Post by rose whitney on Sept 23, 2010 6:41:22 GMT -8
rose catherine whitney
[/I]of sentimental value [/ul]
name: megan
age: nineteen
gender: female
writing experience: like three maybe four years
how’d you find us?: well once upon a time...
a favorite book: girl with the pearl earring by tracy chevalier
other character(s): eliot
name: rose-catherine genevieve whitney
age: twenty-one
citizen? upper or lower schooling?: citizen
previous residence: england
eye color: ice blue
hair color: blonde
height: 5’6
distinguishing features: eyes,full lips, and the scar on her stomach from where her sister’s horse kicked her leaving her with a distaste for all equestrian-like sports
four good personality traits
four bad personality traits
three quirks
important people
[/ul]
history
“In theory I should be ridiculously happy. In most regards I shouldn’t be a recluse, holed up in an old cottage that creaks in a small coastal town of little consequence except for a school. To most I should be living a glamorous and exciting life. I should be like those heiresses who date millionaire playboys and Danish princes alike, party at the hottest clubs, wear the hottest designers, and are featured in gossip magazines on a daily basis or at the very least I should be like Charlotte; irreproachable in almost every way . But I had the luck of being Rose─ where things don’t exactly happen as they should.
My mother never planned to have children. She was the type of woman who is focused wholly on their career and everything is a calculated measure to further it. Even her marriage to my father was a step towards her ambition to start her own fashion magazine, one that would be as notable as Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, and the like. The fact that he would later run Whitney Publishing after his father was a strong factor in her intense interest of him, never mind the fact he was an awkward and private man several years her senior. After several years of marriage my sister Charlotte was born and barely nine months after that on an unremarkable cold day in February, so was I. The final Whitney came four years later in the form of my brother, Clark.
We lived a life that you would expect of children born with silver spoons in their mouths: attended prestigious schools, had a nanny until we were twelve, became friends and playmates with children named after long dead monarchs, rock stars and the occasional pastry; spent holiday in chic locales off the Mediterranean, chauffeured everywhere we pleased, dressed better than adults twice our age, lived in posh homes─ most of it all seemed an attempt on my mother’s part to establish and maintain this elitist image of our family. See beneath her Chanel blouses and Yves Saint Laurent glasses and penchant for ridiculously expensive shoes, my mother was once a simple girl with lofty aspirations who lived in a town called Saint-Michel raised only by my grandfather, a humble man with a constant glint of mischief in his eyes; when not busy working as a carpenter wrote poetry about the coast he loved so much. As she grew older, the more my mother wished to separate herself from that life-from everything and everyone, even her father.
Until I was eleven, I had never known much about my maternal grandfather until one summer my mother decided to send us to Saint-Michel to stay with her father instead of going to Greece as we had thought. Every summer after were spent in Saint-Michel. I never quite understood why my mother suddenly decided to send us to her father’s but I never questioned it. And as easily as he took to us the moment he saw us, my siblings and I soon grew to love him unconditionally. He was the first person I ever showed my stories and emphatically praised them when they were clumsy and silly. The person I trusted with my childish hopes and voiced my many objections on life. I couldn’t have ever known how intensely I would react to his death.
Everything changes after. Things I once thought important might as well have been as insignificant and just as worthless as trash in the gutter. I merely existed as this impassive body. When people tried to help, I pushed them away no matter how sympathetic and thoughtful they were. I was content to be alone with my misery, hardly caring how it affected others around me. But even during my worst, a few people stayed. Lucas Sterling was one. Friends since childhood, I had grown accustomed to him simply being the odd freckled-faced boy my parents forced into our company during their posh dinner parties one evening and every one afterward. His declaration of love for me when I was sixteen abruptly altered everything we had since I was nine. I merely chuckled and ignored it, entirely bewildered by the whole exchange. I had firmly believed that Lucas liked my sister from the clumsiness that would ensue from his lanky limbs the moment she smiled or squeezed his arm at his jokes , which wouldn’t be a terrible surprise to me .Charlotte has the similar affect to young men as smiling infants and chocolate do to most people; you just cannot resist. Even after my initial rejection he persisted until I began to question why I’d never realized what he saw from the beginning. Or why I caused our end.
He had endured much after my grandfather’s death; my apathy, my cool stares, sat through hours of silence as I listlessly stared out of my window, quietly held me as tears that never ceased fell, my outbursts, the harsh words I uttered when anger allowed me nothing else . Despite this I couldn’t free myself from my depression for him. It began as deep grief but never receding and continued; perpetually existent. I watched silently as our relationship gradually faded away yet too bound by my own shortcomings to stop it from unraveling. I knew from the cautious glances he began to throw at me that he wondered what would become of us. When it did finally end, I firmly stated that it was better we were not together, and we parted ways with little fanfare. I could have been selfish, resisted and fought for us but what would it solve? So I let him go.
The next year I threw myself into anything I could in the hope of becoming so insanely busy that I would no longer think of Lucas every second of the hour or have the chance to be depressed. I soon began attending university again, traveling across Europe, and I wrote for the first time since my grandfather died. I wrote─everything. In that year I penned every thought that passed through my mind, dialogues between fictional characters, to-do lists, poems, short stories, plots, character outlines, etc. Writing consumed me but it provided a salve for my hurt.
One year, seven months, six days. It repeated over and over in my head intermingling with the breathless and anxious voice of my sister as she explained to me that she and Lucas had an amazingly strong connection and began dating. But don’t worry they had planned on telling me three months ago… except they had worried how I would react─not that they believed I was crazy or anything, just that they weren’t sure if I go psycho or super depressed and get suicidal I suppose. I did neither. I smiled reassuringly at my sister over our overpriced salads and assured her that what Lucas and I had was nothing really─ just teenage love, nothing more. In that instance I told myself it meant nothing if Lucas and my sister dated; as wonderful as she may seem, Charlotte had her quirks and flaws. I knew soon enough she would end the relationship in a month or two just as she had done so many times before that I’ve delegated the name “Guy” to all of her boyfriends.
But then several months later, my mother reveals in passing that with a “wedding of the decade” to plan that she would be hard-pressed to complete the September issue to her liking. I wanted to hate him . Her too. But I couldn’t. My entire wrath reflected inward, I was the one who pushed him away; and then hid behind the pleasant mask of a loving sister who did not object if her sister dated her ex-boyfriend. So I donned on others.
The day of the wedding, I stared at my dress, gorgeous as it lay across the bed. Millions of thoughts shot off in my mind as my fingers idly fingered the pale silk. I soon realized that there was no way that I could get out of it, so I pushed away every single negative feeling I felt as I slipped the dress over my head, stalling tears that had curiously filled my eyes. The other bridesmaids smiled and laughed at how emotional I was that my sister was getting married, noting how ‘touching’ it all was. Before I could respond in any way contrary to what a maid of honor was supposed to do, I left the room and wandered the manor my parents had rented for the entire spectacle.
I couldn’t mistake the walk when I came across him pacing up and down the hallway. Clearly nervous, Lucas gave me a wry smile that would have made me smile and muttered softly how beautiful I looked. When he started to ramble about some crap about men flocking to me, I took the opportunity to pretend as if absolutely nothing was wrong between us and stepped forward to pin the boutonniere he held awkwardly in his hand to his jacket. Before our silence became too uncomfortable, he suddenly spoke up.
“Rose-”
“Hold still, I don’t want to prick you. ”
“Rose, I wa-”
“Isn’t the grounds gorgeous? I can’t believe mother managed to get the manor considering the waiting list for it. It’s almost impossible to get it for this time of year when so many new-”
“Rose, stop rambling about nothing when we both know why you’re doing it.”
“Would you rather me tell you what’s really on my mind?”
“…Rose… I’m sorry.”
“No need for sorry, you’re getting married today. What is done is done.”
“But it’s not. You can pretend but I know you’re not as complacent as you look. I just wish there was something I could do . I wish I could make you forgive me but it’s too much. ”Dropping my hands to my sides, I glared at him feeling the overwhelming urge to both hit him and hug him. “I love you Lucas, even now I still do. As long as I do, the hurt will always be there.” Feeling pity for me I guess, he touched my cheek just then and quietly spoke my name in a way that gave birth a hope I should’ve ignored but didn’t.
You may assume whatever you please about me─ I don’t care. And I didn’t care when I kissed Lucas. I didn’t think as I lean forward to meet his lips. Didn’t even wonder that maybe this was wrong until he broke our kiss, and looked at me with this look that reaffirmed that I was not receiving an award for being a good sister but my hopes of him loving me as he once did were better used hoping I would turn into a leprechaun. The simple truth was I had lost him. I would never get Lucas.
I wasn’t one to wait for his concern and words; I already knew it all so I left. I drove aimlessly in my father’s Rolls until I found myself looking up at my flat wondering what the hell I was supposed to do now. Well, partying with your old school mates, all of which are wild, wealthy, and paparazzi magnets, wouldn’t be wisest decision to take. Of course, the media caught on to the fact that I, despite being the maid of honor decided to skip “the wedding of the decade” for a night out at nightclubs with my crazy friends rather than with my sister during one of the most important days of her life. They all enjoyed the speculation of what might have caused this rift between the Whitney sisters until someone informed them- a disgruntled employee of my mother’s maybe- why a rift could exist between us. For a few weeks, we were the subject of petty gossip to my mother’s horror who had constructed a pristine reputation for her family and even the slightest gossip greatly upset her. The rest of my family varied in degrees. My father was disappointed, Clark annoyed by the whole media thing but the only one who didn’t condemn me for leaving, and Char refused to speak to me.
A month later, not much changed but the press who moved onto far more wilder and sordid tales of celebrity scandal. To my family I was just a step above becoming the black sheep; among my social circle I was known as that girl who tried to ruin her sister’s wedding and take her husband. Even my thoughts followed the same stream of me being this person with a list of ever-growing faults. On a whim, I visited my grandfather’s home that summer after the whole wedding fiasco. Out of three grandchildren, I was left his dearest possession- his home- but ever since he died I couldn’t face it and the memories of him that were still left there. I had meant to stay for a week which promptly became a month and then indefinitely. Saint-Michel reminded me of everything that I found great with my life five years ago. Everything since has changed but it’s still here and I’m here so… maybe it’s not too late for something good to happen.
if you could be anywhere, where would you be? “Back in time. I’m sixteen, in one of my grandfather’s boats, my sister is sitting across from me, clutching the sides for dear life and screaming for Clark’s blood because my brother suddenly finds it ridiculously funny to violently rock the boat while my grandfather laughs... just back when life was better and I had everything I could ever want.”
character’s play-by: marloes horst
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