Post by emily dawn greengrass on Jul 7, 2012 15:31:24 GMT -5
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credit to wilmetta ! at caution for graphic [/center]
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[/b][/div]emily dawn greengrass
seventeen ▪ slytherin ▪ amber heard
I was born in the heat of August, to the Greengrass family. I was the first-born, and at first my parents were delighted to have me. They spoiled me and loved me, sacrificing their sleep, time, and money to care for me. But it didn’t last long. Too soon, the grass had become greener on the other side. When my younger sister was born, they began to find the burden hard to bear. They were not ready or willing to care for two young girls. They often ignored both of us, trying to pretend we did not exist. A year later, my brother came too. Our parents couldn’t handle us anymore. They tried, but they didn’t know what they were doing, and were in way over their heads. Still, they managed to keep us fed, clothed, and alive. When I was old enough, I helped my parents care for my brother and sister.
When I was eight, my uncle became...sick. At least, that’s what my mom called it. She made it sound like he had a terminal disease. I had never met my uncle before. We never talked about him much, probably because he was a squib. I got the feeling my father was ashamed of being related to him through marriage. I was the oldest child at the time, so my mother took me with her when she left to care for her brother. My father stayed behind with my siblings. I still don’t know if he stayed behind because he was a coward, and my mother went because she was courageous. Or if they were both just ignorant.
My uncle was not sick, not the way my mother had said. He did not need to be cared for, he was a big boy and could care for himself. But there was definitely something wrong in his head. About a month into our stay with him, I dropped my dishes. I was carrying them to the sink when they slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. Before my mother could even think of scolding me, my uncle had stood up and pushed me to the ground. He started yelling at me about the dish. Apparently it was an heirloom, and I had no right to destroy it without his permission. As if I had done it on purpose. My uncle had left after that, and my mother helped me clean it up. She did not say a word about what had just happened, and I was too shaken up to ask why she hadn’t stuck up for me.
Because I was only eight, I had a tendency to make a lot of mistakes. From dropping things to slipping and falling and breaking things. Every single time something of the like happened, my uncle was on the scene first. It was like he had a sixth sense for it. Every time he would inflict some sort of pain on me(pushing me, slapping me, hitting me, etc.) and scold me loudly. Every time afterwards, I would find my mother a few yards away, having watched the scene silently. Eventually I got gutsy, and cornered her when my uncle wasn’t around. I asked her why she let him punish me and yell at me like he did. All I received as an answer was a sad look, and a shake of the head. After that, I did not hear her speak while we lived with my uncle.
I did hear her yell, once. Petrified she was in trouble and needed me, I had raced over to the sound of her voice. What I had found was worse than anything I could have imagined as the cause of her scream. I…I don’t want to talk about what I found. But, after I found it, the abuse increased dramatically. My uncle no longer hit me when I did something wrong. He found any excuse he possibly could to put his hands, shoes, and belts on me. I was running in the house. I was wearing my shoes in the bedroom. I was walking too slow. I was breathing too loudly. Finally, he just hit me. He gave no reason; he just hit me whenever he wanted to. He hit my mother too. I saw the bruises on her, heard the screams. I was no longer ignorant that she was just as helpless as I was. The attacks haunted me all the time. I would dream about them, and think about them nonstop. The abuse didn’t just mark my body, it marked my mind too. Behind my eyelids I could see him bringing his hand down on me, his angry face yelling and spitting at me.
I wondered why my father never called the house to see how we were. I asked my mother why she didn’t call him to come and get us, or apparate, or use the floo network to leave. She gave no answer. I was too frightened of my uncle to call my father myself, and I didn’t know how to do either of the latter.
Right before I was to turn ten, a call came to the house. My uncle picked it up, and didn’t say much. Whoever was on the other line did most of the talking. A few days after that, a little girl who called herself Lacie showed up on our doorstep. She was only about three. I didn’t know who she was, where she had come from, or why she was there. But almost immediately I felt a connection to her that I had felt towards no one else, not even my family. I felt the need to show her affection and care, and protect her. It was unspoken that she had become my responsibility when I was the only one who seemed to notice her. I took care of her as best I could at ten years old, with some very slight assistance from my mother.
But I couldn’t take care of her all the time. There were times when I was not with her, and she was out of my sight. One of those times, it happened. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was coming home from a walk to the store when I heard the horrible sound. It was the sound of her crying, loud and piercing in the afternoon air. I remember the sense of panic, and fright I felt for her. She had never cried before, not once. I ran to the sound, my heart pumping adrenaline through my veins. I found her in the parlor with my mother and uncle. She was on the ground by the doorway, and my uncle was standing over her. He was holding his belt above his head. Far behind him in the corner of the room stood my mother. She was hunched over and hugging herself, completely silent. He was yelling at Lacie to shut up, to stop crying. He brought down his hand, and the belt made a sickening slap against her body. She cried out, and that was when it happened.
I snapped. I just…cracked. The years I had spent with my uncle were spent living in fear of him and what he would do to me. Fright of his strength that had overpowered me and my mother, even though it was her job to protect me. I was completely and terribly frightened of him. But in that moment in the parlor, all of that fear of him transformed into anger and hate. The anger was so intense, it was like nothing I had ever felt before. I was so angry at him for what he had done- to me, my mother, and now Lacie. I was not afraid of him anymore. I didn’t care what he would do to me. My own life meant nothing compared to Lacie’s. And I refused to let her go through what I had. So I let the anger and hate and adrenaline fuel me and I hit him. I hit him so hard. I hit him with enough force that for once he was the one that had stumbled backwards and fallen to the ground, not me. The tables had turned.
He tried to get up and retaliate, but it was in vain. The magic that had been bottled up inside of me all of these years, never surfacing and leading my family to believe I might have been a squib too, was suddenly released. When he tried to come after me, the ceiling collapsed on top of him. Nowhere else, just above him. A huge hole in the second story’s floor had been formed. Unsure of what to do but knowing I had to flee, I went and packed up my bag. My mother and Lacie followed me, and my mother packed up her things as well. We left then, apparating out. I forced my mother to leave, with some threats I’m not very proud of. But we had to leave. I don’t know what happened to my uncle. He wasn’t dead, but he must have gotten pretty badly injured, because he never tried to contact us again. As far as I know.
Once we were home, I found out a few things from eavesdropping. Lacie was my cousin. My uncle had knocked up a woman a while before we went to take care of him, and the woman had decided he should pull his weight and dropped Lacie off after calling. My parents didn’t know how to contact Lacie's mother and neither did Lacie, so we just kept her. She was deemed my responsibility until I left for school. I also found out that my father had known exactly what was going on at my uncle’s house. He knew we were being abused, and he didn’t care enough to do anything about it. It was after I found that out that I stopped talking to my parents unless it was absolutely necessary. No one ever told my siblings what happened at my uncle’s house. They asked how I got my scar, but I refused to tell them. I think I was mad at them for not doing anything to save me or my mother, even though they hadn’t known. I was angry towards everyone but Lacie when I got back home. My emotions were running crazy, and I didn’t know how to control them.
Right before my letter came, I got my first panic attack. It was late at night, and everyone else had already gone to sleep. I got really dizzy out of the blue, and I felt like I was about to revisit my breakfast. I got tunnel vision, and instead of a ringing noise in my ears it was my mother’s screams. I found that I couldn’t feel my hands, and I was shaking uncontrollably. It lasted for a few minutes before I fainted. No one found me while I was knocked out; I woke up alone. I’m not sure if no one saw, or if no one cared. I didn’t tell anyone about it, and pretended like it hadn’t happened. The panic attacks and flashbacks have come back throughout the years, just as bad (if not worse) than the first. There's no point to see help about it, no one can help.
I went off to school after I got my letter, leaving my horrible family and my precious Lacie behind. I didn’t know anyone, and I rode the train there alone. I was sorted into Slytherin- the house I later learned was the one seen as evil. Slytherins did whatever they had to do to get what they wanted. At first, I thought maybe the hat had gotten it wrong. When I had stood up to my uncle- that was bravery, no? I belonged in noble Godric’s house, with the good guys. A while later, I realized I did belong in Slytherin. The people in the house were not bad like everyone thought. I had done what it took to get what I wanted, which was a good life for Lacie. The little girl that had come from seemingly nowhere, but had also come to mean so much to me.
After what I had gone through at home, I realized I did not want to have to face that at school too. I decided I wanted to stand up for myself whenever I could. I wanted to learn how to fight hand to hand. So that whoever picked on me would know to never do it again. I was not the helpless little girl I had once been. I was strong now, so strong. So that’s why, when I spotted Myles getting into a fight our first year, I asked him to teach me, to show me the positions and semantics of fighting. He was no professional, but he knew much more than I did. I only ever asked to see the defensive positions. I did not want to become my uncle, and fight with everyone because I could. I would only fight when it was necessary. But anyways, focusing, Myles taught me to fight, and that was when our friendship started. Since then it's been...rocky, I guess you could call it. Me and Myles have a knack to argue...a lot. Still, he's been there for me every time I've needed, just as I have been for him. I trust him with things I wouldn't dream of trusting others with- like my scar, and bits of my past. He's my best friend, I love 'im. I'd do anything for him, even if we were screaming at each other. There's some stupid saying that goes like: It's easier to fight with your friends than your enemies because you know they'll love you no matter what. Something like that. But I think that holds true here.
During school we both went through a lot of changes. Mostly it happened in third year, when everyone suddenly grew and matured. As much as I hate to admit it, that was the year Myles became attractive. Really attractive. I mean, he was always kinda cute, but it was in a goofy silly sort of way. At least to me, that is. But then came third year, and he joined all the older boys as eye candy. Needless to say I was not the only one who noticed- but I was the only one who didn't act upon it. I mean, c'mon. He was still my best friend, practically a brother to me. I left the flirting up to the other girls. Who all got their way, sooner or later. Myles burned through practically all of them, but never stuck with one. Me, on the other hand, I didn't even bother trying. I'd assume I got hot too, since the boys started hitting on me and asking me out. But that's all they were, boys. They still are, every one of them. Violent little immature boys. I hate every one of them. So, as someone put it to me once, although I'm quite the catch, I'm impossible to catch. And Myles is a pretty good catch too, but he'll slip right through your fingers. As the years progressed he got into some major shit- shit I wasn't into. That's what I'd say most of our fights have been about, in some way or another. I don't like to do it and I don't like him to do it. But he does, and he doesn't care. I just don't want to see something serious happen to him from it, that's all.
I didn't do much academically in my first year, but in my second year I blossomed. I still stunk at all the papers we had to write - I suck at that now, even - but suddenly all the spells we were learning seemed to come to me as if I'd been doing them my whole life. I don't know if me and my wand bonded after we spent a year together, or if I just unlocked my power or what, but I just started excelling at every spell I was doing. With the exception of the written assignments I was the top of my class. Throughout the years I stayed at the top or damn near it. If I didn't sound so cocky, I'd say I'm the most powerful student here with the best control. In my fifth year I received an Outstanding in nearly all of my OWLs (even though the written portions were not all too great...), except for Herbology and History of Magic (I got Acceptable and Troll, respectively). I was one of the first to master nonverbal spells in my sixth year, and have become quite good at them. Because of my excelled position in class I started taking extra lessons in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I didn't have time to take extra lessons in Charms and Transfiguration too, although I'm well above the average student's capabilities in those classes as well. In the extra lessons I was taught to produce a full-bodied patronus, among many other spells of sufficient difficulty.
SCARS AND STORIES;;
orientation: heterosexual
war alliance: intensely neutral
beliefs: atheist
eyes: green
hair: blonde
height: 5’8”
weight: 115 lbs
voice: alto, silky
scar: has a long white scar (slightly puckered) stretching from the points of her waist to her chest on her backside from a belt buckle.
strengths: staying strong, surviving on her own, high pain tolerance
weaknesses: very easily becomes lonely
aspirations: giving Lacie the loving life she never had.
quirks: has a distinct nervous chuckle
boggart: Lacie beaten to death
wand: blackthorn, 10 1/2 inches, dragon heartstring
patronus: wolf
amortentia: flowers, brown sugar, vanilla, myles
miscellaneous: she is an extremely powerful witch even though her magic surfaced late, and will be pursued by the Dark Lord for her power after she leaves school. she dislikes most men because of her abusive uncle and neglectful father, but also views most women as weak because her mother submitted to the abuse.
When I was eight, my uncle became...sick. At least, that’s what my mom called it. She made it sound like he had a terminal disease. I had never met my uncle before. We never talked about him much, probably because he was a squib. I got the feeling my father was ashamed of being related to him through marriage. I was the oldest child at the time, so my mother took me with her when she left to care for her brother. My father stayed behind with my siblings. I still don’t know if he stayed behind because he was a coward, and my mother went because she was courageous. Or if they were both just ignorant.
My uncle was not sick, not the way my mother had said. He did not need to be cared for, he was a big boy and could care for himself. But there was definitely something wrong in his head. About a month into our stay with him, I dropped my dishes. I was carrying them to the sink when they slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. Before my mother could even think of scolding me, my uncle had stood up and pushed me to the ground. He started yelling at me about the dish. Apparently it was an heirloom, and I had no right to destroy it without his permission. As if I had done it on purpose. My uncle had left after that, and my mother helped me clean it up. She did not say a word about what had just happened, and I was too shaken up to ask why she hadn’t stuck up for me.
Because I was only eight, I had a tendency to make a lot of mistakes. From dropping things to slipping and falling and breaking things. Every single time something of the like happened, my uncle was on the scene first. It was like he had a sixth sense for it. Every time he would inflict some sort of pain on me(pushing me, slapping me, hitting me, etc.) and scold me loudly. Every time afterwards, I would find my mother a few yards away, having watched the scene silently. Eventually I got gutsy, and cornered her when my uncle wasn’t around. I asked her why she let him punish me and yell at me like he did. All I received as an answer was a sad look, and a shake of the head. After that, I did not hear her speak while we lived with my uncle.
I did hear her yell, once. Petrified she was in trouble and needed me, I had raced over to the sound of her voice. What I had found was worse than anything I could have imagined as the cause of her scream. I…I don’t want to talk about what I found. But, after I found it, the abuse increased dramatically. My uncle no longer hit me when I did something wrong. He found any excuse he possibly could to put his hands, shoes, and belts on me. I was running in the house. I was wearing my shoes in the bedroom. I was walking too slow. I was breathing too loudly. Finally, he just hit me. He gave no reason; he just hit me whenever he wanted to. He hit my mother too. I saw the bruises on her, heard the screams. I was no longer ignorant that she was just as helpless as I was. The attacks haunted me all the time. I would dream about them, and think about them nonstop. The abuse didn’t just mark my body, it marked my mind too. Behind my eyelids I could see him bringing his hand down on me, his angry face yelling and spitting at me.
I wondered why my father never called the house to see how we were. I asked my mother why she didn’t call him to come and get us, or apparate, or use the floo network to leave. She gave no answer. I was too frightened of my uncle to call my father myself, and I didn’t know how to do either of the latter.
Right before I was to turn ten, a call came to the house. My uncle picked it up, and didn’t say much. Whoever was on the other line did most of the talking. A few days after that, a little girl who called herself Lacie showed up on our doorstep. She was only about three. I didn’t know who she was, where she had come from, or why she was there. But almost immediately I felt a connection to her that I had felt towards no one else, not even my family. I felt the need to show her affection and care, and protect her. It was unspoken that she had become my responsibility when I was the only one who seemed to notice her. I took care of her as best I could at ten years old, with some very slight assistance from my mother.
But I couldn’t take care of her all the time. There were times when I was not with her, and she was out of my sight. One of those times, it happened. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was coming home from a walk to the store when I heard the horrible sound. It was the sound of her crying, loud and piercing in the afternoon air. I remember the sense of panic, and fright I felt for her. She had never cried before, not once. I ran to the sound, my heart pumping adrenaline through my veins. I found her in the parlor with my mother and uncle. She was on the ground by the doorway, and my uncle was standing over her. He was holding his belt above his head. Far behind him in the corner of the room stood my mother. She was hunched over and hugging herself, completely silent. He was yelling at Lacie to shut up, to stop crying. He brought down his hand, and the belt made a sickening slap against her body. She cried out, and that was when it happened.
I snapped. I just…cracked. The years I had spent with my uncle were spent living in fear of him and what he would do to me. Fright of his strength that had overpowered me and my mother, even though it was her job to protect me. I was completely and terribly frightened of him. But in that moment in the parlor, all of that fear of him transformed into anger and hate. The anger was so intense, it was like nothing I had ever felt before. I was so angry at him for what he had done- to me, my mother, and now Lacie. I was not afraid of him anymore. I didn’t care what he would do to me. My own life meant nothing compared to Lacie’s. And I refused to let her go through what I had. So I let the anger and hate and adrenaline fuel me and I hit him. I hit him so hard. I hit him with enough force that for once he was the one that had stumbled backwards and fallen to the ground, not me. The tables had turned.
He tried to get up and retaliate, but it was in vain. The magic that had been bottled up inside of me all of these years, never surfacing and leading my family to believe I might have been a squib too, was suddenly released. When he tried to come after me, the ceiling collapsed on top of him. Nowhere else, just above him. A huge hole in the second story’s floor had been formed. Unsure of what to do but knowing I had to flee, I went and packed up my bag. My mother and Lacie followed me, and my mother packed up her things as well. We left then, apparating out. I forced my mother to leave, with some threats I’m not very proud of. But we had to leave. I don’t know what happened to my uncle. He wasn’t dead, but he must have gotten pretty badly injured, because he never tried to contact us again. As far as I know.
Once we were home, I found out a few things from eavesdropping. Lacie was my cousin. My uncle had knocked up a woman a while before we went to take care of him, and the woman had decided he should pull his weight and dropped Lacie off after calling. My parents didn’t know how to contact Lacie's mother and neither did Lacie, so we just kept her. She was deemed my responsibility until I left for school. I also found out that my father had known exactly what was going on at my uncle’s house. He knew we were being abused, and he didn’t care enough to do anything about it. It was after I found that out that I stopped talking to my parents unless it was absolutely necessary. No one ever told my siblings what happened at my uncle’s house. They asked how I got my scar, but I refused to tell them. I think I was mad at them for not doing anything to save me or my mother, even though they hadn’t known. I was angry towards everyone but Lacie when I got back home. My emotions were running crazy, and I didn’t know how to control them.
Right before my letter came, I got my first panic attack. It was late at night, and everyone else had already gone to sleep. I got really dizzy out of the blue, and I felt like I was about to revisit my breakfast. I got tunnel vision, and instead of a ringing noise in my ears it was my mother’s screams. I found that I couldn’t feel my hands, and I was shaking uncontrollably. It lasted for a few minutes before I fainted. No one found me while I was knocked out; I woke up alone. I’m not sure if no one saw, or if no one cared. I didn’t tell anyone about it, and pretended like it hadn’t happened. The panic attacks and flashbacks have come back throughout the years, just as bad (if not worse) than the first. There's no point to see help about it, no one can help.
I went off to school after I got my letter, leaving my horrible family and my precious Lacie behind. I didn’t know anyone, and I rode the train there alone. I was sorted into Slytherin- the house I later learned was the one seen as evil. Slytherins did whatever they had to do to get what they wanted. At first, I thought maybe the hat had gotten it wrong. When I had stood up to my uncle- that was bravery, no? I belonged in noble Godric’s house, with the good guys. A while later, I realized I did belong in Slytherin. The people in the house were not bad like everyone thought. I had done what it took to get what I wanted, which was a good life for Lacie. The little girl that had come from seemingly nowhere, but had also come to mean so much to me.
After what I had gone through at home, I realized I did not want to have to face that at school too. I decided I wanted to stand up for myself whenever I could. I wanted to learn how to fight hand to hand. So that whoever picked on me would know to never do it again. I was not the helpless little girl I had once been. I was strong now, so strong. So that’s why, when I spotted Myles getting into a fight our first year, I asked him to teach me, to show me the positions and semantics of fighting. He was no professional, but he knew much more than I did. I only ever asked to see the defensive positions. I did not want to become my uncle, and fight with everyone because I could. I would only fight when it was necessary. But anyways, focusing, Myles taught me to fight, and that was when our friendship started. Since then it's been...rocky, I guess you could call it. Me and Myles have a knack to argue...a lot. Still, he's been there for me every time I've needed, just as I have been for him. I trust him with things I wouldn't dream of trusting others with- like my scar, and bits of my past. He's my best friend, I love 'im. I'd do anything for him, even if we were screaming at each other. There's some stupid saying that goes like: It's easier to fight with your friends than your enemies because you know they'll love you no matter what. Something like that. But I think that holds true here.
During school we both went through a lot of changes. Mostly it happened in third year, when everyone suddenly grew and matured. As much as I hate to admit it, that was the year Myles became attractive. Really attractive. I mean, he was always kinda cute, but it was in a goofy silly sort of way. At least to me, that is. But then came third year, and he joined all the older boys as eye candy. Needless to say I was not the only one who noticed- but I was the only one who didn't act upon it. I mean, c'mon. He was still my best friend, practically a brother to me. I left the flirting up to the other girls. Who all got their way, sooner or later. Myles burned through practically all of them, but never stuck with one. Me, on the other hand, I didn't even bother trying. I'd assume I got hot too, since the boys started hitting on me and asking me out. But that's all they were, boys. They still are, every one of them. Violent little immature boys. I hate every one of them. So, as someone put it to me once, although I'm quite the catch, I'm impossible to catch. And Myles is a pretty good catch too, but he'll slip right through your fingers. As the years progressed he got into some major shit- shit I wasn't into. That's what I'd say most of our fights have been about, in some way or another. I don't like to do it and I don't like him to do it. But he does, and he doesn't care. I just don't want to see something serious happen to him from it, that's all.
I didn't do much academically in my first year, but in my second year I blossomed. I still stunk at all the papers we had to write - I suck at that now, even - but suddenly all the spells we were learning seemed to come to me as if I'd been doing them my whole life. I don't know if me and my wand bonded after we spent a year together, or if I just unlocked my power or what, but I just started excelling at every spell I was doing. With the exception of the written assignments I was the top of my class. Throughout the years I stayed at the top or damn near it. If I didn't sound so cocky, I'd say I'm the most powerful student here with the best control. In my fifth year I received an Outstanding in nearly all of my OWLs (even though the written portions were not all too great...), except for Herbology and History of Magic (I got Acceptable and Troll, respectively). I was one of the first to master nonverbal spells in my sixth year, and have become quite good at them. Because of my excelled position in class I started taking extra lessons in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I didn't have time to take extra lessons in Charms and Transfiguration too, although I'm well above the average student's capabilities in those classes as well. In the extra lessons I was taught to produce a full-bodied patronus, among many other spells of sufficient difficulty.
SCARS AND STORIES;;
orientation: heterosexual
war alliance: intensely neutral
beliefs: atheist
eyes: green
hair: blonde
height: 5’8”
weight: 115 lbs
voice: alto, silky
scar: has a long white scar (slightly puckered) stretching from the points of her waist to her chest on her backside from a belt buckle.
strengths: staying strong, surviving on her own, high pain tolerance
weaknesses: very easily becomes lonely
aspirations: giving Lacie the loving life she never had.
quirks: has a distinct nervous chuckle
boggart: Lacie beaten to death
wand: blackthorn, 10 1/2 inches, dragon heartstring
patronus: wolf
amortentia: flowers, brown sugar, vanilla, myles
miscellaneous: she is an extremely powerful witch even though her magic surfaced late, and will be pursued by the Dark Lord for her power after she leaves school. she dislikes most men because of her abusive uncle and neglectful father, but also views most women as weak because her mother submitted to the abuse.
emily ▪ PM or tippy has my skype & # ▪ eastern
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credit to wilmetta ! at caution for graphic [/center]
