Post by Wyatt Parks on Dec 9, 2012 14:27:17 GMT -5
Name: Wyatt Parks
Age: 17 his birthday is October 12
Gender: Male
Sport/Club: Soccer
Grade: Junior
Appearance: Wyatt has long shaggy brown hair that go down to his chin, and is a mess most of the time, he is constantly moving it out of his face, and while that would suggest it's time for a hair cut to most people, he likes his hair long even if does get in the way. He does have a some what natural tan, but he's not sure where it comes from because he never asked anyone, well that and he doesn't care. He has brown eyes, not much to say about those, and he well, he has an OK body, He isn't exactly the tallest person on earth, but he is around five foot eight, so it's about average.
His sense of style really isn't anything special, he mostly wears things like those button up works shirts (I don't even know what their called leave me alone lol) With T shirts, or things that most average guys wear, sometimes he'll just leave with a pair of gym shorts or sweat pants on, but he really doesn't care enough about things like that. He tends to just wear whatever he feels like, or whatever is semi- clean and or fits the weather.
Personality: He may seem like an ice person on the outside, and to tell the truth he can be a nice person sometimes. He really is not such a nice person most of the time though, and has been known to say things that hurt people in the past. He can't stand when guys beat up girls, or people who can't fight back. . He doesn't like school work, and often just sleeps in class, or when he does do work he only does half of it. He tries, most of the time at the very end because he doesn't want to get kicked off the soccer team. He is always making jokes about people and giving everyone the big tough guy sarcastic attitude.
He flirts with multiple girls, and often comes across as rude to the girls he doesn't consider attractive, or he doesn't like. He is mostly just trying to get you in bed with him if he flirts with you, and is the kind of guy who's never in a relationship long enough to care about anyone. He mostly watches out for himself, but if you lay a hand on a girl watch out. He isn't much of a talker, and when someone asks him how he's feeling he'll mostly avoid the question. He doesn't ever talk about his past either, and will often find reason to avoid anything that makes him remember it.
Background Story: “Mom?” the house was dark, and empty, as it always was. This time though something felt eerie, a gut feeling told him to leave, he didn’t even know where he was going to go, or why he thought that he needed to get out of there, but there was some part of him telling him that this wasn’t going to end well. Maybe it was just an assumption. His dad had been having a good day the day before, and the good days always ended with an even worse night then before. It was always like that, and even though no one ever said anything he knew. He just didn’t want to believe it. Somewhere, deep, deep inside him behind all those feelings there was some part of him that believed that maybe there was hope, and it didn’t start with this detention.
Detention was no big deal. Not to his mother who was too out of it to even read the slip. He wouldn’t get in trouble, not more trouble than he had gotten in for forging her signature one time, and gotten caught by the teacher, who then called his house, only to be answered by his grumpy father, which never lead to good things. He had begged her not to call, but he was pretty sure she knew something was up, didn’t everyone suspect it by now? The doctors had already become weary of her lies, and the alternate fantasy world she seemed to be living in to hide from the real world. If all the broken bones and bruises weren’t a sign then he didn’t know what was.
Sometimes they were good. ‘he was playing soccer with his dad and he fell on his wrist wrong’ was believable. Sometimes they only told half the story, ‘oh you know those boys they like to wrestle, broke the lamp in the living room’ made it sound like she was just making the truth sound better than it actually was. And Sometimes they sounded like the lies people in stories told to hide abuse. ‘Oh he fell down that stairs, he’s such a klutz,’ but there was always a lie, and people were starting to not believe her crap.
“Mom?” he called out into the house once again with no response. Weird. She was generally around to tell him to be quiet because his dad was sleeping off a hangover. At the least she would say something to his noise making, because she had a headache. That was another sign that things were off, something was wrong here and he didn’t know what, but he walked into the bedroom anyway. Trying not to make the slightest noise in case she was actually sleeping.
“Mom?” he whispered from around the corner. He didn’t see his dad standing in the room, and he didn’t see her.
“Don’t call her,” his dad spoke in a tone that Wyatt had never heard him use before, somehow there was a tiny bit of sadness in his voice. It was actually scary, to hear an emotion other than rage in his voice. Other than the anger he had when he was telling his son that he was going to get fat, or that he needed to cut his hair because he looked like a girl, or that he was a lazy worthless and that he didn’t deserve to live if good people were dying all the time. It was scary because he had never heard any emotion other than anger in his father’s voice. He had never known him for anything other than rage, and maybe a hit of happiness, when he was telling them he was going to quit. The promise was a lie though. They all knew it.
“W-why?” he spit out his words with a scared tremble to his tone. Suddenly there was tension in the room, when he turned the corner and saw him. The bottle in his hand was not moving up to his lips so he could take a sip, instead it just stayed in his hand. His eyes scanned the room and finally found it. Her body was lying on the ground. There was no chest moving taking uneven and shaky breaths, like he looked for. There were no words for how badly he wanted to do the same thing to his dad, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen in place by the sight of the shiny metal object in his father’s hand. A gun.
“What’s the point?” his voice cracked when he spoke. He never sounded as he did right then.
“T-he point…” he started to ask what he was talking about, but his words were cut off by his father interrupting him.
“Living,” he shrugged and dropped the bottle. Wyatt heard It shatter to a million pieces when it hit the ground, his mom would have been scrambling around trying to clean that up. Picking up all the pieces and trying to make it like nothing ever happened. He didn’t move. “Let me tell you something son…”
Son he had never called him that before. It was always boy, or Junior, on a good day. There were always things like bastard, and devil child. Never son though. It was never son. Wyatt never knew why he never called him son, maybe it was because he didn’t want him, but now when he said it, he couldn’t take it to heart.
His father had never been a good guy, and now standing here, with his greasy unruly hair, his dirt stained jeans and t-shirt with holes in it. His shoes were falling apart, and the look on his face, his big brown eyes, just like his son, looking down at him. His teeth yellowed and slimy, from all the years of smoking and drinking, showed when he talked, and it took his son a moment to contemplate what he was saying. “I’ve seen enough dead bodies to know it’ll be quick.”
Was that morbid or what? Well considering they were standing in a room with a dead person, it couldn’t get much worse. That was when the realization came to him that he couldn’t handle this situation. He didn’t know what to do but he did the first thing that came to his mind.
“Where are you going son?” his voice sent a chill up the boy’s spine and made his shiver. He didn’t stop, he made a run for the living room, for the phone, for anything that would get him out of here. He couldn’t even speak because all he concentrated on was grabbing the phone to call someone to help him.
All he had to do was dial three numbers.
9-1-1.
His trembling hands wouldn’t let him press the buttons. As soon as he got the first one down, the phone was slapped from his hand, and flew across the room. He made a dive for it, but couldn’t reach it before he felt the thud of his body hitting the floor, and the pain in his stomach. He curled up on the ground clutching his stomach gasping for air.
“You’re such a girl,” he said. Now they were back to the angered tone, there was no more messing around. No more of the tension and sadness, there was only anger and rage. Drunken rage. “I told you to get a haircut,” he kicked him in the back, as his son tried to grasp for that breath of air. Trying so hard to get the wind back in him, “but I guess you like being a fag,” he kicked him again. This time harder than the prodding kick the first time.
He couldn’t form a response to that, but he managed to take a breath, and sit up. His stomach still hurt. His head throbbed, but he sat up to face the spinning room. Crawling across the room for the phone again.
“You’re such an idiot child.” Slap. Right across the face, causing his face to twist sideways with the impact of a hand slapping across his cheek. He stood up, and walked over to the phone, and with a stomp of his ripped apart shoe, he smashed it. The cracking of the plastic under his shoe was a defining moment in this fight.
“It would be just as easy to kill you too,” he said, “then we’d all be dead,” he held the gun in his hand. “The family of freaks, the drugged up mother, the little faggot son, and the drunken dad, no one would even miss us.”
He realized what he was saying was true. No one would miss him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to die.
“We…” he started to say something, but his head was spinning and it took him a second to clear out all the unnecessary thoughts and make a sentence. His long dark hair hung in his eyes, and his face still stung from the slap of a heavy hand across his face. “We can get help,” it was the first thing he had managed to spit out that actually made some sense. Maybe he could talk him out of it.
“There isn’t enough help in the world.” He said in a cruel tone, with a chuckle, rejecting the idea of it even working without a second thought. “Why are you so naïve , I thought I raised you smart enough to be used to this cruel world,” he chucked again. “I guess not.” He kicked him again. This time it didn’t hurt. He didn’t let it hurt.
“You didn’t even raise me,” he stood up, still a little wobbly, “You never once acted like my dad. All I ever had was my mom, and all she ever did was take care of your drunk ass,” he knew that talking like this was only going to get him in trouble, but that last comment about raising him made him snap. It was the trigger that threw him over the edge.
“What did you just say to me son?” He shook his head and baked up slowly, until his back was against a wall.
“Stop calling me son, I’m not your son,” he said in a calm voice, he wasn’t even that mad it was just like something inside him had snapped and he was done playing the victim that was until he remembered the gun. The next thing he knew he was on the ground with a gun pointed at him, suddenly scared silent again.
“You better watch your mouth son,” he said, probably saying son on purpose now.
The boy didn’t respond, because before he could open his mouth to get the words out, the deafening sound of a gun shot rang through his ears, and then he blacked out.
He never saw his dad again and never heard from him. He never paid attention to weather the cops found him or not, and he didn’t care. He was done living that life, and for the next year he worked on fixing his leg and walking again, and he pushed himself. That was the only thing he could do to not think about things, even though he had to go to therapy every week, that his social worker made sure of. He never said much about it, ever. It was just something that he had to deal with himself because he felt like talking about it only made things worse, so he didn’t.
He dealt with things his own way, and that lead him to find another way to avoid talking. One day he aunt was stupid enough to leave him in the house all alone, and he was curious, what was so good about drinking? He knew where it was hidden and he tried it. Why the hell not right? This was such a great way to deal with things. When his cousin came home with a friend, he flirted with her, and they ended up having sex. It was weird for such a young kids, but he liked it. For a while he did whatever he wanted. Slept with random girls, and never thought about it.
He hurt people and never looked back. He didn’t care he just got what he wanted, and really that was just a way to distract himself from the pain. It all was. All just a distraction, at first he still remembered it all the abuse and pain and that was what he tried to escape. So he was a jerk. He tried to hard to get away from it, and started to find out that it followed him where ever her went. So he distracted himself. He promised that he would never hit anyone, and never be like that. Even if he was a jerk he wasn’t his dad.
It wasn’t a bad thing, until he met a girl her name was Carol Maree, and he fell head over heels for her, and he knew it. He even waited for her to be ready to have sex, and although he still remained a jerk on the inside he grew up during the year they dated, and became a more mature person. No longer was he the guy that cheated on her, but maybe he made a suggestive comment here and there, and he tried to help people. He really did his best to hang onto that relationship because she was his entire life. He changed who he was to be with her, so when they broke up what did he have?
Nothing.
He said something stupid, she over reacted like always and ended up saying they needed a break. After she was diagnosed with cancer. Her mother decided to have both her and her sister come home for various reasons, at the time Wyatt didn’t know they were leaving, and went to make it up to her to find her gone. He tried the best he could to get in contact with her but to no avail, now he’s working on getting over his first love, and the only girl he was ever in a serious relationship with.
Age: 17 his birthday is October 12
Gender: Male
Sport/Club: Soccer
Grade: Junior
Appearance: Wyatt has long shaggy brown hair that go down to his chin, and is a mess most of the time, he is constantly moving it out of his face, and while that would suggest it's time for a hair cut to most people, he likes his hair long even if does get in the way. He does have a some what natural tan, but he's not sure where it comes from because he never asked anyone, well that and he doesn't care. He has brown eyes, not much to say about those, and he well, he has an OK body, He isn't exactly the tallest person on earth, but he is around five foot eight, so it's about average.
His sense of style really isn't anything special, he mostly wears things like those button up works shirts (I don't even know what their called leave me alone lol) With T shirts, or things that most average guys wear, sometimes he'll just leave with a pair of gym shorts or sweat pants on, but he really doesn't care enough about things like that. He tends to just wear whatever he feels like, or whatever is semi- clean and or fits the weather.
Personality: He may seem like an ice person on the outside, and to tell the truth he can be a nice person sometimes. He really is not such a nice person most of the time though, and has been known to say things that hurt people in the past. He can't stand when guys beat up girls, or people who can't fight back. . He doesn't like school work, and often just sleeps in class, or when he does do work he only does half of it. He tries, most of the time at the very end because he doesn't want to get kicked off the soccer team. He is always making jokes about people and giving everyone the big tough guy sarcastic attitude.
He flirts with multiple girls, and often comes across as rude to the girls he doesn't consider attractive, or he doesn't like. He is mostly just trying to get you in bed with him if he flirts with you, and is the kind of guy who's never in a relationship long enough to care about anyone. He mostly watches out for himself, but if you lay a hand on a girl watch out. He isn't much of a talker, and when someone asks him how he's feeling he'll mostly avoid the question. He doesn't ever talk about his past either, and will often find reason to avoid anything that makes him remember it.
Background Story: “Mom?” the house was dark, and empty, as it always was. This time though something felt eerie, a gut feeling told him to leave, he didn’t even know where he was going to go, or why he thought that he needed to get out of there, but there was some part of him telling him that this wasn’t going to end well. Maybe it was just an assumption. His dad had been having a good day the day before, and the good days always ended with an even worse night then before. It was always like that, and even though no one ever said anything he knew. He just didn’t want to believe it. Somewhere, deep, deep inside him behind all those feelings there was some part of him that believed that maybe there was hope, and it didn’t start with this detention.
Detention was no big deal. Not to his mother who was too out of it to even read the slip. He wouldn’t get in trouble, not more trouble than he had gotten in for forging her signature one time, and gotten caught by the teacher, who then called his house, only to be answered by his grumpy father, which never lead to good things. He had begged her not to call, but he was pretty sure she knew something was up, didn’t everyone suspect it by now? The doctors had already become weary of her lies, and the alternate fantasy world she seemed to be living in to hide from the real world. If all the broken bones and bruises weren’t a sign then he didn’t know what was.
Sometimes they were good. ‘he was playing soccer with his dad and he fell on his wrist wrong’ was believable. Sometimes they only told half the story, ‘oh you know those boys they like to wrestle, broke the lamp in the living room’ made it sound like she was just making the truth sound better than it actually was. And Sometimes they sounded like the lies people in stories told to hide abuse. ‘Oh he fell down that stairs, he’s such a klutz,’ but there was always a lie, and people were starting to not believe her crap.
“Mom?” he called out into the house once again with no response. Weird. She was generally around to tell him to be quiet because his dad was sleeping off a hangover. At the least she would say something to his noise making, because she had a headache. That was another sign that things were off, something was wrong here and he didn’t know what, but he walked into the bedroom anyway. Trying not to make the slightest noise in case she was actually sleeping.
“Mom?” he whispered from around the corner. He didn’t see his dad standing in the room, and he didn’t see her.
“Don’t call her,” his dad spoke in a tone that Wyatt had never heard him use before, somehow there was a tiny bit of sadness in his voice. It was actually scary, to hear an emotion other than rage in his voice. Other than the anger he had when he was telling his son that he was going to get fat, or that he needed to cut his hair because he looked like a girl, or that he was a lazy worthless and that he didn’t deserve to live if good people were dying all the time. It was scary because he had never heard any emotion other than anger in his father’s voice. He had never known him for anything other than rage, and maybe a hit of happiness, when he was telling them he was going to quit. The promise was a lie though. They all knew it.
“W-why?” he spit out his words with a scared tremble to his tone. Suddenly there was tension in the room, when he turned the corner and saw him. The bottle in his hand was not moving up to his lips so he could take a sip, instead it just stayed in his hand. His eyes scanned the room and finally found it. Her body was lying on the ground. There was no chest moving taking uneven and shaky breaths, like he looked for. There were no words for how badly he wanted to do the same thing to his dad, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen in place by the sight of the shiny metal object in his father’s hand. A gun.
“What’s the point?” his voice cracked when he spoke. He never sounded as he did right then.
“T-he point…” he started to ask what he was talking about, but his words were cut off by his father interrupting him.
“Living,” he shrugged and dropped the bottle. Wyatt heard It shatter to a million pieces when it hit the ground, his mom would have been scrambling around trying to clean that up. Picking up all the pieces and trying to make it like nothing ever happened. He didn’t move. “Let me tell you something son…”
Son he had never called him that before. It was always boy, or Junior, on a good day. There were always things like bastard, and devil child. Never son though. It was never son. Wyatt never knew why he never called him son, maybe it was because he didn’t want him, but now when he said it, he couldn’t take it to heart.
His father had never been a good guy, and now standing here, with his greasy unruly hair, his dirt stained jeans and t-shirt with holes in it. His shoes were falling apart, and the look on his face, his big brown eyes, just like his son, looking down at him. His teeth yellowed and slimy, from all the years of smoking and drinking, showed when he talked, and it took his son a moment to contemplate what he was saying. “I’ve seen enough dead bodies to know it’ll be quick.”
Was that morbid or what? Well considering they were standing in a room with a dead person, it couldn’t get much worse. That was when the realization came to him that he couldn’t handle this situation. He didn’t know what to do but he did the first thing that came to his mind.
“Where are you going son?” his voice sent a chill up the boy’s spine and made his shiver. He didn’t stop, he made a run for the living room, for the phone, for anything that would get him out of here. He couldn’t even speak because all he concentrated on was grabbing the phone to call someone to help him.
All he had to do was dial three numbers.
9-1-1.
His trembling hands wouldn’t let him press the buttons. As soon as he got the first one down, the phone was slapped from his hand, and flew across the room. He made a dive for it, but couldn’t reach it before he felt the thud of his body hitting the floor, and the pain in his stomach. He curled up on the ground clutching his stomach gasping for air.
“You’re such a girl,” he said. Now they were back to the angered tone, there was no more messing around. No more of the tension and sadness, there was only anger and rage. Drunken rage. “I told you to get a haircut,” he kicked him in the back, as his son tried to grasp for that breath of air. Trying so hard to get the wind back in him, “but I guess you like being a fag,” he kicked him again. This time harder than the prodding kick the first time.
He couldn’t form a response to that, but he managed to take a breath, and sit up. His stomach still hurt. His head throbbed, but he sat up to face the spinning room. Crawling across the room for the phone again.
“You’re such an idiot child.” Slap. Right across the face, causing his face to twist sideways with the impact of a hand slapping across his cheek. He stood up, and walked over to the phone, and with a stomp of his ripped apart shoe, he smashed it. The cracking of the plastic under his shoe was a defining moment in this fight.
“It would be just as easy to kill you too,” he said, “then we’d all be dead,” he held the gun in his hand. “The family of freaks, the drugged up mother, the little faggot son, and the drunken dad, no one would even miss us.”
He realized what he was saying was true. No one would miss him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to die.
“We…” he started to say something, but his head was spinning and it took him a second to clear out all the unnecessary thoughts and make a sentence. His long dark hair hung in his eyes, and his face still stung from the slap of a heavy hand across his face. “We can get help,” it was the first thing he had managed to spit out that actually made some sense. Maybe he could talk him out of it.
“There isn’t enough help in the world.” He said in a cruel tone, with a chuckle, rejecting the idea of it even working without a second thought. “Why are you so naïve , I thought I raised you smart enough to be used to this cruel world,” he chucked again. “I guess not.” He kicked him again. This time it didn’t hurt. He didn’t let it hurt.
“You didn’t even raise me,” he stood up, still a little wobbly, “You never once acted like my dad. All I ever had was my mom, and all she ever did was take care of your drunk ass,” he knew that talking like this was only going to get him in trouble, but that last comment about raising him made him snap. It was the trigger that threw him over the edge.
“What did you just say to me son?” He shook his head and baked up slowly, until his back was against a wall.
“Stop calling me son, I’m not your son,” he said in a calm voice, he wasn’t even that mad it was just like something inside him had snapped and he was done playing the victim that was until he remembered the gun. The next thing he knew he was on the ground with a gun pointed at him, suddenly scared silent again.
“You better watch your mouth son,” he said, probably saying son on purpose now.
The boy didn’t respond, because before he could open his mouth to get the words out, the deafening sound of a gun shot rang through his ears, and then he blacked out.
He never saw his dad again and never heard from him. He never paid attention to weather the cops found him or not, and he didn’t care. He was done living that life, and for the next year he worked on fixing his leg and walking again, and he pushed himself. That was the only thing he could do to not think about things, even though he had to go to therapy every week, that his social worker made sure of. He never said much about it, ever. It was just something that he had to deal with himself because he felt like talking about it only made things worse, so he didn’t.
He dealt with things his own way, and that lead him to find another way to avoid talking. One day he aunt was stupid enough to leave him in the house all alone, and he was curious, what was so good about drinking? He knew where it was hidden and he tried it. Why the hell not right? This was such a great way to deal with things. When his cousin came home with a friend, he flirted with her, and they ended up having sex. It was weird for such a young kids, but he liked it. For a while he did whatever he wanted. Slept with random girls, and never thought about it.
He hurt people and never looked back. He didn’t care he just got what he wanted, and really that was just a way to distract himself from the pain. It all was. All just a distraction, at first he still remembered it all the abuse and pain and that was what he tried to escape. So he was a jerk. He tried to hard to get away from it, and started to find out that it followed him where ever her went. So he distracted himself. He promised that he would never hit anyone, and never be like that. Even if he was a jerk he wasn’t his dad.
It wasn’t a bad thing, until he met a girl her name was Carol Maree, and he fell head over heels for her, and he knew it. He even waited for her to be ready to have sex, and although he still remained a jerk on the inside he grew up during the year they dated, and became a more mature person. No longer was he the guy that cheated on her, but maybe he made a suggestive comment here and there, and he tried to help people. He really did his best to hang onto that relationship because she was his entire life. He changed who he was to be with her, so when they broke up what did he have?
Nothing.
He said something stupid, she over reacted like always and ended up saying they needed a break. After she was diagnosed with cancer. Her mother decided to have both her and her sister come home for various reasons, at the time Wyatt didn’t know they were leaving, and went to make it up to her to find her gone. He tried the best he could to get in contact with her but to no avail, now he’s working on getting over his first love, and the only girl he was ever in a serious relationship with.
