[AboutTheCharacterFull Name: Damien Noah Hawthorne
Age: Eighteen
PB: Ryan Ross
Mental Condition/Disorder:Sociopath, Anorexia, Suicidal Tendencies
Personality: Simple enough, Damien is kind of a jerk. He says what ever is on his mind at the time without thinking twice about whose feelings are getting hurt. He is a walking emotional bulldozer and is not afraid to belittle you and make you feel worse than you have ever felt in his life. Damien rarely raises his voice and emotions are not very well played out on his face. Damien will take you down without so much as a decibel being raised in his voice. He is often calm, cool and collected, even while he is being a complete ass. Although he is rude and a good amount of people fear him simply because of how he acts, it isn't hard for him to make friends. Damien is quite the charmer and often makes people fall in love with him rather easily.
Inside, however, Damien can be a sweet kid. He is tough and definatley more of a fighter than a lover, but given the right person, he isn't completely heartless. He does not allow himself to get attached to anyone and when he thinks someone is getting to close, he will quickly push them away and move onto his next person. Damien does not believe in love, trust, hope or anything remotely close to those things. Although anti-social and withdrawn, Damien enjoys being called beauitful because of his weight and his looks, but nothing more.
History: Damien Noah Hawthorne was born on February 23rd, 1990 to his mother, Ashleigh Mathers in Chicago, Illinois. A bastard child, Damien's parents had never married and it wasn't until he was four that his father made a striking appearance in his life. Coming from a poor family in a slum-like housing development, Damien grew up like any other family would. He had grown up with cheap toys, clothing and books, but none of it have ever really bothered him much. He attended public school and the friendly young man made many friends, as talkative as he was. Alas, once the young Damien hit age six and entered the first grade, his entire demeanor changed.
Damien began belittling the other children, robbing them of their possesions and making them cry. He'd question their beliefs and even as a young child, it had confused his peers and caused them to run back home, questioning their parents. Quickly, Damien was taken out of his elementary school and thrown into another one across town on Chicago's southside. The same things happened at his new school until he had been taken out of all surrounding public schools in Damien's neighborhood. Having no choice but to enroll him in a special school, his mother did so.
Doctor after doctor could not determine what had set off Damien's sudden behavioral problems, but to no avail. Damien would not leak what had changed him and instead would smirk and snicker at the doctor's stupidity. Really, he knew all along what exactly was wrong with him and his parents, being the liars that they were said that nothing they had done could have possibly influenced their son like this. In reality, both of his parents were addicted to cocaine and heroin and night after night when Damien would sneak out of his bedroom to get a glass of water from the sink, he would find his dear mother and father both high and passed out on the trashy living room couch.
What really changed young Damien was on the boy's tenth birthday, his father was murdered in front of his eyes. Damien had totally snapped after that. Being the junkie he was, his father had owed the wrong people a lump sum of money that he obviously could not pay and the last thing Damien remembered seeing of his father was when the black pistol had connected with his temple and the look in his fathers eyes. He and his mother no longer had the money to remain in the projects and Ashleigh was forced to give Damien up for adoption. Since then, he has not seen or heard from her and after a year when no one adopted the angry, ill-mannered, stick thin boy, he was sent here to Kailyn.
Appearance: If there were one word that Damien could use to describe himself, it would be beautiful. Ghostly white skin covers his tall, lanky frame and he avoids staying out in the sun too long, in fear of it ruining his complexion. His eyes are a warm, honey-brown color which usually tricks a lot of people. Although his eyes show no emotion, they are a truly warm color that seem to entrance a good amount of people. Damien has light brown hair that he constantly keeps in a messy faux-hawk, his bangs sideswept to cover over his forehead and his right eye almost like a shield. Damien's face also lacks emotion. The most he will ever do is smirk or let a cocky, confident smile cover his pale pink lips when heis ready to strike.
Weighing in at ninty-five pounds, yes, Damien is anorexic. Anything above his current weight is simply unacceptable to the soon-turning eighteen year old boy. It contrasts against his height, as the boy stands at 6'0". He might look a little awkward to some, but to Damien he loves his appearance. The only thing that really bothers him on his body, however, is his arms. Long, lumpy white scars are dragged across skin from previous suicide attempts and fresh, red and brown scabbed over ones are slaughtered messily all over his otherwise virtually flawless skin.
Family:
Parents:
Atticus Olivander Hawthorne
Postal Worker
Age: Fourty-three.
Deceased.
Ashleigh Katherine Mathers
Waitress
Age: Thirty-nine
Siblings:
Molly Colleen Hawthorne
Sister
Age: Thirteen
Other:
Likes:-being alone
-being complimented
-music
-seeing himself bring out emotions in other people
-cutting
-his little sister
Dislikes:
-showing his own emotion
-eating/being overweight
-when music isnt played exactly correct
-his parents
-alcohol and drugs
-cigarette smoke
-being confined
-love
Roleplay Sample:"What do you mean you don't have the stuff, Bennett? You were told to have it today or I was going to kick your behind." a teen snarled angrily, surrounded my his group of friends. The smaller teen gave him a nervous chuckle. "Behind." Shaking his head at the older boy, he spoke again. "See, that's the thing. Last night I-" was all he said before he was cut short with a hard blow to the jaw.
Oh, yes. Let the beating commence. A boy at the ripe the age of seventeen limped staggeringly away from the scene of where that very group of guys had nearly beaten him to a pulp. The boy was clad in black, skinny jeans that were held up on his slightly more-than-average frame by a shiny, pink studded belt. Adorning his chest was a now ripped tee-shirt that read 'Dawn of the Dead' on it, his favorite movie and over it was a gray and green striped hoodie that he was always trademarked for wearing. No, he wasn't some silly scene kid, though maybe he dressed a little like one.
Walking toward his high school, the young man sighed out of sheer exhaustion and defeat as he raised up a pale arm to wipe some of the excess blood from his now split-open lip. Poor guy, right? Well, he was used to it. No, he wasn't one of those loner freaks that got beat up every day for being different. He got beat up because though he was paid to get a slightly older student's habit underway, he decided against it and kept his money. Sure, the boy was trustworthy.. but only with people that he actually enjoyed their company. Don't trust him with money if he doesn't like you. Oh those bullies, weren't they just terrible?
Running one hand through rusty, reddish-brown hair, Patrick Holden Barrett continued to limp away from the group in a light, frustrated mood. His beat up, filthy, pink high top Chuck Taylor's scuffing along the concrete as he went, Patrick knew he'd escaped with one a few minor injuries. Hey, to him that was a small price to pay for the one hundred dollars he was now going to keep regardless. Brushing a few strands of straight hair from his dark green eyes, he finally arrived at the front yard of the school. He pushed his black, thick framed glasses back up to his eyes, and continued to stare at the ground a little, not really wanting anyone to gasp or pity him.
He hated pity. Stopping for a moment on the front steps of the school, Patrick dug in his nearly empty backpack, pulling out a brown conductors hat, slipping it on his head. It was rare that the boy didn't have a hat of some sort on. When he wore hats, it felt a little like he was shaded from the rest of the world and no one could bother him. Eh, so he was a little weird. Aren't we all,though?
Now, Patrick wasn't what you'd call skinny. Nor was he the epitome of 'fat'. He was simply a little above average, weighing in at a smooth one hundred and eighty-five lbs. And your d**n right he liked it that way. Patrick loved it compared to those anorexically thin boys that everyone seemed to mack on nowadays. He found them quite disgusting to be honest. Seriously, a guy that thin was barely a guy at all, in his opinion, though he'd never voice it out. Some of those stick-figures could kick major behind.
Patrick wasn't your average shy guy. He had friends, wasn't a dork and wasn't exactly anti-social. He was just.. Patrick, for lack of a better word. His voice was soft until you got him into a conversation, then it was pretty hard to shut him up.If he liked you, he'd talk to you. If he didn't like you or didn't know you, he'd either be sarcastic, ignore you, or blush and walk away. A lot of the time, Usually the young man was too shy to even get a sentence out without stuttering like an idiot. Yeah, that was pretty much him in a nutshell. Good old 'Tricky Bennett.
So, there he was. Battered, and bloody, Patrick sat down on the steps and continued to dig through his backpack. After a few groans of disappointment, he eventually found his red and white pack of Marlboro Reds and he nearly shrieked in delight. Feeling like he hadn't ever needed a ciggarette so bad in his life, he hastily pressed it between his lips, the filter stinging the open wound, but he didn't care. Pulling out his white lighter, he lit it, inhaling the smoke in utter bliss.
