play-by: guntars asmanis
mercier
duparc
noah davis, lucas murrary