Post by wes on Oct 22, 2011 14:17:27 GMT -5
let's meet the puppet bby...
``WESLEY PORTER GALE !
(image would be here, dont stretch the page)
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SING A SONG THE OLD MAN HATES
then you'll feel alive
then you'll feel alive
»BIRTH NAME• wesley porter gale
»NAME• wesley or wes
»AGE• he supposes he's about eighteen years old, but he changes his mind sometimes.
»PLAYBY• ash stymest
»GRADE• senior
»BORN ON• october 12th, nineteen-ninety-three
»MEMBERGROUP• pschotic disorders ; paranoid type schizophrenia, paranoid personality disorder, and autophagia.
COVER UP WITH MAKEUP
in the mirror
in the mirror
»RACE• english and german
»HEIGHT• 6'3", which often helps him come off as more intimidating than he normally would.
»SCALE• he's determined to be the death of himself, which is perhaps why he only weighs 138 pounds.
»EYES• a frighteningly dull shade of gray, and consistently bloodshot. nothing remarkable.
»HAIR• Intensely dark brown, much like the color of dirt, tobacco, or old blood.
»DISTINGUISHING FEATURES• most people can blend it fairly well with society - Wesley is no exception. He really looks like your average, anorexic bum, what with his swollen eye bags, stringy, bushy hair, ribs shown through almost anything he's wearing, and wiry legs that are practically non-existent. However, while Wesley’s appearance isn’t distressing or particularly frightening at a first glance, a further examination will reveal quite a few scars remnant of past experiences and, only in some cases, memories. A rather large section of his right leg is colored with burn scars – the result of his first attempt to light a cigarette (around the age of eight, might I add), which ended in him dropping the cigarette on his sneaker when he tried to close the lighter cap – and one long wound rests underneath his chin, stretching from his jawbone to his throat (also caused by one of those ‘first try’ experiences – this time, however, was his first attempt at shaving, far before he actually needed to shave, or was smart enough to hold the knife at an angle). His nose is slightly crooked, his ears are a tad on the large side, his teeth aren’t in the best of shape, and, at times, his right eye is a bit lazy, if that can, in fact, be considered a physical flaw. He does keep himself rather well groomed, though. With Wesley, cleanliness is a must, despite the circumstances.
»TATTOO'S• a cluster of skulls on his left shoulder, a blue rose beneath them, a celtic spider on his left forearm, a decaying woman's skull on the right side of his chest, a large sharp-toothed skull on his right shoulder, a tree branch wrapped in a tattered banner that reads "Burn out or Fade Away"
»CLOTHES• Wesley believes strongly in the repulsion of pre-planning (most likely since the majority of his life was conducted in such a way – with or without his consent), and thus his wardrobe reflects these beliefs. He’s often seen in a sweater vest of some sort or a button-down shirt, for one must always dress respectably if they are to gain any sort of reverence in a society so strongly based upon judging books by their covers, though the variance of color, pattern, shape, or even size, can never truly be guessed ahead of time (much like his wrist watches, which, by the way, are the reasons he only wears long sleeves).
I WAKE UP EVERY MORNING
a big smile on my face
a big smile on my face
»STRENGTHS•
[+] Wit.
He’s got a rather impressive talent for making intellectual humor out of most any situation, whether it be by actually narrating a riddle, or just manipulating someone else’s words. Laughter is the best medicine – in this he fervently believes. Though, of course, there are times in which hilarity is most unnecessary – problem is, he never did have a knack for telling when exactly those moments had arrived. His desire to cause amusement often gets him into some rather awkward situations.
[+] Lack of an apparent conscience.
Right and wrong have no boundary line in Wesley's mind, where guilt is a foreign emotion. Not that he chose for it to be this way, but, let’s face it – we can’t always choose the circumstances that lead us to become who (or what) we are. Besides, everything is justifiable if you twist it in just the right way. But, you ask, could this really be considered a strength? In Wesley's case, it most certainly is. After all, he’d be a very sick puppy if he actually knew how many bad things he’d done. He tries to be a decent and rational human being, and when something can be warranted, it can’t be all bad, can it?
[+] Positivity.
Wesley's quite the optimist. He sees the best in just about every situation, and his smile is a permanent feature. No, really – you'll hardly ever catch him without it on. Contrary to the typical "optimist" attitude, though, he doesn't always notice the most wonderful things in other people. He'll be more likely to point out the tiny zit on your forehead before he'd take note of your new hairdo. But, if you tell him your cat was just hit by a car, he'll give you some silly explanation for why it was a good thing – after all, now you can get a kitten instead. Everyone loves kittens.
[+] Independence.
There’s no doubt Wesley Gayle is one autonomous being. He feeds himself, provides for himself, and conducts various murders on his own accord. Sure, at times he wonders if it might be nice to have someone constant to talk to (other than himself, that is), but he's come to enjoy freedom so much he can't image regaining the role of a follower, and he’s come to find that ‘following’ is most often what friendship entails. That, and trust, which simply won't do. He wasn't always this way - no, not in the slightest. But sometimes life calls for a little bit of change, and besides, Wesley finds it's a bit easier to get along when you don't depend on someone else.
[+] Ability to talk to children.
Though it seems a bit uncanny, Wesley has an immensely abnormal gift for associating with children, especially those under the age of seven - when imaginations are still running rampant. He’s often described as having a more child-like mind himself, though, of course, any grown man who enjoys talking to children is often looked down upon with his intentions placed in question (what with the stereotypes running rampant in society), so he seldom gains such an opportunity to relate with someone more like himself. Not that he can’t associate with adults; they’re just not quite as inquisitive or accepting of abnormalities in behavior.
[+] Flaunting a rather ‘average’ air.
Wesley is anything but average. His actions aren’t average, his fears aren’t average, his habits aren’t average, and his mind is certainly not average. But, he can thoroughly act the part of John Doe. Well, an introverted, socially awkward John Doe, that is. Though his quirks and eccentricities do occasionally reappear (after all, even numbers simply will not be tolerated), for the most part, he is able to keep them all to himself. Seeing him on the street, you would never guess some of the things he’s done (that is, if you see him in the daytime, of course).
[+] Luck.
Wesley's lucky – plain and simple. He's never done anything deserving such a gift, and he probably never will, but that's life for you. Perhaps he just got lucky in getting lucky. Go figure.
[+] Sobriety.
He could have one drink or eleven, and it would hardly make a difference. Having an incredibly high alcohol tolerance level, probably since he was practically raised on the damn stuff, it hardly ever has immediate effects on his mind and thought processes. However, he certainly isn’t immune to those god-awful hangovers that plague him so many mornings after.
[+] Ambidextrous.
Yes, Wesley can write with both his right and left hands. Talk about talent, eh? Too bad he's simply atrocious at spelling.
»WEAKNESSES•
[-] Psychological Disorder.
Wesley is truly, fully, and completely mad, both in the figurative since, and the literal. As you may have assumed, our little friend had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), and rather horridly, might I add, when it comes to numbers. He counts things. No, scratch that. He counts everything. How many steps he took to get up the staircase? Check. How many times he read the street sign before crossing? Check. How long it took the police to find victim thirty-four? Check. If it can be counted, Wesley will count it. Does this obsession stem from childhood? Not entirely. Yes, in a way, considering counting really was the only thing he was good at during schooling, but at the same time, the fixation really didn’t begin until after the day he fell on his head, and has only seemed to progress in severity over time. In fact, many of his mental disorders didn’t start until his teens, including his paranoia and schizophrenia. OCD is often considered simply a side-effect of the grander mental illness he's acquired - a suggestion which is quite plausible, considering it didn't begin noticeably until after his paranoia. Though the delusions and hallucinations have never really plagued him, his inconsistency in thinking, inability to stay focused, fast and oddly elaborate speech, social awkwardness in crowds, fixation with murder and control, and lack of sympathy or guilt are some of the most definite signs that something is, indeed, wrong. Then again, his odd behaviors may not be attributed to a mental disorder at all - it’s just as plausible (if not more so) to say his addiction to alcohol has a bit to do with it.
[-] Being associated with the things he hates.
He really just can’t seem to stay away from all that he loathes. Even numbers cling to him. Pre-planning constantly squeezes its way into his thoughts. Complexity consistently takes hold of conversations. At times he even finds himself organizing his wristwatches. He usually forces himself to justify these horrid actions in one way or another so that he doesn’t stay mad at himself for too long, but I’m sure by now you know just how hard it is for Wesley to be anything but mad.
[-] Addiction.
Though, not just towards drugs or naturally addictive substances, as you may have originally assumed. No, in fact, Wesley can find himself addicted to most anything if it appeals to him in some sufficient way, and he often has. He’s addicted to laughter, to solitude, to conversing with the seemingly ever-sober thoughts in his head, to taking lives, to a love of mind games, and even to the habit of pacing. Not one of these odd fads could he live without (or, at least, so he believes), and therefore it seems just to say he is quite fervently addicted to them.
[-] Impertinence.
Wesley has a tendency to interrupt someone else's speaking. And make personal remarks. And order others around. Not to mention his obsession with controlling the conversation. All in all, Wesley can be quite the rude fellow. Which isn't to say he isn't charming in his own way, what with his lack of seriousness and obvious social uneasiness, but he certainly didn't learn proper social etiquette as a child.
[-] Inability to stay focused.
Please, for your own mental stability, don't try talking to him about one subject for more than five minutes. It won't happen. He gets off-topic easily - much, much too easily - and is distracted by even the slightest thing. His mind is scattered, and his thoughts constantly dart every which-way during conversation. Don't mention your hair if you're trying to talk about the weather - he'll go off on a tangent, and I doubt you'll be able to stop him. Not that his seemingly irrelevant points don't have a meaning - in fact, the majority of them are actually very insightful - but they won't necessarily be what you'd come to hear.
[-] Long-winded.
God, can Wesley talk. Though, I'm sure you'll soon realize this for yourself, what with his "little" story and all. However, place him in a crowd and you'll be lucky to get him to introduce himself. He's much more sociable one-on-one – perhaps because he knows he always has the "upper hand" if the conversation goes where he doesn't want it to.
[-] Improper use of emotions.
Wesley feels the same emotions every other human does - joy, sorrow, anger, etc - just not during the same circumstances. See, something happened that day he fell on his head - something was rewired, or jolted - and ever since, he doesn't seem to react to situations in quite the same way everyone else does. He laughs when people die, for one. And he doesn't feel guilt. He likes to make people laugh, but at the same time, it makes him angry if anyone is happy and he didn't have something to do with it.
[-] Egocentric.
Wesley does what Wesley wants done. Granted, most of the time he feels he's doing it for the good of others, however, in the end, his actions are all rooted at pleasing himself. Then again, whose aren't?
»LOVES•
[x] Odd numbers.
Wesley sees odd numbers as his good luck charms. Not that he's one to need more good luck, but he sure isn't one to refuse it, either. Besides, when faced with a numerical decision, even numbers are the only other options anyway, and those are severely off-limits. He might not go out of his way for bursts of good luck, but he certainly won't go begging for bouts of misfortune.
[x] Explosions.
They're exceptional, exhilarating, and often unexpected. Unless, of course, you plan them, as if often the case with Wesley and his minor highs. Still, whether it be causing flat tires or witnessing the burst of fireworks, explosions help to satiate his desire for destruction, at least for a little while.
[x] The inexplicable.
Wesley really doesn't know much about the world. As a result, he tends to favor things that don’t have an explanation. More information to learn just means a greater possibility of him looking like an idiot, which isn't really what he ever sets out to accomplish.
[x] Mind manipulation games.
Because making others feel inferior is an enormous ego-boost. Whenever Wesley gets the opportunity to purposefully confuse another human being, he indulges himself fully. Oftentimes, he never reveals the answer to his riddles. Probably because he doesn't really know the solutions himself.
[x] Celebrations of any sort.
Parties never really were a big part of his childhood. Then again, parties never really played a big role in any part of his life, seeing as he's not really invited to any, and, besides, more often than not, they consist of highly unruly crowds in very, very tight quarters. But he likes the idea of them, anyway. A group of people all partaking in the same happiness has a rather appealing quality.
[x] Sarcasm and twisting words.
He doesn't really know how to do much else in conversation. He manipulates the human language just by thinking, so when someone actually gives him her words to talk about, his speech distortion reaches a whole new level of confusing. My suggestion? Just don’t talk to him.
[x] Nicotine.
He's smoked since he was eight, so there's really no stopping him now. Besides, it gives him something to pass the time when the sun's up and liquor's still idling in the base of his stomach.
[x] Alcohol.
One of his most severe addictions, and certainly the most detrimental to his health. His continual abusage of alcohol has caused him to do a lot of things he may have avoided if he'd been just a tad more sober; eating less often, sleeping by trash bins, and getting into scuffles with the wrongs types of people, just to name a few. Oh, you thought I was going to say murder? Well, no, I'm pretty sure he would have done that anyway, clear-headed or not.
[x] Clocks, watches …
Anything to do with time, really. Or counting. Wesley loves counting, and clocks really seem to be the only things that love it quite as much as he does. For that reason, he often considers his family of assorted metals and cogs to be his closest friends.
[x] Children’s stories and nursery rhymes.
Quite possibly the only topics that can hold his attention for more than a few minutes at a time; however, it's difficult to say exactly what it is about these fables that enraptures him so. Some might assume that the fairy tale endings provide him with a hope he was never offered as a child. Others may believe that the simplistic storylines and clearly defined protagonists and antagonists finally give him something he can actually follow without much trouble. In reality, he just likes them because they're the only stories anyone ever bothers to tell him.
[x] Surprises.
Who doesn't like them? Just because Wesley likes being in control doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy a little spontaneity every once in a while, as long as it's a good thing, of course: stumbling upon discarded wristwatches is like getting a pat on the back from God, but stumbling upon a muddy puddle is like, well, getting mud in your shoes.
[x] Tea, coffee, and water.
Though a bottle of Jack Daniels is his beverage of choice, Wesley often settles for a water fountain swig when hung-over, and cold coffee or tea when he's feeling a little short on funds. Neither are quite the same as a bourbon, but they do add a new flavor to the palette every now and again.
[x] Murder.
In all honesty, he’s rather obsessed with it. Nothing provides Wesley with a greater high than watching blood spurt from a man's severed veins after the blighter's chest has absorbed a bullet wound. Sometimes he giggles. Sometimes he sings. He's never really lucid enough in the moment to control what he's doing. The entire scene is so beautifully overwhelming, his demeanor often changes so much that he begins talking to the corpse like an intimate friend. And then there's the watch to confiscate, the time to set, the wrists to number …
[x] Power.
Wesley is a control freak. He likes to decide what happens when – he likes to play God. But what human doesn't? The only difference concerning Wesley is that he actually succeeds in his self-centered endeavors. A lot. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, to whoever he wants, and enjoys every minute of it. Inconsiderate? Bossy? Sure. What's new?
[x] Running from things / Being chased after.
Eh, this is a tricky one. Yes, he enjoys the rush of the chase: the possibility of someone following him, watching him, and focusing all of his time and energy in trying to capture him. The thrill of being sought after is undeniably exhilarating. But the thought of actually being caught? Well, that's a bit different. Troublesome, really. He'd much rather live in the comfortable moment of the hunt rather than dwell fretfully on the feasible outcomes.
[x] Cleanliness.
He doesn't always have a roof over his head or food in his stomach, but I'll be damned if he doesn't have a new bottle of hand sanitizer in his pocket at least twice a week. Though absolute spotlessness, for Wesley, is quite unattainable (seeing as he spends most days surrounded by the public and most nights surrounded by their trash bins), he does the best he can to keep his hygiene up-to-par with his own standards. He may seem to live quite the messy life, but in all honesty, filth scares the shit out of him. Good thing he's not always aware of what's disease-infested, and what isn't. He seems to fear touching other people more than he does sleeping by alley dumpsters.
[x] Ambulance sirens.
Sirens are panic personified. Where there's a siren, there's trouble, and where there's trouble, there's Wesley. Hearing the prospect of someone else's misfortune gives him almost as much excitement as polishing a new watch. Almost.
[x] Attempting to understand children.
Their clarity of mind has always fascinated him. It's almost as if nothing you say can phase a child – they hold an opinion on everything, whether it makes good sense to the average adult or not. Wesley often finds himself envying their ability to speak their mind without being scorned, and desperately wishes to uncover what it is about who they are that makes saying such abstract nonsense acceptable to those around them. Unfortunately, he fails to realize that the only reason they don't make sense in the first place is because they're trying to communicate ideas with a very limited vocabulary. Also, they're five.
[x] Mathematics.
Wesley holds an inextinguishable respect for arithmetic, and envies numbers relentlessly. After all, they can be used to explain, control, and manipulate just about every known aspect of life - a feat he can only dream of being able to accomplish. The presence of such all-powerful forces of nature is one of the only things he feels inferior towards. After all, the concepts of 'addition' and 'subtraction' still often elude him.
[x] Personal stories.
Wesley loves stories. No, really. He loves them. He has a strange fascination with people's lives. Some might call it being nosy, but he considers it being friendly. Personal stories are his favorite, though that's only because usually they excite the teller to enforce some sort of emotion, and then become more vulnerable as a result. He likes feeling empowered, even in indirect ways. Control is fun.
[x] Simplicity.
If it's not simple, he doesn't get it. He'll pretend he does, sure, and more often than not respond with either an insult to your intelligence or an increasingly jumbled and complicated idea, but he never does fully understand anything but the most basically mundane. But who doesn't dislike complexity? There’s something quite beautiful in nothing at all.
[x] The thought of a dead language.
Because the idea that a rule could be dead excites him more than it should. Who killed it? When? Why? How? And, ultimately, could that omnipotent being have used the same tactics to kill humans as well? After all, Wesley needs all the ideas he can get his hands on – you never know when guns are going to run out of fashion.
[x] Dictionaries.
Though he can't honestly read them, Wesley holds an endless fascination for dictionaries. A single book containing the words that define a society's communication systems is quite invaluable. Just what would happen if all the dictionaries in the world were destroyed? Hey, maybe that's how Latin died.
[x] Cake.
Vanilla, preferably.
»HATES•
[x] Even numbers.
Please, don’t get him started. In fact, it’s better to just ignore these awful things in conversation entirely, or, at least, as much as possible. Though he’ll probably never tell anyone else this, it seems that every terrible thing that’s ever happened to him has occurred on an even-numbered day, at an even-numbered hour. At times, he could even swear that he’d seen an even number prior to the terrible event’s occurrence, though each is all entirely in his head. But, as a result of this paranoia, he has a terrible, horrible fear of such days, and makes a point not to do anything risky at these times. He even goes so far as to keep his broken watches set on the same odd-numbered time and date.
[x] Elevators.
Something about being in a closed-in box raised high above the ground has never been able to make him smile. After all, he's claustrophobic.
[x] Soda/Pop/Cola.
Whatever it’s called nowadays. He never had it as a child, and never plans to have it. Society’s addiction to such strange, naturally non-addictive drinks is disturbing.
[x] Pre-planning.
Though I mentioned this before, I feel a pressing need to bring it up again. There’s really no habit he hates more than pre-planning or over-planning. Actually, any planning at all, to him, is irksome. After all, he survived a good twenty-eight years without ‘planning’ to get in the way. He was raised on surprises. He was constantly bombarded with surprises. Sure, there were many unfortunate instances in his life which could have been avoided with a bit of pre-thinking, but now that you mention it, why dwell on the past when there is oh-so-much to be done in the future? Not that he’s planning any of it, of course.
[x] Filth.
Dirt, muck, grime – it’s all unnecessary in his opinion. People who can’t keep themselves and their surroundings clean obviously can’t do much of anything. In fact, he always keeps a pair of gloves and travel hand sanitizer handy in his pants pockets. A bit of a germ-o-phobe? Maybe. After all, hadn’t he heard that mad cow disease was running rampant lately? He certainly wouldn’t want to become mad.
[x] Orderliness.
Things can be clean, but they don’t have to be organized. Organization is akin to pre-planning – simply a giant waste of time, and let’s be serious here: time isn’t something any of us have much of.
[x] Books he can’t understand.
The Scarlet Letter? Nope. The Prince? Never. Analects? Not on his life. It isn’t that he doesn’t appreciate them and their over-descriptive and wordy explanations, but he honestly and literally just can’t read them. As a result, he has no legitimate reason to like them.
[x] Complexity.
What’s the point? It causes stress, confusion, anxiety, and he really can’t think of one good thing that comes out of it. Some of the most amazing things in life are the most simple.
[x] Police.
He supposes it comes with the job description. After all, if you’re a thief, a squatter, and a rather rampant murderer, aren’t you supposed to hate the guys that want to lock you up? Though, he’d have to admit his lifestyle wouldn’t be nearly as exciting without the gang of black-clad felon-hunters meandering about. Not that they really know about him, specifically, anyway. Not yet.
[x] People without a sense of humor.
Most of what Wesley says on a normal, day-to-day basis is either sarcastic or joking. He recites seemingly senseless logic. He plays mind games. He twists words. He wants to make people laugh. No, scratch that. He’s dying to make people laugh. He experiences more than enough solemnity each night when he finally lays down with only his relatively morbid thoughts to keep him company.
»SECRET(S)• although Scotland Yard back home in England has their ideas about how many people he has killed, only he knows the real number of victims he has taken (both human and wristwatch alike).
»QUIRKS/HABITS•
[:] Nicotine
[:] Alcohol
[:] Murder
[:] Chasing sirens
[:] Cleaning his watches
[:] Biting his nails/lower lip
[:] Twitching his fingers when thinking
»PERSONALITY•
To put it simply, Wesley is a confused and psychotic wolf in sheep's clothing – I mean, in hare's clothing, of course. He's not one to flaunt his occupation to the masses in daylight, though he'd be more than happy to introduce himself one-on-one after dark. He can mask his murderous side fairly well – he's got a bit of a routine, though he doesn't like to admit it - because he's really only looking for bloody thrills at night. When the sun's up, he prefers the rush of viewing car wrecks (that don't involve himself, of course), suicide jumps, bank robberies, and anything else that's guaranteed a siren following. He's rather "addicted" to the sound of sirens, if I do say so myself. They often put him in a fit of laughter, which always gains him some odd looks and filthy scowls from those who don't see the funny in life the same way he does. However, even though he attempts normality in order to stay "under the radar", he hardly, if ever, achieves it.
Wesley is claustrophobic, which makes for a rather interesting situation whenever he's the first one at a wreck, and a rather large crowd seems to gather thereafter before he realizes it, because he'll often go from giggling under his breath to turning around, realizing what's happening, and panicking uncontrollably, resorting to muttering incoherencies in an effort to calm himself down. He has an odd belief that it is, in fact, possible for people to use up all the air, and is terrified of ever being in the same place with too many people at once, and not being left any oxygen. He also doesn't like the feeling of being pressed against multiple sweaty bodies – he has fainted before because of it. Though, it may also have been because of the heat, or because he thought he'd run out of air. It's hard to tell.
Contrary to his seemingly "dark" demeanor in his little monologue below, Wesley's actually quite the funny fellow. He jokes about life, about people, about clichés, and just about anything else you can image – everything, that is, but his history, which is no laughing matter. He takes anyone making any remark about it very personally, and even a slight interruption can send him haywire. All that aside, however, you'll almost never catch Wesley without a big smile plastered on his face. Granted, half the time he'll be laughing at you.
Wesley is never guilty. Ever. Don't try to tell him otherwise. Ever since he started feeling like everyone was holding him accountable for his father's death, he's been passing guilt like there's no tomorrow. Those innocent victims he's murdered? Yeah, well, they were in an alley after dark – they were clearly up to no good, anyhow. The result of your pesky questions? Should've kept your mouth shut. The mud that just splashed all over his shoes because he stepped in a puddle? God did it.
Wesley has an odd obsession with manners, although what he considers to be "good" and "bad," doesn't usually follow normal standards, and fluctuates often. Because he really doesn't know the difference between right and wrong, he usually just makes one up according to the circumstances - if he doesn't like what you just did, it was rude. Not laughing at one of his jokes? Rude. Laughing when he didn't cause it? Rude. Waiting in front of him in a line, even if you were there first? Rude. It's best to try and keep him happy if you'd like to avoid a rather extensive reprimanding. Funny thing is, if he were ever to meet himself, he's quite the rude fellow according to his own definition.
Life is simple, and that's just the way Wesley likes it. He has a problem following complicated trails of thought – though he often produces them, it's always unintentional, and he hates it when other people do the same. He likes things short and sweet – or, not so sweet. But short, anyway.
Confusion will not escape a conversation with Wesley. He's intuitive, insightful, and downright intelligent, but he has the most horrible time making himself clear. He won't admit it, though. Rather, he'll simply leave you wondering if what he said was complete nonsense, or simply far too advanced for you to comprehend. For future reference, usually it's the former.
Wesley's quite the germ-a-phobe. Hand sanitizer, a good pair of gloves, and a couple of pocket tissues are his best friends. He was a more obsessive about it for a while after he began the murders – using Kleenex to turn doorknobs, never shaking people's hands, washing his own every hour or so – but he began to settle down after he became more accustomed to his newfound lifestyle. Even so, his fear of germs hasn't completely evaded his thoughts - after "borrowing" a watch from a body, he has a process of sanitation that he puts it through, which consists of washing it down with hand sanitizer (a step that often results in the watch later rusting or breaking), and allowing it to dry on its own to let the impurities "disintegrate." Just because he likes seeing blood doesn't mean he likes it touching it.
Wesley is easily bored, and has a tendency to change the subject. Often. He can't keep a single trail of thought going for more than a few minutes, unless, of course, it's one that works up his emotions or that he's thought about and considered habitually. But, that doesn't happen much. He's usually pretty mellow, so his mind's usually pretty scattered. Pacing helps, though. A constant sound can usually assist his mind in staying consistent, too. Plus, he's less prone to notice outside distraction when he's focused on pacing.
Numbers are perhaps Wesley's biggest obsession. With eight watches on his left arm, and god-knows-how-many in his briefcase, you'll never catch Wesley without something on his person counting. However, more likely than not, he'll be doing the same – counting, that is – though never really out loud. He tends to keep it to himself mostly, though numbers often influence his decisions. He'll choose number 5 at the coffee shop over number 6 any day.
Wesley can do for himself. He thinks he knows it all, and isn't afraid to let it show. Some may label it "cocky" or "arrogant" when one constantly disregards the opinions and beliefs of others, but when you never consider anyone else's opinion anyway, it's never anything personal. After all, you'll hardly, if ever, catch him asking you a question – rather, he'll more often than not be caught telling you something that would incite the question. Though he often finds himself confused, he never attributes this to the fact that he doesn't ask for clarification on things – rather, he just blames the speaker for being confusing.
It's hard to describe Wesley without using the words "delirious," "abnormal," "psychotic," or "confused." In fact, it's impossible. He really is truly insane, and there's no other explanation for his behavior. He's rude, arrogant, intrusive, clueless, socially awkward, and altogether strange. He tends to avoid conversations including more than five people (five being uncomfortable enough) for fear of becoming overpowered in opinion, and he laughs at strange intervals and inappropriate times. He thinks of himself as more important than others, resulting in his frequent interruptions, and sometimes complete detachment from whatever the other person is saying. He forgets things like crazy – he may ask you a question one moment, receive an answer, and then ask again only a few moments later. Sometimes he'll forget your answer and forget to ask again. It's hard to keep a straight face when he's around (unless, of course, he's currently laughing at you, reprimanding you for doing something that's really not worth being yelled at for, or getting on your last nerve), for it's usually more of an expression of confusion. However, even despite all his abnormalities, Wesley is still a person. He gets disappointed, discouraged, uplifted, angry, hopeful, hopeless, optimistic, and pessimistic – just not at the same time as "normal" people.
I TOOK THE CHEMICALS
we used to make our chemistry
we used to make our chemistry
»MOTHER•
[x] Millie Noelle Mason – Wesley's loving, erratic, harebrained, schizophrenic mother. She’s charming, pretty, and gets most anything she wants with a simple battering of the eyelashes. Not to say that she couldn’t provide for herself, but what’s the point when someone else will do it for you? Besides, she has more important things to do than worry about life’s necessities – as far as her children know, she has high aspirations to become a opera star, after all. That’s not to say she doesn’t take time to love and look after her children – no, not in the slightest. But, she never did take a class on mothering, so the entire concept eludes her. After all, from what she’s experienced, it’s pretty damn easy. They need food, water, shelter, and appreciation. Whoever said parenting was a difficult job was clearly out of their mind.
»FATHER•
[x] Henry Drew Gayle – The ‘leader of the pack,’ so to speak, and Wesley's childhood role model. Though he seemed to play favorites quite often (and not usually in Wesley's favor), to his son, he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Being a ‘secret’ member of the MI5, MI6, and ESA, what was there to dislike about him? Even if the titles really were all just lies fed to the children in an attempt to disguise the fact that the family was constantly on the run from debt-collectors, the man had to be somewhat cunning, crafty, and inspirational to make such ideas believable. Right?
»SIBLINGS•
[x] Lisa Carter Gale - 28 – Ah, Lisa, the bane of the Gale family – at least in Wesley's eyes. Not that he didn’t love his older sister – of course, since they grew up with relatively nothing, they fought even less than typical siblings (after all, what was there to fight over?) – but he’ll never get over her egotistical attitude, unappreciative nature, and frequent, thoughtless actions. Though clearly the most intelligent member of the family book-wise, she had no sense of street smarts whatsoever. Not that it mattered. She was pretty, like her mother, and once she found a man to sweep her off her feet and promise her a fairy-tale ending, she never looked back.
[x] Louis Charles Gayle - Deceased - The little brother he never remembers having. Apparently, at one point, Wesley had taught him how to spit further than their father - something to be very proud of, mind you - but Wesley doesn't remember a speck of it. He assumes he died of an illness - pneumonia or leukemia or something of the sort - since no one ever recalled the event being traumatic, but neither parent would ever really talk about it. As a result, as far as Wesley's concerned, the child never actually existed.
[x] Alex Michael Gayle - 22 - Wesley's older brother, and the only sibling he doesn't often forget about. Sure, he was teased by him on a constant basis, but he didn't mind the attention. Plus, he was pretty much the only rational person in the family, and the only one with a possibility to have actually made something of himself.
»BITTERSWEET HISTORY•
You want to know where I came from? Good lord, what a ridiculous question. After all, where one comes from isn’t really the most valuable piece of information, for it’s more-or-less where they’re headed, isn’t it? What’s done is done, and can’t be undone, so trying to change the past now would be nearly as useless as attempting to justify the use of elevators. Impractically pointless, in all honesty, though it’s not hard for me to tell by that vaguely annoyed look on your face that this certainly isn’t what you’d come all this way to hear. You really should do something about that expression, though – it’s not very becoming on you. I beg your pardon? Impolite! No, no, my friend, for that was honesty, and honesty always has table manners. Do you not have friends? Besides, I’m feeling a bit open tonight, so feel free to sit back, relax, and calm yourself down, because believe it or not, you may have just gotten lucky.
Do you like stories? I’m rather fond of stories, to be honest. I was told quite a few tales as a child, many I believed very fervently to be true until becoming insightful and independent enough to decide otherwise. Not that I ever really regretted being lied to – after all, life wouldn’t have seemed nearly as exciting if I’d known the reality behind my existence. Running from police isn’t as thrilling as working for the MI5, of course. Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Terribly sorry, I’m sure – I fear I’m not incredibly apt to staying on-topic for long. Mad as a march hare – that’s what my father used to call me, though, for different reason. After all, there’s so much to talk about – so much to discuss, and – and I’m doing it once again, aren’t I? Please, feel free to pinch me if you do feel so inclined, sometimes I can get awfully caught up in conversing with myself, and, now that I think about it, I do fear I’ve suddenly forgotten your original inquiry entirely. Oh, what’s that you say? Ah, yes, apologies, once more, for of course you wanted to know where I’m from – a topic that, in fact, has just given me a most marvelous idea. After all, you do like stories, right? I sure hope you do, because I’m going to tell you a story – a true story – right now, that’ll answer all further questions in one shot, for I’m sure there’ll certainly be more to come. Got it? Good. I rather like you – you should be more careful with whom you appeal to.
My parents, you see, either loved children or unprotected sex, though I can’t help but lean towards the latter as the most plausible explanation for why there were four of us made to open our eyes to a rather poverty-stricken family with no real source of income to speak of – a family that began, typically enough, on the floor in the storeroom of the Alco-Hole, so I'm told. But no matter. What’s done is done and can’t be undone, as I always say, though – oh, what’s that? I’ve already said that? Good god, I can’t thank you enough for bringing such a pressing matter to my attention – the last thing I’d want is to become repetitive. Or boring. I don’t consider myself boring, but, then again, who considers themselves to be anything but positive b– ah, yes. Right.
Well, I do suppose they – my parents, of course – were caught up in some form of love, no matter how odd, for neither ever seemed to venture far from the relationship, and at no point in time do I recall either one expressing any desire to end it. Not that I remember much about my childhood, now that I think about it, but certainly something as important as that I would be able to recollect. Or, at least, so I figure. You’d also think I’d remember what became of my younger brother, but, well, I obviously don’t. Funny thing, the memory. Seems to forget the things we want to remember most, and remember the things we’d rather forget. Not to mention how the mind never ceases to drag our attention to separate topics than the ones we would really like to address, as I can tell mine is doing again, right at this moment. Terrible, horrible habit I have there – I’m trying to make it stop, really, but, as you can see, I have a bit more work to do. Always work to be done, though it’s most often best to let it finish itself.
I suppose you’d like me to continue? Yes? Good. I’m fond of company, don’t get me wrong, I’m just not used to it. Seems I come off as intimidating to some, and quite rude to others, though I honestly have no idea why. I don’t consider constructive comments particularly uncouth, but then again, in all honesty, nothing is ill-mannered unless spoken with an ill-mannered tone. Good, bad, right, wrong - it’s really all the same, since each is so very temperamental.
No, no, you’re right, I’m wandering once more. Do you mind if I stand while I talk? I’m often able to think clearer while pacing, if you don’t mind the sound of footsteps. Since the mind and the body are synonymous in more ways than one, I figure working physically assists the brain in working mentally. Oh, so you don’t mind? Good, good. You know, you’re really becoming too friendly for your own good. If you would only get that hair cut, and fix those horrid eyebrows, I believe you’d be quite impressive.
So there were four of us, as I’ve said, at one point or another, and if you took the first initials of each of our names, and organized them in just the right fashion, you would spell WALL. Sometimes I wonder if this was Mother’s intention from the start, but to be blunt, I don’t think she had the mental capacity or will to think that far in advance. Besides, I’m not sure why she’d refer to us as a wall anyway. But, it doesn’t matter now, and after all, I've been told no one ever really noticed.
I was the third child – middle, I suppose you could say, though in order for that to be possible, I would have had to been number two-and-a-half or something equally absurd, which honestly makes no sense at all. But, that’s beside the point. As far as I'm concerned, I was the youngest. Never knew my younger brother - Louis, I think his name was, or Lucas. In fact, now that you mention it, I don't really remember anything that happened before I woke up on a Clorox-scented booth staring at multi-colored gum smashed to the underside of a table. I was six, I think, when Dad said I fell out of a tree and hit my head, but I don't remember a lick of it. They were eating sundaes - my family, I mean - when I sat up in my seat. My head was throbbing - I remember that, too. Had headaches ever since, really. But, again, that's beside the point. Dad said he'd teach me how to climb trees like a man when we reached our next house, assuming there'd be trees around, and I never bothered asking if they'd gotten me a sundae. After all, what did I care? – my Dad was going to teach me to climb trees.
We left the restaurant without paying, (as usual, as I'd come to find out), and I can't remember if Dad ever kept his promise. Not that it matters now. He probably did. He was usually pretty good about those type things.
We traveled a lot after that - we may have before, too, but I can't remember it. I fell on my head when I was six, and - beg your pardon? Oh, I didn't realize. Terribly sorry, horrible memory I have here. Well, we never stayed at one place more than a few months - Dad told us the government made us relocate because he was a secret agent, and we'd all be in danger if someone found out where we lived. And, to be honest, part of that was true. The government was making us move - or, was at least in the motives. See, we weren't the wealthiest of people, so what we had, we hoarded. Debt was how the rich stayed rich, and the poor stayed poor - that's what Dad said. So we didn't indulge debt collectors. Rather, we left them very much alone.
Schooling was basic: Mum taught English, and Dad taught math and science. Mum's classes were a bit hectic - I still wonder if she really knew what she was talking about - but Dad's were by far the most thrilling. They consisted mostly of hands-on experiences - I was dissecting frogs by the age of six - with the lessons being reinforced every moment he could grab our attention, which, to be honest, was anytime he felt so compelled. Gave me an objective one day to count how many times my heart had beaten by the time he'd come home from work and done whatever it was that he did for a living. I thought he was a magician of some sort for a long time, since he played with cards at home a lot, but I didn't really know. Doesn't matter. My heart beat 68,922 times before I lost count. I remember that. I was upset and angry, because I didn't really have the right answer when he came home, and I didn't want to disappoint him. But, it didn't matter. He'd forgotten he'd asked me to count it, anyway.
It beat 75,359 times the next day - I got it right that time. I never told him, though. I didn't want him to think I'd ever gotten it wrong.
I practiced the lessons we learned in science a lot more so than the others - like the dissections. It was fun, you know, to see what made something work. Lisa told me I should feel bad for killing frogs and lizards, but I still don't know why. After all, it wasn't like they did anything worthwhile, and by opening them up, I was learning, which was much more productive than nothing. Sometimes I even opened them alive, because if you looked in just the right spot, you could still see the heart beating, and I always wondered if a human heart looked the same way when it worked. And when it stopped.
I still want to know that.
Dad said I was the best in the class during those experiments, and I was proud of that, even if his only other students were my siblings. I never really understood reading, or spelling, or mathematics - Mum told me I was the smartest, even at six, until I fell out of that goddamned tree. After that, nothing seemed to stick. I didn't care much, though. I remembered the things I'd learned before the incident - I could talk very well, thanks to dad's extensive vocabulary, and I could count, too - which has been more than enough to get by.
Friends? No, I didn't have very many friends. Family, really, was all. See, because we didn't go to school, the only children I had contact with were neighbors. And we moved so frequently that it really was rather pointless to become attached to anyone that wasn't moving with us. Lonely? I suppose a bit, sometimes. But I enjoyed it for the most part. I felt independent then, and I liked it. So much of my life was controlled, I liked planning my own day - even if it did only consist of counting heartbeats and killing frogs. But, you see, now you've been the one to get me off-topic. You should keep your mouth shut.
Mind if I continue? No? Marvelous.
When I was seven, Mum took Lisa and I to the local mall to buy new shoes - our old ones had been mauled by the neighbor's dogs the week before, and after a dozen or so splinter-ectomies and even more scratches and scrapes, Dad finally agreed to a ten dollar limit. I remember there was a fountain there in the middle of the mall that was surrounded by half a dozen little children tossing coins into the water, and that night, I told Alex about all of it. Within an hour's time after Dad left for 'work', we were sneaking through a back entrance to the building. There was a security guard there, but only one, and "Besides," Alex said, "it isn't really stealing. After all, the people gave them away in the first place." So, when the Old Bill would round the corner, we'd sneak towards the fountain and begin collecting the slippery pence, stuffing them in our pockets and into the little Ziploc we'd found in one of the dumpsters outside. We left with over fifteen pounds in coins, which we used to buy model cars and firecrackers. They were fun to build - but even more fun to blow up.
We stole the coins from the fountains in each town we went to at least once or twice until we reached Stretton, Derbyshire. It was fun, really, to break the law a bit - even though Alex told me it was legal, I didn't believe him. If it were legal, we wouldn't need to keep it a secret - I knew that even at seven. But, we did have a reason, after all - we weren't really stealing from anyone in particular. It was as if we were picking them up off the ground, really. And, besides, Dad always said that if there was a good, logical explanation for a certain action, the action in question is easily justified. But we didn't tell Dad. He would have wanted some of the money, too.
We left Mum at the house in Stretton when I was ten. We'd overstayed our welcome at the two-story home, and as we closed the trunk lid and began to pile in the car, Mum pulled her suitcase from underneath the stairs and said she was going to perform at the Royal Opera in London. Dad knew already, I guess, because he didn't try to stop her, though, in all honesty, it wouldn't have mattered if he did - Mum was a stubborn thing, and once her mind was made up, that was the end of it. I don't remember if I cried, but I know Lisa did. Mum said she'd give us a call when she made it big, and we could all come live with her in a fancy apartment overlooking the whole city. We liked that idea, and for a moment, we'd all forgotten that we didn't have a phone, and she couldn't sing worth shit. So we let her go. She was smiling her silly, naive, optimistic smile, her eyes sparkled, and her hand was waving back and forth like a flag as we pulled out of the driveway. That's the last image I have of my mother.
I'm sorry, what was that? Ah, yes, well, it would seem that way, now wouldn't it? Funny you should ask such a thing - I often wondered myself whether or not she was simply trying to escape her motherly role by running away with such a ridiculous idea. But, you see, none of us really had any knowledge of fine arts - including Mum. I've tried to rationalize her decision since she left - tried to make her out to be a bit more intelligent and crafty than she actually was - but in all honesty, I really believe she was headed for London. See, Mum wasn't the brightest thing - she could cook, thank god, and she could read, but that was near the extent of her abilities. She was a dreamer. She thought she had a chance. So did we. We didn't know how hard it was - how far away it was. And Dad - well, I think Dad probably tried to stop her when she first mentioned the idea. He loved her. But - what is that saying now - when you love something, let it go? Something like that. I'm not sure. But that's what he did, anyway - he wanted her to be happy. He didn't know how to take care of children; god, did he ever need help. But that's beside the point. Did I answer your question? I can't remember what it was now, but - oh, I did? Wonderful, wonderful. I'll continue then, yes? Good.
Lisa tried to take over Mum's role. She couldn't cook, but she could clean things and read like Mum, and so she spent most of her time keeping the houses relatively sanitary, and trying to teach me how to spell. It was just as well, anyway - we didn't have food to cook with most of the time, now that Mum wasn't around to bring home paychecks from odd-jobs. Monday was the day Lisa would take me to the general store, or the nearby gas station to gather meals with the money Dad brought home from work. Problem was, the food never really lasted very long - Lisa usually fed most of the bread to the cats outside our doors, but we weren't supposed to ever tell Dad. He didn't really like animals like Mum had.
It was only weeks after we left Stretton that Alex - my older brother, that is - started packing his bags. I asked him if he was going to find Mum, and he said she was stupid and probably dead now, and no, he had decided he wanted to join "the army or Navy or something more realistic like that." He asked me if I wanted to go with him, but I told him I didn't want to leave Dad alone. "He lived a long time without you, you know. 'Sides, Dad's just a drunk, Wes. You know that, right? He can't take care of a family without Mom. He could kill you, and not even know." I think I pushed him after that, but again, I can't really remember. I hope I did. I hope I pushed him right into a brick wall and made his nose bleed, his arm break, and his jaw dislocate. But I don't remember. I probably didn't. He left anyway, and I haven't seen him since (except for maybe, once, but I didn't say anything). Sometimes I'm glad about that, and sometimes, I just wonder if he was right.
I cut my throat that summer on one of Dad's razors. He put some peroxide on the cut and made me hold a washrag to my throat to stop the bleeding. "Don't touch my damn things, you fucking hear me?" I was crying then, I think. I still can't remember if it was because my throat hurt, or because I wasn't allowed to shave with Dad like Alex had.
What was that? Abuse? Sure, I suppose it came around every once in a while to rear its ugly head. I don't really remember those things, though, you know? Sort of blocked them out. Oh, from Dad? No, no, never. Hit Mum a few times, maybe, but he never hurt me. No, it was just strangers, really - drunk bastards that would be wandering around the neighborhood and find their way into our house. Happened a lot, unfortunately, whenever Mum would have the night shift somewhere, because then she and Dad would both be gone. Not that she could do much harm, really, even when she was there, but she sure could make enough noise to scare them off. And she wasn't afraid to shoot, either. That helped. When she left, though, I saw them quite often. Dad taught me to use the gun early, you see, so that I could defend myself, but I was always too scared to use it. I would pull it out and aim it at them, but I wouldn't shoot it. Didn't need to, I guess. I never really was hurt, just startled. Something happened to Lisa once I'm pretty sure, though, but she never talked about it.
When Lisa was seventeen, she eloped with a man she'd met at one of the bars she'd started going to only weeks earlier. I think he was older than thirty, but I never did actually meet him. I just assumed based on the types of people she appealed to. She was pregnant, then, but I bet she's dead now. Serves her right. Dad loved her more than any of us; did you know that? She was the only thing left to remind him of Mum until we went to London. But she didn't care about Dad; she never cared about anyone but herself, really. So I never told Dad she was pregnant - she left at night, when he wasn't home, anyway. I don't think he would have wanted to know.
Dad drank a bit more than normal after that, and we moved much more frequently for a while. I think he was trying to forget her by distracting himself with moving. I don't know. I just hope she's dead now.
I started going to pubs with Dad then. He taught me to play different betting games (I then realized what the cards had been for), and I got really good. Not that I actually understood the rules - no, in all honesty, it was sheer luck that I won with. But I did win. I won a lot. And I didn't even know what I was doing. "You're mad as a march hare, you know that?" Dad would always laugh while gathering whatever we'd won. After a while, that became my name - March Hare, that is. I liked it. It made me feel important.
It was just Dad and I for the next four years: no girlfriends, no stepmothers. I really do think Dad loved Mum. He cried for her sometimes. I think we both knew she was dead, but we didn't want to admit it. She never did have a very good sense of street smarts. Most likely, she was raped, or murdered in an alley somewhere after god knows what kind of torture. I still don't know why Dad ever let her go. Doesn't matter now, anyway. What's done is done, and can't be undone.
When I was seventeen, Dad died on the kitchen floor in the Harwich home. The night before he'd been attacked by a drunk at one of the bars, and all night he wouldn't stop telling me his chest hurt and "I'm going to die; I'm going to die." He fell asleep on the entrance hall floor after I drove him back to the house, and when I woke up in the morning, he was lying face-down on the floor of the kitchen. There was blood - god, there was so much blood. I think he vomited before he collapsed, because it was there all over the floor and the cabinet, and he must have hit the counter, too, because there was a gash in his forehead.
Any pains beforehand? No, not really. He'd told me that he had trouble breathing about a week prior, and he had chest pains days before, but nothing otherwise. Dad was pretty good about keeping his feelings to himself, though. I suppose that's why I was scared when he said he was going to die - he wouldn't have said that unless he meant it. And if it weren't for my goddamned headaches I'd've stayed awake all night with him. Problem was, I really ju- I'm sorry? Enlarged heart? Well, I don't know what the hell that is. Maybe. I don't know. Could've been what killed him, I guess. All I know is someone attacked him over a goddamn watch, and he died hours later. That's all I need to know. Okay? Fine.
I panicked then - I don't really remember what happened. I started screaming, I think, and I stumbled towards a window. People heard me, I guess, because I saw the bastards poking their goddamned heads out their own windows. (Oh god, I actually ran out of characters XD I'm so sorry)[/b][/size]
