Post by colton on May 8, 2011 13:16:23 GMT
colton n. bastiene
SEVENTEEN - SLYTHERIN - PURE - 1/4 VEELA - NICHOLAS HOULT
THE SCARS OF YOUR LOVE
[/size]remind me of us - - - - - -[/center]
“I always know when it hits me. First, it’s the legs and they start to tingle. My legs start to shudder, what I like to call the liquid organism. Time becomes nothing. An hour is a second. My brain becomes a victim inside my body. Oh how I love you cocaine. You see, I like my cocaine sweet. Watered down and a tiny bit of sugar added. It’s so fucking good. It makes me paranoid, creative and a victim to my own sorrows. I feel good. I see everything, in a million different perspectives at one single moment. It’s beautiful. It’s addicting. You start to laugh, laugh at everything. Laugh at the fact that you are god inside your body, you hold all the power in the world and everything is beautiful and illuminated. Perfect, the world is perfect and precious and everything is colourful and decent and balanced. I am a sensitive being and my mind is wonderful. And then it goes.”
A pale hand rose in the air. In a swift movement it pushed a strand of raven hair off an even paler forehead. The sunlight was streaming in through the open windows. The sun showed no mercy. With the room alight with mellow sunlight. The more than hungover male, frowned and finally sat up. His dark hair was on the longer side and his ivory skin looked even paler against the richness of his hair. A curse escaped his lips that were pulled tight with irritability. You know the type. You've seen it before. The swaggering, cocky, macho jerk. The one who treats women like they're replaceable, while they're waiting in line to climb in his bed. But take a closer look, he isn't what he seems. The appearingly cocky boy is secretly the most insecure person in Hogwarts. A fake confidence. A mask. Swaggering? The dozen eyes that follow scare him to death. Do they really have to stare? But you wouldn't know any of this. Unless you really know Colton Bastiene. Not the party boy fascade. Look closer.
10 Incentives to Quit:
1. I won’t have to experience attempted withdrawal any more
2. I’ll no longer have to fear for my freedom
3. I’ll have more money to do more fulfilling things with
4. My life won’t be a roller coaster of emotions anymore
5. Trust between myself and my old friends will be rebuilt
6. Pride will swell among the people I love
7. I will be in the small percentage of people who quit cocaine (statistically there is a 60% success rate with suboxone and a 10% success rate with methadone which I believe includes both cocaine and other opiate users)
8. I will feel comfortable wearing short sleeve shirts again
9. I won’t feel or look like a fucking drug addict anymore!
10. I will have self control again
Colton Bastiene's first love was cocaine. His second cigarettes. A rather unsuccessful relationship as the young male always woke up in pain as the cocaine left his head in a mess, the alcohol poisoned his liver and the cigarettes destroyed his lungs. But like most reckless, young teenagers, he didn't care. He didn't give a damn. A third love. A love that treated him slightly better was fire. Watching it lick up the object. Taking full control of whatever was in its path. The usual ideology of love seemed completely irrelevant to Colton. He doesn't need love, and defiantly doesn't want it. People either hated him, feared him or loved him. There is only black and white. Forget the grey.
"Sure, I’ve overdosed, been incarcerated, spent a shit load of money I shouldn’t have spent, and I have a piece of artwork called scars on my arms but, I still don’t regret it. I’ve been burned, robbed, betrayed by “friends”, and probably lied as much as I’ve been lied to but, I still don’t regret it. I don’t regret it because there’s things you can learn about yourself from your addiction. Like explore deep crevices inside your spirituality and insight that may relieve you or contradict what you believe in so you think about it some more."THE FEATON INSTITUTE
PSYCHOLOGICAL ANALYSIS:
Colton N. Bastiene
Case No.: 111,111 Building No.: 11
NAME: Colton Nathaniel Bastiene
DATE OF BIRTH: 6 June
ADDRESS: Unknown *Report sent to Minstry*
COUNTY COURT: Not as yet known
CASE NO: Unknown
CLAIMANT SOLICITOR: Clay More
REFERENCE: 123456789
REPORT DATED: 25 October 2014
Following an exhaustive interview with the subject, Mr. C.N. Bastiene, I am prepared to make the analysis requested of me by Mr. Henderson.
Mr. Bastiene upon sobering up, shows an exceedingly brilliant mind, almost unnaturally smart. He shows much potential. Bastiene shows a rare qualities -intelligence, individuality and a natural charm. However, his stubborn, reckless ways path the road to his downfall. His speech is unique, reminding one of an older gentleman. Mr. Bastiene seems to need to have control. He exhorts a certain level of influence over his peers. They remain what one could call loyal, however it seems more like obedience. Mr. Bastiene appears to be very social, however, seems to hide emotions and serious feelings. He seems to have many friends but few he can count on. Resulting in an independent but untrusting persona.
(REPORT CONTINUED, PAGE 2)
Archivist's note: The Ministry cannot seem to locate the remaining pages of this record.
YOUR GOING TO WISH
[/size]you had never met me - - - - - -[/center]
name/alias: kayla/kay
gender: female
age: seventeeeen
contact: pm for now
how you found us: advertisement on another site
other characters: first one!
experience: four years?
role play sample:
I was drunk.
I wasn't 100% sure how it happened, but I suspected it had occurred around the time my friend had bet me I couldn't take down eight vodka shots faster than he could. He promised me he'd take my weekend shift at work if I won, and I'd do his stock replacement duty at work for a week if he won. A bet I couldn't refuse. So eight shots later here I was. Dizzy, loose tongued and about to fall over. And in a true drunken girl style, I slowly walked over and fell into the closest empty sofa. My head fell back into the sofa and I wondered why I did this to myself. Was it to stop the chaos that controlled my mind? The constant struggle of keeping calm. I knew one day it would kill me. If I lost my temper all hell would break loose. I'd experienced it before. I never wanted to again.
My legs felt numb. My eyes felt heavy. I loved the feeling of intoxication. It felt like floating. Like heaven. Like there was a force field around me, stopping all signs of irritation and annoyance. When I was drunk, I was at my safest. That was the catch. And that’s why I did it to myself. I wasn't some stupid party girl. I may have been reckless, but not with other people. I didn't care what I did to my body. But I couldn't forgive myself for what I did to others. Like the last day of 2009, I watched as Chloe Henderson danced around the pool. I mean, I couldn't stand the girl. But didn't know her well enough to hate her. I was younger, and more naïve then. But I was to blame for her death. It was at some university student’s party. And Chloe Henderson was one girl who didn't know when to stop. She argued with people till they were ready to slap her. And with most people that was fine. But it wasn't okay with me. I watched as her pretty blonde head continued to rave on and on, and nothing she said I cared about. I didn't care what Chloe Henderson thought my of hair, or my interests. I didn't even flinch when she started talking shit about my friend. But one thing she said hit me hard. It pulled on that tightly wound heart string and tugged till it snapped. I couldn't understand why the fuck someone would use a boy with a disease as a way of 'offending' someone. That wasn't funny, that was pain. Milo Venamore was my brother. He was also a sixteen year old boy with brain damage. Milo had been only five. I was nine. We we're both at the doctors to get our injections. Injections that were meant to keep us from harm. From disease and despair. Milo sat across from me. Needles had always scared him. So I always got my injections first. To be a role model and show him it was okay. I watched as finally he nodded and he looked into my eyes. I heard him gasp as the needle pierced his alabaster skin. I watched his blue eyes fill with tears. Blue eyes that mirrored my own. I smiled at Milo, told him it was okay. But it wasn't okay. Milo had a allegoric reaction to the injection. The reaction was in his blood stream. It entered his brain. His heart. And I remember his face. The moment he realised something wasn't normal. The moment I realised this wasn't just a scared boy hiding from the needle. I saw his expression. And he saw mine. That's the last time I saw my brother. Now, Milo was just a slowly moving vegetable. A shell with no core. My weakness.
Chloe Henderson had no right. But I defiantly didn't have the right to play god. I only saw rage. She saw it too. It was written all over my face. My eyes blazed and my mouth was tight. People around us didn't understand. They didn't see. But she did. And I couldn't control it. I pushed her. I knew there was the pool behind her. I thought she’d fall, but I thought she’d live. Chloe screamed. She yelled and cried. And finally she fell in the pool, hitting her head against the cement. Chloe Henderson was unconscious before she hit the bottom of the pool. But that didn’t matter, she was dead from the impact of the concrete. Scarlet red filled the usually crystal clear pool. And I watched helpless to my own thoughts as Chloe sunk to the bottom. Unsure of what to do. I took off. I hated myself. I disgusted myself. I felt like I couldn’t control myself.
That day still haunted me. It impacted my actions and the person I was. I was different now. Different from that last terrorising day of 2009. Even my drunken mind hated myself for it. That was the kind of guilt that drove people to suicide. I no longer cared about myself. I was nothing. I cared about Milo. Yet, I had come to the conclusion that he wasn't my brother. My brother was a funny, annoying, soccer playing five year old. And sometimes I still felt like that clueless nine year old girl. I still loved him. But in a different way.
But I didn't understand love. Not fully. I understood the love between a mother and her son. I had seen it. Everyday my mother cared for her son. A love that would last till the end of the world and even beyond. The love I couldn't understand was that between a girl and a boy. I hadn't experienced the 'sensation' of having a boyfriend. I just liked having boys. Love wasn't for me. Honestly. I don't think I even deserve it. I saw love in alcohol, cigarettes and a little pot here and there. But they didn't love me. They liked to harm me. Fill my lungs with cancer. Taint my liver with poison. But, they filled my head with desire. Like I said. I love the feeling of intoxication.
My mother wasn’t worried about my drinking. She was far too wrapped up with my brothers issues. Then again, when I was sober, so was I. He was our whole world. But at the same time it killed us. To watch his mouth move but to not hear any words. To see his eyes and remember the boy he used to be. It was heartbreaking. That is why I didn’t want love. I didn’t deserve it anyway. Love was for people with hearts. My love was filled to the brim with guilt. Murder was a guilt no one could get over. No one ever knew what happened that 2009 night. At least I didn’t think so.
As my blue eyes danced around the scene. I wondered how I actually got here. Hollywood. I long lost dream. I raised my hand in front of my eyes. A smile graced my lips. I was so gone. Sometimes I forgot why I was here. Not at this party. But in Hollywood. So far away from sweet old North Carolina. Then I remembered. It was what I’d always wanted. As a little girl all I ever dreamed about was Broadway. My father had always told me I was born for it. My mother told me Hollywood was waiting for me. My plans were for Broadway. But Broadway wasn’t going to pay the bills anymore. That naive childhood dream had to be adjusted. Because I had medical bills among other things to pay for. You could say Milo Venamore was an expensive kid to have around. But I needed to dream big. Hollywood big. Then everything would be okay. My father would be able to retire. My brother would have the best care North Carolina had ever seen and my mother wouldn’t be the one killing herself to aid him.
I wasn’t sure if Hollywood was meant for me. But I needed it. So it was going to need me.
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