Post by THADDEUS KENDRICK HAWKE III on Oct 31, 2011 15:24:19 GMT -5
THADDEUS KENDRICK HAWKE III. TWENTY TWO. GREASER/ TATTOO ARTIST. RICK GENEST.
personality
Mellow ; Hawke is a figure that is perfectly content to sit back and watch the world around him. The tattoos were never meant as a cry for attention or help; the fact that he morphed his appearance into that of a ‘troubled individual’ does not actually mean that that is what he is. He prefers not to let the simple things rile him up too terribly, and if he had his way—he would never have to force any sort of passion for something he was not truly passionate about.
Bitter ; Despite the newfound freedoms, Hawke has been unable to actually get rid of all of the lingering bitterness. As it is, he’s a master at simply covering it up and ignoring it, setting it on the backburner to deal with at a later date. Hawke resents the fact that he was unable to actually discover bits and pieces about himself until age twelve, and he is easily irked at any reminder that the majority of the people of his generation are able to start that process at a very early age. He lacks a firm foundation as to who he really is… at least, he feels like he does. What he feels at the moment is the potential to be a wonderful man, but the lingering emptiness that made him rather ugly.
Curious ; Curiosity was what started his freedom of expression, and it is an impulsive beast when it resides in Hawke. When something peaks his interest, it’s nearly impossible for him to resist the urge to allow whatever that thing is to consume him up to his eyeballs. Hawke submerges himself into things readily, be it a new experience with some sort of drug, a new form of art, or a person who strikes his fancy.
Artistic ; Perhaps it was due to the extensive emotional repression that was demanded of him from an early age, but these days, Hawke finds himself lingering over the simplest of things, imagining how they came to be. When the average person sees a crack within the pavement, that is all they see. When Hawke stumbles upon that crack, it would not be uncommon for him to squat down to peer at it more attentively, to conjure a story in his mind as to how that little crack came to be, what that ‘flawed’ bit of pavement feels, why it feels that way—before long, Hawke is relating to the crack in the pavement, and it’s likely that he will make some sort of work of art dedicated to that very crack.
Lost ; The world is a new place to Hawke. He could tell anyone the most embarrassing gossip regarding the social elites, but when it comes to matters that are actually personal, he is at a loss. He doesn’t know where he’s going in the world, has no idea how he’ll go anywhere, and, more importantly, he’s never quite sure if he’ll have to go that way alone. Making friends has been an arduous task, especially since it’s generally agreed that Hawke is an emotional retard. He has absolutely no idea how to really deal with his own feelings… It’s something he’s working on.
history
When looking at Thaddeus, no one would expect him to have come from a life of privilege and opportunity. This is a boy who grew up toddling after his parents in the Middle East, a young man who attended dinner parties with the most renowned members of society, a teenager who served tea to the Duchess of Cambridge not but four years ago. The fact of the matter is that Thaddeus has always been on top of the world, there has never been anything out of reach. That having been said, this is a young man who has seldom felt anything but emptiness in regards to his life. There was nothing exciting, no deep connections for him to form. Hawke was the boy who starved for emotional release, who longed for a greater purpose than negotiating political entities with foreign dignitaries.
As a toddler, Thaddeus spent the vast majority of his time with nannies of all sorts, playing only the most sophisticated of games, indulging in only the most sanctified forms of art. From the time of his birth, this was a boy that was saturated in a life of formalities and titles. Hawke grew up in a sheltered facility, never coming into contact with those of his own age group. As it was, his socialization was gleaned only from other members of high society, and it left him as a refined individual… Until a young lady managed to sneak onto the property of one of their vacation homes. The dogs singled her out rather quickly, but curiosity got the better of Hawke, and it was only a matter of mere seconds before he found himself dashing towards the fence that the girl was attempting to climb back over. Jumping up, he hooked his arm around her waist and dragged her bodily to the ground, finding himself enraptured by the foreign sense of freedom that her expression invoked. He was fifteen years old at the time, and it was the moment his life started to change.
The girl referred to herself as Andromeda, a title that she started to explain, only to find that her young captor already knew the story behind it. At the time, it was no surprise that he was an educated fellow; he looked the part, what with a clean face, expensive clothing, and a certain innocence that sparked within his eye. It was an innocence that Andromeda was content to corrupt. Despite being four years older than Hawke, she took him under her wing and whisked him away into the night, introducing him to the less than proper aspects of society. He had his first beer, he smoked his first cigarette, and under the promise of a kiss from that lovely girl, he got his first tattoo. From his point of view, the kiss was most definitely worth the pain. The freedom he experienced that night, the simple joy to be alive that had entered his heart, was what fueled his actions for the next several years. At first, the tattoos were easily covered by long sleeves an almost ridiculous amount of makeup, stolen from a cousin’s vanity set, but as the years continued to pass, and as Hawke realized more and more that he had absolutely no desire for the life of privilege and refinement, a life of signing official documents and hosting dinner parties for dignitaries, he set about convincing his parents to send him to another country for school; never mind that he had been tutored from home since he could actually communicate properly.
That process in itself took years, though that was perhaps because his parents started to view him as unstable, a point of view that was only fueled by the fact that he reeked of not only cigarettes, but also marijuana and alcohol. The fact that he could still speak to them in a refined manner did not seem to matter; especially when they discovered the multitude of tattoos that he had been hiding. Once they found out, he started to press matters more urgently, slowly allowing the inked bits of flesh to creep out from under his sleeves and up his neck; places that could not be hidden so very easily. In the end, his parents signed the papers simply to ensure that they would suffer very little damage to their social status.
Hawke managed to have himself enrolled at a local community college, taking only art classes and various psychology courses. To refrain from allowing those who were more in tune with the higher bits of society from recognizing him, Hawke began to go by his last name or various nicknames, refusing to give his full name to anyone other than school officials. As it is, he’s perfectly content to slide by under the radar (a surprisingly easy feat, given the fact that there is no longer an inch of his skin that hasn’t been covered in ink) and figure out exactly who he is. As a positive note; the bitterness and emptiness that came with the life of privilege is starting to fade away; though that could easily be because he has submersed himself readily within the dregs of society, and rather than spending the money that is placed into his bank account each month on school or expensive things, Hawke opted to open up a tattoo and piercing parlor, instead.
out of character information
What do you go by?
Boo
How old are you?
Seventeen
How long have you been doing this?
Eight-ish years
What timezone are you in?
I AM A TIME LOR- central.
How can we reach you?
Pm for msn
Who else have you got?
Not applicable.
Canon or Original?
Original
Care to show off your skills?ONLY REQUIRED FOR FIRST CHARACTER.
The day had started out like any other.
That is to say, it started with Madison dragging himself out of the realm of dreams, prying his eyes open with significant effort, a light peck at his shoulder... The start of his days had never been a particularly pleasant event, but with the recent ban on alcohol that Jackie had imposed, it made them all the more difficult... It made everything more difficult. Crawling through the day had become a laborious event, dealing with people hour after hour had become something he detested with a fervent hatred, falling asleep had become nigh impossible; staying asleep had become something he didn't wish to do. The nightmares had become increasingly worse, as had that all too familiar sense of paranoia. The salt and pepper haired man hated that feeling; he hated the urge to look over his shoulder each time someone walked past him, the startling sensation that lurched into his bones whenever he looked into any reflective surface and saw even a flicker of a familiar face.
The horrors had never left him, and it had gotten to the point where he assumed they never would. It was easier to simply drown them; it meant that he was free to pretend that things were perfectly fine. Everyone else seemed to be under the same assumption, so why did that boy have to be different? Madison greatly preferred the moments where it would have been utterly inappropriate for Jackie to interject himself so deeply into his life, the moments where it would have been incredibly rude for him to suggest that Madison veer away from the bottle, even a little.
Confrontations on the matter seldom went well.
Madison had eventually dragged himself from the bed and slaved through selecting his suit for the day, laying it out across the bed --which had been drastically underused, from his point of view-- before stalking off towards the shower. By that point, Jackie was most likely already away at school. Regardless, the stiff muscled older man leaned heavily against the door to the shower, a hand lingering under the spray of the water as he waited for it to heat up.
Hangovers were more bearable than this feeling.
After a too-long shower, the middle-aged man managed to crawl out of it, feeling as if he were inhaling water with every breath due to how the steam had risen and collected within the air. It was impossible for Madison to see himself in the mirror, and that was a circumstance that he greatly appreciated. The less horrors to start the day with, the better. When he had sipped from the bottle all day, looking at himself had been something pleasurable. Madison was more than aware that he was a handsome fellow, and he did his best to keep up his appearance at all times. Sober, however, he was able to notice the look of the skin around his own eyes, as well as the less than pleasant emotions swimming within them. There was a certain brokenness that was more readily apparent. As it was, Professor Lovell was able to brush his teeth in peace, and after hacking up a mixture of blood, spit, and toothpaste into the sink, his eyes drifted towards the bottle of mouthwash.
Zero Alcohol.
"Little prick..." Madison growled out, a wrinkle forming at the bridge of his nose as he uncapped it with a fair amount of irritation, swishing the substance around inside of his mouth before spitting that out, too. Like any small portion of alcohol within mouthwash was going to have an effect on Madison. The idea was foolish-- even if it was only meant as a reminder.
That was the moment the older man's day had started to go downhill.
Once he had dressed himself and driven off to work, things had not improved at all. Quite the opposite, actually. There was an all too familiar heaviness to his limbs, an exhaustion that had frequently crept into his bones and movements during his years at college; that had been the last stint of years that he had attempted to quit drinking. Twenty years ago. The day had limped onward monotonously, and Madison had lost his temper several times, snapping at several students, going so far as to throw dictionaries and thesauruses in their general direction. The students who enrolled in Professor Lovell's classes were meant to be the best of the best; they were supposed to be perfect in every literary sense. They were not. It seemed as if they rejected information simply to spite him.
When Madison had had enough, he dismissed his last class for the day, telling them to read up on their material. If they were intelligent, they would. If not... well, they would fail.
It was as simple as that.
With his frustration as high as it was, Madison's mind directed itself on autopilot, functioning on old habits and routines. Once he was in his office at the university, Madison found himself dragging his feet towards a locked box in the bottom drawer of his desk. The key was in the drawer above it-- everything was far too simple for Madison, not many people would have assumed to look there. Regardless, he seated himself in his chair, unlocking the box and pulling out a flask that had not been touched for the better part of a week. With a methodical way of moving, the older man tipped the flask up at his lips, hardly noticing the familiar burn of the alcohol. This was not an action that he enjoyed, but it seemed far better than the alternative.
Less than an hour later, Madison had finished off the flask and replaced the locked box in its drawer. His body was used to the feeling of alcohol; it was something that it had learned to function with. There was no noticeable difference in his mannerisms, aside from the fact that he was no longer dragging his feet or glancing over his shoulder with an inane paranoia.
All of that was gone.
What remained was an unquenchable thirst.
The guilt of his actions did not hit Madison until he had purchased more alcohol and sat within his car, sipping away, alternating between vodka and whiskey. It was hopeless. Why Jackie had decided to take up a lost cause, Madison had no idea. A cop had waltzed by, giving Madison a rather disapproving expression, one that Madison only smirked at, gesturing to the fact that his car was not on and running, which made it impossible to warrant him a ticket or any sort. The dark haired man had been in this game far too long not to know the rules.
By the time he and Jackie were within the same car, Madison was feeling back to normal. The paranoia was gone, his snarky sarcasm had regained a playful tone rather than a vindictive one, and he was more than willing to give into Jackie's demands to see Rio. It had to be better than Gnomeo and Juliet, didn't it? Starting off in that direction, everything had been perfectly fine, right up until Jackie spoke.
"Maybe I should have driven..." It was a muttered comment, but it was one that Madison picked up on with ease.
Shit.
"You're not on the insurance; if we were to get into a wreck that would be problematic."
"You've been drinking."
"That would certainly account for the smell, wouldn't it?" Guilt and irritation came back in waves, attacking Madison, ramming against his psych with a vengeance. This was too similar. It far too alike to the circumstances Madison had found himself in with Nick. If Jackie would just abandon the issue, everything would be fine... They could go back to being happy. Madison had said as much, too, murmuring the words quietly as Jackie had screamed at him, refusing to look up from the road, retreating into himself more and more with each and every word.
"It's no wonder no one can put up with you! You're weak, you're childish!"
Madison's scarred hands tightened on the wheel, jaw clenching as he tried to focus on driving. Had he not have had any alcohol in his system, it was very likely that he would have dissolved into a mess of tears. As it was, Madison was able to manage a stoicism that came close to rivaling that of one Ilene Wilson, save for the barest hints of emotion. Despite having a toxicity level that would have left an average man of Madison's size slurring his words and stumbling about without any sense, the older man was able to maintain a level of coherency and awareness that most sober individuals could not attain. His driving was flawless; he ran absolutely no risk of being flagged down by cops or of running into another car or a wall. Madison was a safe driver.
"Madison, pull over. Pull over! I’m not riding with a drunk driver!"
He couldn't do that. There was no point in doing it. If he pulled over, it was likely that Jackie would have darted from the car. As much as Madison prided himself on being physically fit, he had a denser body than Jackie. His bones were larger, his muscle mass was a considerable amount heavier-- all in all, he had more to move, and catching up to Jackie would have been a challenge, especially with a shit-knee. He had kept driving. Madison could deal with the screaming, but he could not deal with the idea of Jackie running off, of potentially being hit by a car or abducted by some stranger.
Jackie grabbed the wheel.
It was an action that shocked Madison more than anything, and by the time he was able to react, the car had already swerved into oncoming traffic. A car smashed against Jackie's side of the car. The impact sent Madison's head back against the side window, but other than a vague amount of discomfort, he was unharmed. All traffic ceased. People on both sides of the road stopped, rushing from their cars and swarming all around. Madison lunged out of his car, crawling over the crumpled hood to get to Jackie's side, glaring at the stunned driver of the other car. "Sir, are you okay?! Oh my God, your kid! Someone call 911!"
Madison wanted to hit something so very badly.
When the police arrived, Madison remained as silent as possible, lips pursed as he watched firemen dissemble his car, loading Jackie up to take him to the hospital. "Madison Lovell. I've heard that name before..."
"Of course you have, you look like the type of single man with an erectile dysfunction that would watch Oprah." There was a vague bit of silence before Madison actually looked at the cop, face crinkling into a less than pleased expression. The cop's nose twitched, and before long, a tube was presented, held level with Madison's mouth. "I'm going to have to ask you to breathe into this tube." Shit. Swallowing his irritation, Madison wrapped his lips around the tube, exhaling while glaring at the man intently. "... How the hell are you still walking, Lovell?!"
"Tolerance. I'm going to the hospital, now."
"I have to take you to the station; you're well over the driving level, and you've got some under-aged kid in your car? Don't try to bullshit me, I know you don't have kids. None that live with you, anyway."
"I'm glad you're so up-to-date on my personal life, and while I'm flattered that you've probably put your dysfunction to good use while I was on your television, I'm going to get going, now." Before further objections could be made, Madison lunged up into the ambulance, starring worriedly at Jackie, biting back remarks. The car didn't matter; it was totaled, anyway. It didn't matter, it wasn't as if he could buy ten more of the same make without batting an eye. At the hospital, Madison shrugged off people who tried to doctor-up the minor cuts he had received, refusing to sit still and cooperate until he was given updates on Jackie. It didn't help the guilt or frustration. If Jackie hadn't taken on this hopeless crusade, none of this would have happened.
If you hadn't guzzled enough whiskey and vodka to intoxicate an elephant, this wouldn't have happened. You should have dealt with the horrors.
Cameras flashed. Great. The cop had probably alerted the media. Madison's upper lip curled. What were you thinking? Why would you drink and drive? Your record is impressive, were you hoping to add to it? Who is that under-aged kid? He looks like he's fifteen! It's just like your books, isn't it?
Madison picked up the nearby end table and chunked it at the small group, which resulted in the cop that had been following them handcuffing Madison. Fantastic.
"You're lucky you're only getting a DUI."
"Just shoot me. Busticate my skull." The cop did not respond.
Probably didn't know the meaning of the word 'busticate.'
