Post by Taren on Oct 5, 2006 11:49:01 GMT -5
Kurt Splinter: Boarding School For the Gifted Character.
Footfalls down an empty hallway, breaths within a tomb of fear. Fear. He was a coward. He knew that and had always known it. And yet it was not entirely his fault. Fear could not describe his pulling, binding emotions that were lost within each tentative breaths, timid steps, his slow heart quickening at the thought.
Drifting shaggy, yet not too lengthy, red-brown hair. Muddy optics, boggy eyes caught in the reflection the the lamps above, the shined floor below. Heaven and Hell all at once captured by the moment, his blinking in time with a game of hopscotch in his heart.
Throw a stone and then jump: 1, 2, 3- For he felt his heart skipping like a child, and he was afraid. Sweat beaded on his brow, the brow where his hair slumped over as if stabbed by an invisible javelin, and he blinked again.
"Control yourself."
It was command in his mind, but he had never listened to that.
"You are Kurt Splinters, you are sixteen, and you are alone."
His head overpowered his instinct and he slowed his pace, numbed his heart, breaths sliding between the pasta strainer in his brain.
"Don't be afraid."
He had always been fearful, why should any of this change now, here- When had he ever thought of something he did not fear, did not loath. Himself. Yes, he had to hate himself, but he was not daring enough to do so. And the pain of despising your very make up, defying the wonderful works of God- No, he could not do that.
Maybe once, in the ever hounding past, he had not feared or hated. Perhaps once before his condition had started. His gift, his curse. May others who dwelt in this world were given something, a power that was supernatural, odd. They were great and terrible marks of being abnormal. cruel to whoever dared oppose their might, but they themselves were not always black of spirit, but they were always strong.
He was not strong.
Unlike his fellow students he possessed no jaw-dropping attribute and was given but a feeble sliver of the taste that comes from being 'gifted'. He shuddered violently at the thought. His ball and chain was simple and practically useless. He could contract himself until he stood only three inches tall, sometimes smaller depending on the weather, and was forced to remain in that state for an entire hour. In short terms, he could shrink. A trait undesirable to say the least.
even before he had known this he had been infected with a phobia of the female race, and his encounters with girls after wards had only made the matter worse. Females. He coughed as if to reassure the one dash of vernal nature in his soul. He was alone. There was nothing to fear. Shy. Timid. Lanky. Tall (almost abnormally). Words floating around behind a pepper corn freckled face. Remarks of teachers, fellow students, and girls.
He was not always this distraught with fear and often times he could be almost genial, but his usual shyness and his stumbling of words always got in the way.
Timid. Shy. Lanky. But he was small in spirit, minute in heart. Afraid. That was him. Ever afraid.
Footfalls down an empty hallway, breaths within a tomb of fear. Fear. He was a coward. He knew that and had always known it. And yet it was not entirely his fault. Fear could not describe his pulling, binding emotions that were lost within each tentative breaths, timid steps, his slow heart quickening at the thought.
Drifting shaggy, yet not too lengthy, red-brown hair. Muddy optics, boggy eyes caught in the reflection the the lamps above, the shined floor below. Heaven and Hell all at once captured by the moment, his blinking in time with a game of hopscotch in his heart.
Throw a stone and then jump: 1, 2, 3- For he felt his heart skipping like a child, and he was afraid. Sweat beaded on his brow, the brow where his hair slumped over as if stabbed by an invisible javelin, and he blinked again.
"Control yourself."
It was command in his mind, but he had never listened to that.
"You are Kurt Splinters, you are sixteen, and you are alone."
His head overpowered his instinct and he slowed his pace, numbed his heart, breaths sliding between the pasta strainer in his brain.
"Don't be afraid."
He had always been fearful, why should any of this change now, here- When had he ever thought of something he did not fear, did not loath. Himself. Yes, he had to hate himself, but he was not daring enough to do so. And the pain of despising your very make up, defying the wonderful works of God- No, he could not do that.
Maybe once, in the ever hounding past, he had not feared or hated. Perhaps once before his condition had started. His gift, his curse. May others who dwelt in this world were given something, a power that was supernatural, odd. They were great and terrible marks of being abnormal. cruel to whoever dared oppose their might, but they themselves were not always black of spirit, but they were always strong.
He was not strong.
Unlike his fellow students he possessed no jaw-dropping attribute and was given but a feeble sliver of the taste that comes from being 'gifted'. He shuddered violently at the thought. His ball and chain was simple and practically useless. He could contract himself until he stood only three inches tall, sometimes smaller depending on the weather, and was forced to remain in that state for an entire hour. In short terms, he could shrink. A trait undesirable to say the least.
even before he had known this he had been infected with a phobia of the female race, and his encounters with girls after wards had only made the matter worse. Females. He coughed as if to reassure the one dash of vernal nature in his soul. He was alone. There was nothing to fear. Shy. Timid. Lanky. Tall (almost abnormally). Words floating around behind a pepper corn freckled face. Remarks of teachers, fellow students, and girls.
He was not always this distraught with fear and often times he could be almost genial, but his usual shyness and his stumbling of words always got in the way.
Timid. Shy. Lanky. But he was small in spirit, minute in heart. Afraid. That was him. Ever afraid.
