Thirty-One Girls on the Line. (Open.)

[DNA]

The night after he had gotten out of Isolation, he chopped most of his hair off with a shiv that he made out of broken glass from one of his old-fashioned medicine bottles. It was the same shiv that he had used to force abrasions into his left arm not long before. The scars had been there for some time, because he had renewed them each and every time he grew too depressed to hide his emotions any further. Since he first began when he was twelve years old, he had always passed the scar off as an old burn. None of his friends or family had been wise enough-- or cared enough-- to realize the added shape and color to it. Why would they bother to? It was nothing more than a dark patch on his arm, clear as day.. and with the cold, he was always bundled up enough that no one could even see his arms. Though, as he stood at the top of the stairs, the blood was running down his arm, across his hand, and dripping onto the floor. There was nothing too significant about the laceration. He had not carved someone's name into his arm or slashed it to look like some sort of figure or word. The last person that he had dated before being sent to Ridgestone had always carved little hearts into himself. For decoration. Despite the child's love of art, he had never been drawn to do something quite like that. It was silly... and he knew that his ex had done it for the mere sake of gaining attention. Maybe that was why DNA had been doing everything that he did for the past fifteen years of his life.. Attention. In all honesty, even he did not know.

"Twenty-eight boxes of caps at four dollars the gross.. This wrong.. This is wrong.. I can fix this. Wait..." he murmured, whispering.. singing the words in an odd haze as he stared toward the bottom of the stairs. There was no real music here. If anything, he missed the music that he would hear back at home. Live music. Real music. Real music. He did not have the equipment here that he had there. The chance to get all of the sheet music that he possibly wished for. His parents had cut him off. They were not letting him have money to buy music online anymore.. and it was making him lose his mind. Music had always been his solitude from everything going on around. He hated silence. Silence was a deadly sin to his ears. It reminded him of.. Nothing.. It reminded him of the nights that he would lie awake in his bed, listening to his parents screaming at each other. When he would sing to himself and hope to drown out the sound of their voices. He had grown to hate that sound.. and music was what he had to cover it up. Music. Music.. Music... There was something about music that seemed to dull his ears to anything that did not carry a tune. There would be days when he walked down the hallway at school and listen to the music in his head. People could talk to him, but he would not be able to hear it. The musical figures seemed to run before his line of sight, and all else would be a blur. In times like that, he would feel as if there was no one else there. Just he. And the music. "There is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from Emmanuel's veins... " the words came in a soft voice, almost as if Gregorian chant was pouring from his lips, chapped, cold, "God forgive me what I think... God forgive me what I wish right now..." His lips froze a moment, shaking lightly as the steps before him started to go blurry at his feet. It was so quiet. So much so that the child could hear the sound of his own heart beating inside of his chest. Gently, his blue eyes peered up to the ceiling, and in a fit of odd passion, he did something stupid..

In his high-pitched range, he started to scream. The hours were late, yes. He was up, wandering around at a time when he should not have been, but still, he simply looked up and yelled, at the top of his lungs. It was how he had gotten out his frustrations at home. Back then... when his father would beat him. Or his mother would call him a whore.. He would wait until the rest of the world seemed quiet and dead... and he would go outside just to scream. Then he would stop screaming and cry, then sing, then repeat until he was hurting too much to move anymore. It seemed as if he was always hurting. As the inside of his throat began to throb, he stopped screaming and sobbed for several minutes, lifting his right hand to smear the make-up around his eyes. Once he stopped crying, the teenager, merely placed a hand over the side of his stomach, his usual stabbing feeling starting up inside.. It was nothing new.. but he could not help the clenching in his toes as it hit him. It was so quiet. So quiet. So quiet.. Too quiet.. And he was alone. But was everyone not alone? DNA was not the only person to ever feel like he was all alone. He felt it every day.. but he knew that many others felt exactly the same way.

"He calls my name.. I turn my head... He got no words to say," he whimpered, the tune running over and over against his cracked voice. His throat was bleeding again... "My child will forgive me..." There was no real connection or sense to anything that he was singing. Of course, all of it was from a musical that he had seen as a child-- He was detached. Broken on the inside.. but the people in that musical had gone through so much more pain than he had. That was what he loved about musicals. They brought him away from everything that was happening in his own life, but this... This was doing nothing to help him. He snarled.

"Do it alone, Leo-- Do it all by yourself. You're the only one who matters after all. Do it alone, Leo! Why should it bother me?" he was singing still, but also yelling the song. It was so quiet.. The vibrato in his higher range echoed through the hallways. He could hear it as the sound reverberated back to his own ears. "No one knows the pain you're goin' through! No one else is sufferin' but you!" That was not the case at all. The boy was sure that someone would understand his pain-- but who would care? There were people to care.. People to care.. People who had to care.. People who would get fed up with the depressed boy. People who would begin to hate him because of how often he complained. How much he hated everything that had happened and was happening in his life. They would not care if he had taken sixty ibuprofen. They would judge him, help him for a night, then never wish to see him again.. That was life. He had to be happy for the world, but.. he could not make himself happy. Each time he attempted to smile, it was covered by silence. Silence. It was quiet. He had stopped singing. He had stopped singing, and the night air was burning his bleeding throat. So, he began to scream again, this time falling to his knees as the screeching echoed through his ears, causing his pulse to quicken, slow, then speed again. His heart beat was irregular due to all of the Excedrin he had taken over the years.. The caffeine that the medicine had put inside of him. To says that he had been addict would have been an understatement.

As the blood in his throat got caught during his screaming, DNA stopped to cough, hands moving to cover his throat.. a line of bloody spit forming and running across his lips. At the sight of his own pathetic actions, he simply laughed, then cried once again, cheeks staining in the dark black of his mascara. With a soft motion, he wiped the blood from his lips, then the tears and black from his cheeks, mixing the colors on both his face and hand. Smearing two vices of pure insanity. He was breaking down. Losing his mind. This was the exact state that had gotten him stuck here in the first place. "... cancel all your parties... Forget your big parade. It means the crowd will not be cheering, so despite what you've been hearing, you can lay down your spade.." the words came fast and crooked, breaking as his voice broke with a glob of blood or spit, mucus now streaming from his nose to add to his miserly appearance.

[Dustin]

( There was nothing in sight but memories left abandoned )

Theaters, a place of pain, of tears, laughs and giggles, and that was just for him. Years of watching his precious, his amazing Mandi up there. Her perky smiles, cheeks flustered red with the bubbling excitement. Those freeze curls and thin glasses would bounce as her small body bounced down the stairs, always running up and hugging him, telling him in the hyped voice of her audition. Dustin would smile every time, force it while a hand rested on that hair, cooing she was amazing. She always did too, her voice was small but elegant, her body small but dedication and love great. Every time, Dustin would tightly hold her hand while the list went up, every time she would be a side character, with the other small girls and boys. While the thin, the large busted and glossy lipped girl, with her shaky voice and taunting hips took the light. Those were the harsh times, but there were grand ones as well. When there was the talent shows, with those bright lights and annoyed and anxious parents. Dustin and pals were stand up there to introduce acts, in his over flashy clothes, laughing against the mike as he stumbled on names and, flustered, running off stage with friends. Oh, he remembered the days of playing tag among the many chairs behind the curtains, the many sodas shaken and aimed at each others, the tackles and noogies, the cursing and growls, the hugs and singing, sometimes screaming, along with the radio they kept back there. How many times had he ran from class and slipped into the lighting room, waved to the boys toying with the lighting while he tucked into a corner, to read..

The theater was not his place. His place was the library, with the books that smelt of fresh in, the words and lines that took a mind and pulled it to a new world. A haven that could stop his tears, only causing them again during such painful, amazing, emotional chapters. Where he would go numb, he wouldn't hear the rumbling of his stomach, feel the pin and disgust for himself. He would just see through the eyes of someone knew. Many be a teenager who saw a murder, or a knight banished from his castle, perhaps a girl hunted a ghost, or even a teacher, in love with his cute student but oh no, so wrong! They were, always, so amazing. That was his place, not.. here.


So why was he here? Something was pulling, begged, pleading and cooing. The doors to this place were opened, the darkness beyond reaching out and whispering for him. He wanted to walk in, to be a child again. To play games between the seats, to roll down the largely slanted walkway and jump off the stage and act as if it was some impressive fleet. He wanted to walk across that hard wood stage, to hear his shoes echo as his fingers brushed that thick curtain. The boy wanted to lay in the middle of the cold wood, to stare at the high ceiling and to remember. Remember the innocence he had back in school, the pure and simple life, the friends and the ghosts of all the memories. His own tears were starting to sting at his eyes, but the boy didn't whip them, for he did not let them fall. Those mentioned sneakers were carrying, him closer and closer to that stage. He could hear that boy, hear those words. Play a play, no doubt, but with more meaning. Dustin knew about that, he had always done that. He had always sung when alone, hard and loud, the lyrics that stabbed to his heart, that screamed they were taunting him, teasing with how much they were his own to speak. Moving around where the boy was, Dustin so carefully, so quiet he slipped up those chairs. His steps were light, cautious till he was on the stage only taking a moment, he walking towards the edge and dropped himself on the edge with slight thud, letting himself be known.


The over sized plaid jacket hung almost past his thumbs, a hum on his pale lips. The mop of hair was unbrushed, messy like his clothes, hanging in his tired eyes. They closed, tilting back as a slow, worn smile spread on his face. Jean covered ankles crossed over each other, his hands gently curled, behind him as his body leaned back. "We could light the candle, OH!, won't you light my .. candle..~" Dustin knew this boy, he was strange, like a angel of another word. So .. so him. SO perfect, amazing, and yet Dustin felt wrong just looking at him, being the slacker, the tainted slut with dead eyes. Was it wrong, for him to gaze at this sad child, who he wanted to hold, who he wished to care for, was it wrong? This boy liked plays.. Dustin knew that. He only knew a a few, so he sung this, this line he knew so well.. perhaps the boy would knew it, perhaps he would accept him,f ro this moment, if Dustin tried ot relate to him. The kid looked like hell, but so did he. Both were down tot eh rock bottom it seemed, and well, It was nice to have a mate in hell.

(There was nowhere to hide, the ashes fell like snow)

[/b][/right]

Words: no idea...
Status: dna..
Notes: ... desole ;w;
Outfit: Here

[DNA]

In 1913, thirteen-year-old Mary Phagan was raped and murdered in the sawdust encased basement of a pencil factory, at which she worked, capping erasers for ten-cents an hour. Leo Frank, the factory's owner, Mary Phagan's boss, was accused of her murder and found guilty, though no true evidence was found to back the accusation. Lucille Frank, Leo's wife, worked around the media and other outlet sources, putting her attention straight to the mayor of Atlanta, and was able to find proof that Mr. Frank was, in fact, innocent of the crimes charged of him. His death sentence was repealed and Leo Frank was then moved into a different prison so as to keep the media and angered citizens away from him. However, on August the fifteenth, 1915, an out-raged mob of citizens were tipped off of his where abouts, and early that very morning, they stormed the cell, knocked-out the security officer, carried Leo Frank to a tree.. and lynched him. He was not even given an opportunity to put on a pair of pants before a noose was wrapped around his neck. What did thirty-one-year-old Leo Max Frank have to do with fifteen-year-old Daniel Nicholas Avery? Leo Frank was a Jew living in Marietta, Georgia when he died. Born and raised in New York, he was seen as a representative of Yankee Capitalism, a wealthy northern Jew over-powering over vulnerable working-class women. The pitch was easy to sell.. but the up-rising of antisemitism around the world was the icing on the cake. The last straw. Leo Frank was simply.. different. That was his downfall. And no matter how hard to tried to fit in. To stop being a freak. To be a normal boy.. It just never worked. He was odd. He had never fit into any crowd. Certainly, he had friends.. but it never took them too long to discover how easily he could be used. He quickly he could be manipulated into.. so much more than just being a helping hand. For a long time, he was the hand that held every piece of the puzzle together. The chain link that kept his friends and his world from falling into complete shambles. Here, everything that might have once been set straight was in salt-sized crystallines on the floor. Everything had already gone to shit for every person, and the young boy saw no hope in ever getting it all back together.
(Call my Palahniuk.)

Perhaps "Suicidal" was not the exact word to describe it.
But it was the first word to come to mind.
See also: Depression.
See also: Anxiety Disorders.

If an innocent man's life could be abruptly ended in the matter of one night's gathering of a mob under the light of the moon, then who was to say that, in that same period of time, this pathetic, un-important, pseudo-psychotic child's life would not be able to do the same. Certainly, he had taken enough pills over the past three years of his existence to kill any normal teenager.. but for some odd reason, something had him sticking around.. though that was not to say that he had not thought on trying again. Perhaps with a few more pills.. Of course, it had come to a point where he almost had no reason to off himself at all. That was how he felt, at least. He felt as if he was simply having to continually create excuses as to why he was no longer suitable for this corrupt world. Perhaps an escape? An excuse to get attention? Even he had no clue. His mind simply repeated the same things over and over, each and every day, making an abyss of dark thoughts to creep in over the very fiber of his chemical make up: "I'm so tired", "I can't do this anymore", "I'm sick of being sick", "I hate my family", "I hate myself", "I hate my life", "I want to die".. It was on-going. And even when the people that made him feel human again were in his company, he still had to force it. The kindness. The smiles.. He had come to a breaking point.. in which he could no longer contain the fabrications of happiness. And, God.. he did want to be happy. There was simply very little that could make him feel that way anymore. Although.. he could think of, at least, one or two people that still made him feel better without causing him some form of pain as reparation.
See also: Compensation.

Perhaps it was his own little game of masochism. Daniel was aware that his actions would later cause him a large amount of anguish in the pit of his stomach. He would always do the actions anyway. If he did not.. If he did not... Well... no one would ever love him. And even now, sitting upstage in a seemingly desolate, enclosed space.. he was fretting over things lost because of his idiocy. These were things that had cost him more than he was willing to admit. But that was just it.. he was not going to admit his faults. Not that easily, at least. Not when the lining of his throat was stretched and cracking with another stretched out scream-- until.. He heard someone else singing. And for a moment, he wanted to flee. His legs, however.. well, he doubted that they would carry him very far. They were already feeling worn and broken. Not that they really were "broken". No, no. More frail that broken. As if the slightest movement might tear them. A pathetic state.. but there was little to be done about it. Instead, he simply froze. And stared. Though, not at the other in the room.. No, he stared ahead at the barren walls of a darkened room. After a moment, however, he parted his lips to let a crackled note slip from his tongue.. then several more..

"One song.. glory... one song before I go, glory.." his usually toned singing voice sounded bare, dry.. disgusting.. but he continued, never the less, "one song to leave behind.."

[/blockquote]

[Dustin]

( There was nothing in sight but memories left abandoned )

As expected.. Dustin gave a low sigh when the other ignored him, unsure what to say now. With a hum, he closed his eyes, trying to think. What could he do now.. this boy didn’t seem like he wanted Dustin near him. However, it was expected. The boy was far from the most loved here at Ridgestone. The few who did love him, well.. shit. He didn’t want to think about them. All.. wankers. A smile spread on his face, and the boy sighed. He wanted to talk to him- but.. he..fuck. Fucky fuck fuck.

Slowly standing, the boy took two steps towards the male. His hands were shocked in his back pockets, silently looking down at him. The mob of bangs covered his eyes, the tired smile resting there. There was a long pause before he shrugged his shoulders, the smile growing a bit. He leaned over, the dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Hey there sugar plum~ Thought ‘d stop by after work and check on my fav’ little tot!” The words were stupid, just him playing around.. but the smile dropped moment later. His hands padded at his pockets a moment, frowning, looking at the other. “Ya got a spot of blood.. uh..” He frowned, then crouched down beside the boy, reaching out to touch his shoulder, then stopping, watching him. “ c-..can I help?”

Help. That is all Dustin ever wanted to do. Help help help. He was always helping friends, strangers, anyone. It was his obsession, his desire and need in life. To be of use, to people who needed it, a way of..of trying…trying.. to repent. His sins, his disgusting actions, his nightmares, his thoughts, his impulsions and desires. He wanted to aid people, to clean himself, to be a selfish little prick.

He was doing it again. He was over thinking; the thoughts were hurting and pounding. Dustin tried his best, to clear his head, to get them away, but they were like monsters, clawing and clinging. Chewing and roaring. And shit.. There was the urges again, the pain.. fucky fuck..

He smiled, shrugging off the jacket on him. He holds it out, then stops. He grips the sleeve, slowly reaching to whip the blood, swallowing lightly. “s-sorry.. I just.. I..” His words fell, and an awkward laugh as hear, watching the other. “sorry..”

(There was nowhere to hide, the ashes fell like snow)

[/b][/right]

Words: no idea...
Status: dna..
Notes: ... desole ;w;
Outfit: Here