Ianthe Sharrow
Dec 12, 2010 2:01:23 GMT -5
Post by Ianthe Sharrow on Dec 12, 2010 2:01:23 GMT -5
The easy S T U F F . . .Name: Ianthe Neve Cutting
Nickname: She is only to be addressed as 'Ianthe.'
Age: Fourteen and a half.
Member Group: Student.
Power(s): Channeling and Astral Projection.
Sexual Orientation: Asexual.
Play By: Kay Panabaker.Let it F L O W . . .We were jagged silhouettes dancing on the edge of the broken skyline. Blazing through neon clouds and crumbling skyscrapers, we leapt over the lead moon. We flew with our Icarus wings – crashing through sound and sight and rationality with only our knife-sharp smiles and nimble charm.
This was how it felt to be alive – the flight before the fall, the smile before the stab, the invisible ladder step.
Then the plunge.
I never told them I was afraid of the plunge – how it made my ears bleed, how I felt the electricity surge through my veins, how I felt like I had died and risen so many times.
I never told them anything. I only acquiesced.
But today was the final plunge. The drop that would lead us to the unreal, the false, the untrue. I was all nerves, all pulses, all blinks. Blood flowed through me like drying tar, my muscles were metals being corroded by acid and my bones turned into rubber cement.
The wind howled threateningly as I skidded to a stop. It grabbed me by the ankles as I flailed my arms, attempting to reach some proverbial hope. Candle-flame eyes and dead pearls moved in and out of my vision, phantasmagorical and kaleidoscope-like. Ophidian whispers seeped inside me and despite the chill in my spine, I felt caustic. As if I would just burst into flame, then my ashes would form a new soul.
But I was no phoenix.. . .
"Miss Sharrow, that really is an interesting bit of fiction."
"Erm...well...Ah...It's not quite...false..."
"I see! It must be an allusion then! An allegory about life. You really are brilliant, Miss Sharrow."
"N-No...It's really not an...allusion. It's a...little...boy, actually."
"A little boy? I'm afraid I don't know where this is heading. Is your mother pregnant? A little bundle of joy would certainly help your disposition towards life!"
"...It-It's honestly...not like that..."
"Miss Sharrow? You were mumbling something, again. I told you that you should always voice out your opinions. What about the little boy?"
"Oh! Right...Sorry, Doctor Cutting...Well...He's kind of....not...here."
"Whatever do you mean? A-Are you alright, Miss Sharrow? You look...pale."
"I-It's nothing..."
"Miss Sharrow, your parents hired me because they wanted you to be fixed. You are unstable, there is no nice way of saying it. I need your cooperation."
"There! He's right there!"
"Miss Sharrow?"
"I don't like fire, too..."
"Where are you getting at, Miss Sharrow? Please, do listen to me. I can help."
"You told me...When we first met...That you never liked fire...It was winter, and I was cold..."
"A-Ah, yes. I'm just not...comfortable with...flames. B-But, enough about me! I can fix myself. You barely can hang on to your sanity, Miss Sharrow."
"B-But!"
"Silence, Miss Sharrow! Silence! You need to think more."
"I'm...sorry, but the little boy...He's...waiting...."
"Thank you, Miss Sharrow. Our session's over for today. When you come back tomorrow, please try to control your ramblings. Tell your parents I said 'hello.'"
"He'll...never stop...waiting.". . .
"Doctor Cutting says 'hello,'" The young girl chirped; violet eyes glistening with the luster of fleeting innocence. She was still young when Doctor Cutting fist visited - she was still in the Barbie-Doll-Dress-Up-Childhood Phase that seemed too distant, like a fading star.
"Who is Doctor Cutting?" Mrs. Sharrow asked, surprised at her little (too little) girl, "I told you to never talk to strangers, Ianthe."
"Doctor Cutting says you want me fixed," There was something underneath her little daughter's saccharine voice, but the mother could not locate and vaporize the proverbial tumor.
"Why do you want me fixed, mommy?" The innocence was back; mocking, taunting. None of them could understand what was truly happening.
But, perhaps...It was better that way.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about, Ianthe," Mrs. Sharrow was frightened and she was ready to leap out of her daughter's little orbit, like a pretty bird. Pretty birds...Mrs. Sharrow liked those tiny flying creatures...
"Who IS Doctor Cutting?" Mrs. Sharrow snapped as she shook her paradoxically fragile child.
"How can you not know, mother!? Doctor Cutting lives here. And her son, too. But the poor Doctor doesn't know that he's her son..." Ianthe whispered, like a prayer or perhaps, like a curse, "Doctor Cutting says you're getting me fixed."
"W-What? You're not broken, sweetheart. Only things get broken. Not people."
"Doctor Cutting's broken. Her house burned down. She told me that she doesn't like fire."
"Ianthe, dear, I think you should stop reading those books of yours. You're going insane," Mrs. Sharrow was frightened; she knew it would have happened sooner or later, like what had happened to poor Ezekiel...
"Dad went insane," Ianthe continued matter-of-factly, mechanically, coldly. Then, with a change of tone, "...You're scared."
"I know, dear," Mrs. Sharrow bit back a sob, "I am scared. I worry about him all the time."
There was a pause. A thick, tar-like pause that engulfed both mother and daughter.
"Fix me!" Ianthe then shouted, "Fix me, I change my mind!"
"D-Dear?"
"I don't want to go crazy! I don't want to get killed! Fix me, now!"
"Ianthe, calm down, please...You're waking up the neighbors," Mrs. Sharrow put a hand on her daughter's shoulder, but Ianthe remained tense, alert, paranoid.
"...Doctor Cutting," Ianthe muttered, "...She told me her son attempted to burn the house down and that she protected him from her husband. Only she didn't succeed."
"Stay away from my daughter!" Mrs. Sharrow shrieked, slashing the air with a butter knife. If her daughter spiraled into insanity, then she would go with her.
"Her son could burn things...And it scared him...But Doctor Cutting...She liked his ability...Then everything went wrong..."
"Stay away from my daughter!" Mrs. Sharrow dropped the butter knife and held Ianthe tightly in her arms, "Please, stay away from my daughter."
"Mom...They'll always be...wherever I will be. They're...like shadows. I...don't think I can...escape."
"But you will, Ianthe, you will escape," Mrs. Sharrow smiled at her daughter, who suddenly turned older and more mature, "I know you've seen a lot of things, Ianthe, but you will be able to escape.". . .
My name is Ianthe Neve Sharrow. I...erm...see dead people. It's not very enjoyable, since most ghosts don't even know they've...moved on. I also...uh, somehow walk into people's dreams.
I can't really see much, mind you, just blurs and occasional bursts. Bursts of what, I don't know, but most of the time I watch their dreams behind an almost opaque window; it's really just like attempting to see what's in front of you during a thick fog.
Just don't sue me, I don't know anything except that my mom's scared and that I think I'm scared, too. I don't know what I'm afraid of yet, but I'm...erm...working on it.
I am recording this because I am afraid that these ghosts and these hazy dreams will drive me insane -- they're half-succeeding -- and that I'll never remember anything about my life before all this. I need some sort of proof that I am still Ianthe Neve Sharrow and maybe this is good enough, I don't know.
My first best friend was a ghost. I was twelve and her name was Doctor Cutting. Her son was...odd, too. He was a bit of a pyromaniac...
Anyway, she...erm...God, I can't stay awake any longer...Doctor Cutting...She was really nice. But she said I had to get fixed. I didn't understand her at first, but now I think I do.
Maybe.
I'm scared. I'm so scared. And lonely.
My name is Ianthe Neve Sharrow and I'd like to believe I'm a Phoenix. Doctor Cutting said that the Phoenix was her son's favorite mythological creature.
Nnnngh. My head...It's burning...I need sleep...But they all keep me awake...
Doctor Cutting, please, not now. I need to sleep. I don't get to sleep. No, you can fix me tomorrow...Tomorrow...
I am...a phoenix...Ianthe...Neve...Sharrow...
-End of Tape-Behind the M A S K . . .Name: Onion.
Age: Early teens.
RP Experience: I've been writing stories since I was old enough to hold a pen, but I've only been in the role-playing scene for a year and a half.
How did you find us?: Caution!Show your S K I L L S . . .It was sunrise when she woke up; olive hair messy, like roots of some ancient tree. She was still clad in her spotless lab coat, goggles resting snugly on top of her head, surgical gloves hanging limply on her hands. Her eyes were the only parts of her anatomy that would move - she only realized that she was slumped over her chair in an uncomfortable position when her back started crying out in pain. She blinked; it was the tenth - she had been keeping count - day she woke up only because her nocturnal self could only take so much sleep.
Attempting stand up, Russet held onto the desk for some support. Since she had arrived in Clover Fields two months ago, she had began working herself crazy, scavenging for items that could be used to create...Create what? Something, anything to stop the deafening silence - in her mind, in the town, in the world. She wanted, after all, to make a difference. Not because of fame, not because of fortune but for making a difference for the sake of making a difference. But the silence in Clover Fields was unnerving and disquieting the young girl. It was slowing her down.
Finally steady on her two feet, Russet brushed a bit of her stingy hair from her eyes. Dashing quickly through the rubbish of her small hut, she fixed up a quick breakfast of a cold bagel and some iced coffee. Her heels then cooled as she plopped on the threadbare couch, gulping down the coffee and stuffing herself with the bagel. She would have enjoyed her breakfast if there was an omelette - with cheese and onions and mushrooms, mmmm - to go with it, but she had no eggs. Or butter. Or cheese. Or milk. Or cooking oil. There wasn't much food left in the fridge, so she made a mental note to stop by the general store to pick up some goods.
After the plate had been washed, the cup emptied, the clothes smoothed, Russet exited her hut and went outside. She was far behind her nonexistent schedule and forced herself to run to town.
It was a wonderful Spring day, with the birds chirping and the bees buzzing and the flowers blooming. Not that seasons mattered to Russet. Each day was just a day - no more, no less. But when the deliciously cool air filled her lungs, the scientist started to understand why. Suddenly, Russet wished she had slept in, too. It wasn't like she was going anywhere with her inventions. The only thing she created that worked was a clock she had crafted from spare items inside the hut.
Russet managed to coerce herself into not breathing too hard and too quickly - she probably would have inhaled the whole town. With the air that she relished and the cold coffee she drank, Russet wasn't feeling like herself. It probably was because it was Spring. Maybe the seasons affected her, too. Maybe Spring wasn't a time for inventions...but for ideas.
