Post by amara on Jun 25, 2011 16:58:52 GMT -6
AMARAHARUKATENOU
“Well, tell me a little about yourself. What’s your name?”
Despite what it says in your notes – and I know you have them – my birth name was slightly different than the one I go by now. My mother named me Haruka; her last name was Tenou, so I got that, too. When I was fourteen I got my adoptive parents to let me change my name; that’s why it’s now Amara Haruka Tenou. I picked Amara because it means “unfading” or “eternal” in Greek; I wanted it to be a little “Haha, in your face, BITCH,” to my mother for giving me up for adoption – the idea was that I’d never go away, no matter what she tried. That aside, I have no nicknames, since I haven’t had friends in a long time who care to call me by anything other than Amara.
“Next question, how has your High School career gone thus far?”
Even though you might be curious as to the name of the school I went to before, I can’t honestly remember. I had mostly A’s as grades, though a B or two flitted around in there once in a while. I liked being smart, though sometimes showing up to class high or hung over didn’t help with that. As to whether I liked it or not… It was school; I went ‘cause I had to, and that was pretty much it.
“What did you do when you weren't in school? Any hobbies or sports, anything like that?”
Hobbies… I guess I liked playing the piano, one of the few things the bitch – that is to say my mother – gave to me. From what I remember, she was musically inclined as well. …But I’m getting off topic again, aren’t I? Anyway… Sports, I guess I had martial-arts, but it wasn’t anything organized; I ran around with a group of slightly older kids who saw potential in me, and so they taught me. Also, I did a lot of street fighting, one of the reasons I’m here in the first place. As to places I liked to hang out… So long as someone had a clean needle I could use to get a hit, and it was a secluded place where we wouldn’t be caught with the drugs or drink, that was where my group and I spent most of our time.
“Family and friends are pretty important. Tell me about them. How are your relationships with them?”
Family… Mine is rather complicated. And yet, at the same time, it isn’t. My parents were never married, or ever even really together. So, when my dad found out about me, he split faster than greased lightning. My mom had what seemed like a different boyfriend every week, and they would often fight, and very violently at that. I made it a point to be either under my bed, or gone whenever that happened. I last saw my mother when I was six; she dropped me off at the orphanage, and that was it. I was adopted two years later after a string of shitty foster homes and families. I came to love my adoptive parents, and they’re the ones I’ll be referring to as mother and father from here on out. Of course, after my mother died, my life got fucked over. My father sent me here, and though I know he loves me, I hate that he won’t let me live my life. Friends… I haven’t really been able to say I had a friend since I was fourteen.
“Thank you for sharing that with me. So those are your family and friends, what about yourself? Describe yourself to me.”
As you can tell, even though I’m sitting down, I’m pretty tall – I’m exactly six foot two without my shoes. Of course, with that number being on one side of the spectrum, my weight is on the other. I weigh one hundred and ten pounds. Also as you can see, I’m of very pale skin; I used to be tanned, since I spent so much time outside, but that’s faded over the past two years for some reason. Though you can’t always tell, my eyes are a really dark – and really cold, so I’ve been told – emerald. I have no curves on my body, and I’ve been mistaken for a boy more times than I can count. Though you aren’t blind, I’ll keep up with the obvious. My hair is short and platinum blonde, the cut being very boyish in style. I think my dad was half European, which is where I got my looks… As to my dress style, I’m quite androgynous; I’ll be slightly feminine on occasion, but more often than not I prefer to dress in a masculine fashion. Mentally, it’s quite a different story. First off, I’m a lesbian, so I fantasize about girls a lot. Second of all, I’m pro-ana, so I believe that anorexia is a lifestyle, not a mental condition – yes, before you ask, I am anorexic myself. I think that’s about it… Meh, whatever.
“Other then the reason your here, at Blackwood Academy, have you had any other issues with law enforcement?”
I’ve been in and out of juvenile detention a few times. The first time was for having drugs and alcohol on campus at my old school. That one was a summer stint; they thought I was clean, the morons… The next time, it was ‘cause I tried to kill a chick that cheated on me. Third time, I was so high I tried to hang myself; fourth time, was ‘cause I had about ten different kinds of knives and razor blades on campus. The last three times were all because I’d been caught street fighting, and for assaulting the officers who tried to take to to juvie that final time. So far as I can tell, I’m due for real prison if this place can’t make me “normal” again.
“What is the worst thing you’ve done? Why did you feel the need to do that?”
The worst thing I’ve ever done…? Shit, I’ve don’t a lot of crap in my life, and all of it has been bad – like really bad, considering what I just told you. Um… I think the worst thing I’ve ever done was attempt to hang myself. It was during classes – I was skipping again – so no-one should’ve known. I had it planned perfectly. I was just about to kick away the chair and left myself drop, when my room-mate found me. I was so shocked that she wasn’t in class that I couldn’t react when she cut the wire to get me down. I think I really just didn’t react ‘cause I was higher than an airplane, but whatever. Why I felt the need to do that… The reason I do everything I do – the violence, the drugs, the drinking, the cutting… It all has the same reason. I can’t escape my past, or my memories, no matter how hard to try. Unless I’m high, lost in the rush of adrenaline, making myself bleed, or drunker than a sailor, I can’t escape the voices in my head. I wanted to end it all, and that was the best way I could see to do it.
"What the one things you're most proud of?"
Seriously? F*ck, I need a drink… or a hit, or a knife, or SOMETHING GOD DAMNIT. …Sorry, I’ve been sober and clean – not of my choice, though – for about two days now, and it’s getting to me really, really bad. What was the question again, anyways? Oh, right, what I’m most proud of… Uh… I guess of my piano playing skills… I’ve been told often enough that, if I weren’t so fucked up, I could easily get a scholarship to Julliard – or to Oxford, with math grades like mine… As you can see, I’ve never thought much about the “normal” aspects of my life, just the shitty ones.
"Other then your trouble with law enforcement, do you have any vices or addictions?"
Did you not hear me say everything else? F*ck yes I have vices and addictions… My vices include F*cking every female who’ll take me, cutting, drinking, doing heroin, and beating the crap outta anyone and nearly everyone who gets on my bad side. My addictions are the same, but add anorexia to the list – I get a high off of the starvation, and I get the feeling my esophagus is hot from the times I’ve had to purge when I’d eaten too much. Really, it’s not that hard to figure out that I’m one fucked over bitch…
“If you could change one thing about your life what would it be?”
God, how do you not know the answer to that? To put it simply, I would make it so that my mother never died. If she hadn’t been killed by some random F*cker, my life wouldn’t have been screwed over. I know it’s said that you can’t break someone who’s already been broken – the fucktards who said that are dumbasses. I was broken more than once when I was a kid, this was just the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish she was still here – but not always because I wouldn’t have been fucked over this way if it hadn’t happened. She was my mother, even if not by birth, and I miss her so much that it hurts. I may be able to drown out the memories and the voices, but I can never escape that pain, no matter what I do. I guess that was the main impetus behind my wanting to hang myself.
“What criminal act got you sent here and who recommended it?”
F*ck, it wasn’t just one thing… It was so many God-damned things I’ve lost count, but I guess the final thing was that I robbed a liquor store, and both attempted to raped a random chick and kill a guy who pissed me off – all while I was higher than I had been when I tried to hang myself. I probably would’ve gotten away, but my body chose that time to give out on me; I’d been fasting for three days by then, so it was bound to happen. My father freaked out, and begged me, for the next three weeks, to tell him what he could do to help, but well… I don’t need or want help, ‘cause it’s my life, though I willingly admit to my addictions. In the end, my father shipped me here, since it was the only thing he could think of to help “fix” me anymore.
“Do think that you deserve to be here?”
…You seriously just asked me that question? Do I think I deserve to be here? I’ve just admitted to being happy with my addictions and all the shit in my life up to this point. The only thing I would change is that my mother were never killed – what in the whole God-damned world gave you the impression that I think I deserve to be here?! No, I don’t F*cking think that. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be here at all. Yeah, I get that this is my alternative to prison – more-than-likely a life sentence – but so what? I don’t F*cking want or think I need to be here, so this crap is all idiocy in my opinion. But hey, since I ain’t out of the kid’s legal system yet, I don’t have a choice, so what-the-F*ck-ever.
"Tell me about your life before Blackwood Academy contacted you, what led up to your stay here."
Well, this one’ll be a doozy… If you’re faint of heart or squeamish, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I was born in Osaka, Japan. My childhood up to the age of eight was not a pleasant one. Due to the explosive fights my mother would end up having with her boyfriend, the little girl that I was would often hide in her room as much as she could. Once I was old enough – four, if I remember correctly – I started slipping out of the house to play ball with the neighborhood boys. I never liked being with little girls my age; they bored me almost to tears. Of course, playing with the boys earned me some snide remarks at first, but I ignored them to the best of my ability.
By the time I was five, I had cut off my previously waist-length hair, and then wore it short so that it wouldn't get in my way. I started school with the rest of my peers, until I showed the first signs of my anger issues at the age of seven. (I threw a boy across the school yard without so much as bring sufficiently provoked by him.) My mother, Hanako, despite having such issues herself, simply saw them as being the reason my dad had split, among other things, and so when she learned of my own, she left me at an orphanage. That was, if memory serves, when my demeanor began to change, slowly, towards other people.
I started to become more and more unfriendly; by the time I was seven years of age, I had not a friend in the world. Admittedly, I liked it that way. For the next year, I was shipped from foster home to foster home, almost on a weekly basis. Some kept me longer than others, but all eventually sent me back; I suffered abuse at the hands of many, such as being raped, beaten, or both, but never would anyone believe me. All had the same reason for not keeping me: I refused to behave like a proper little girl should. Of course, by the time a year of that shit had passed, I couldn't have cared less about what the foster parents thought.
And then, everything changed some weeks after I had finally been returned to the orphanage.
It was just the day after my eighth birthday, when the American-born German couple showed up, requesting to adopt a little girl with a fiery spirit. Though they were shown a few other girls, none of them seemed quite right to the couple. Then, their attention was drawn to my causing a commotion, by getting into another fight. Despite my seemingly impassive indifference, and the matron's disbelief ("You can't possibly want her,") the adoption papers were signed within the hour, my things packed, and a plane ticket arranged for me. Admittedly, still to this day, I don’t know why my adoptive parents were in Japan, nor why they wanted to adopt in the first place – let alone adopt me – but I has never felt that I should know; well, rather, that it wasn’t my place to know.
The years between when I was adopted and when I received a certain letter were the greatest I could have ever asked for. I was happy, my adoptive parents were coming quickly to love me – though it was still over my head as to why and how they could love a weird girl like me – and I was learning to love again. However, despite all this, I still kept my impassive, cold mask when around others, and/or people I didn’t trust. As for the letter, it was a letter of acceptance to a prestigious private school, which I had been made to take the entrance exams for. That was an interesting matter. I received it when she was ten, mostly because of how high my scores on the tests had been, but my parents weren't sure if they should allow me to enter the middle/high school a year younger than my peers.
The verdict was eventually reached, that I would attend for that school year, the one after I had turned ten. My parents hoped that I would be alright, being a year younger than my peers, despite the fact that the confident ten-year-old I was assured them I would be. The school was a whole new adventure in and of itself for me; never before had I been thrust so suddenly into social interaction on such a scale. It was a bit overwhelming for me, and put my hastily-acquired skills in English to the test within the first five minutes of the new student orientation. My English skills were hastily-acquired for two reasons. The first being that I had been home-schooled since my adoption, and had quickly picked up German from my adoptive parents. The second, that, though I spoke my parents' native language whenever with them, it didn't change the fact that Japanese was still my first language.
That first year, I struggled to fit in. This was not only because of my slightly-broken English. Hell, that may have gotten me sympathy, if not for all the other crap tied to it. I was a Japanese girl, adopted by a German couple, attending an American boarding school, wearing the boys' uniform, for Heaven’s sake. This was bound to raise some eyebrows. And raise them it did, along with evoke skepticism because of my being a year younger than my peers. Also, I had never been good with social situations, and my slightly violent nature simply contributed to my rather anti-social behavior. Thusly, I spent my first year with only a bare number of acquaintances.
The next three years were relatively the same, if a bit better. My English improved by leaps and bounds, my grades improved at the same pace, if not even quicker, and I had made a friend or two by the end of my fourth year in attendance. Of course, good things must always come to an end. Two events clashed together in my life, which caused what many have labeled as my “downward spiral” to begin. Just before winter break of my fifth year, I received a letter informing me that my mother had been killed. Also, I had just been suspended for fighting, and having contraband items on school grounds (i.e. whisky and heroin).
I was sent home early, so that my father and I could sort things out, and so that I could “get my life back in order.” From what my posse – I didn’t have friends after that suspension, so I’ll call them what they were – has told me, I returned from winter break quieter than ever. They eventually learned that when I simply stared blankly, took a knife to my wrists, lashed out violently, or drank, I wanted them to piss off and leave me alone. The rest of that year could have been my first again, had I not been older and slightly less of an outsider. At the end of the year, I quietly and simply came out to the one person I could have ever called a friend. The months of introspection, self-harm, and drowning myself in alcohol had led me to a long-overdue conclusion: I was gay. Needless to sy, I spent that summer completely friendless.
My sixth and seventh years in attendance, and my last before being sent here, passed as well, with the usual ups and downs of school life, trying to keep things together for my father during the breaks, and lying more and more to hide my growing addictions and anorexia. Some of the scars on my hands and wrists come from having to teach myself how to cook after my mother was killed. Most come from my attempted suicides. As I told you, I once even tried to hang myself, while so drunk I doubt could’ve even remembered my own name; again as I said, I was high as an airplane at the time as well. When my room-mate – the same one who stopped me from hanging myself – blabbed to administration about me stash of drugs and liquor, and about my self-harm and violence (this was around the time when I had tried to kill the bitch who cheated on me) I was expelled from school. I was charged with possession or contraband items, my suicide attempts, pre-meditated attempted murder, and assault of the police officer whom attempted to take me to juvenile detention that last time. I nearly killed myself again by overdosing repeatedly on heroin, my drug of choice, during the following summer.
When everything finally came to light to my father, the man tried everything he could think of, to get me to shape up. Of course, being the “hell fury” – as those I had sent to the ICU had come to call me – I was, I would have none of that crap. I joined a gang at one point, got tattoos, and soon began to fight in the streets. When I got threatened with the very real possibility of jail after I was caught for the robbing, attempted rape and murder I mentioned before, my father was his wits end. Completely out of anymore ideas, my father finally contacted you people, here at Blackwood Academy for Delinquents. His reasoning was simple, I guess: If you couldn’t help me, then there would be no hope for me left, and I would be sent to prison. These events in my life have shaped the woman I am today, and undoubtedly more events to come will shape the woman I am to be.
Tenou, Amara, H:
Race: Japanese.
DOB and Age: January 27th, 1995; Sixteen years of age.
Age admitted to Blackwood’s Academy: Sixteen; she hasn’t yet attended Blackwood.
Grade: Eleventh.
Health issues: Her right hand will often freeze, the muscles locking in place; she believes that his if some form of nerve damage from having broken it upwards of five times. Also, anorexia.
Other: Nothing that hasn’t already been thoroughly discussed.
Race: Japanese.
DOB and Age: January 27th, 1995; Sixteen years of age.
Age admitted to Blackwood’s Academy: Sixteen; she hasn’t yet attended Blackwood.
Grade: Eleventh.
Health issues: Her right hand will often freeze, the muscles locking in place; she believes that his if some form of nerve damage from having broken it upwards of five times. Also, anorexia.
Other: Nothing that hasn’t already been thoroughly discussed.
Your name: Sam.
How you found us: Your ad on ProBoards Support forums.
Code word in the Rules: Admin Edit.
Play by: Agyness Deyn.
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