Post by jonah on Feb 16, 2012 23:52:48 GMT -5
Jonah Vangraffe
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Personality: As normal as one would expect. Meekly centered, mildly put, it seems for all appearances that he would never hurt a mouse. Jonah pays his bills on time, doesn't curse in polite company, and seems to be as bland as an unsalted cracker.
This isn't to say that there isn't a certain charm about him. No matter the topic of conversation, the young man always seems to have something to say about it, going great lengths to keep one interested, poring over any mundane detail as if it were a treasure to marvel about.
Slow to anger, decisive when warranted, he has never been in any sort of trouble other than the one that landed him in his current predicament.
Appearance:
As plain as could be, just someone you could see on the streets and not look twice about. Ruddy facial features offset by clouded blue eyes, dirty blonde hair, of an average stature. He has no piercings, no tattoos, nothing that could indicate his personal life or ideals.
The biggest thing one would notice is his spotless attire. Typically wearing chambray work-shirts, tan trousers, black loafers, and a long evening coat before his arrest, he seemed to take great care in his appearance. Nothing was stained. There was little to say of dishevel, as everything seemed to just be a piece that he carefully constructed. Ordinary. The best way to describe Jonah.
Desired position: Patient
Diagnoses: Unknown
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The alley was slick with grease that had been dumped outside the door from the neighboring Chinese restaurant, the corner-side eatery still lit up and the remnants of lousy food being cleared from their tables. A city, like any other around the world. Bustling, full of life, stinking of pollution and human desperation. Enter the life of Harold Clemmens. A portly and currently disheveled man of fifty, mumbling to himself and running his fingers against the wiry whiskers that sprout from his face. A tired slob with sunken brown eyes, whiskey breath, wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt that had been marred with gravy stains. Harold, once full of confidence and seeming to be a bursting globule of happiness to all those he came across, was now a stuttering and fretful mess.
The crimes ascribed to his name were numerous and horrific. A proverbial boogey-man, he had stalked and murdered children, around thirty of them all across the United States, under the guise of business trips. He had drowned, slashed, burned the innocent little angels, not a single victim being older than eight. Yet, something had been dogging his every step for the past few days. Every time he stared out from his workshop window, his gaze was met by the indifferently hollowed eyes of a young man, standing out on the walk, always in a new position each time he turned his head away. Then again every time he went out to fetch something or the city, or to have lunch. That same young man. The same emotionless eyes. Harold's heart was now filled with bare fear, and why? The ghost had been waiting by his car after work. Hadn't moved an inch, hadn't seemed to even recognize he was doing something wrong.
Harold had been all over the city, yes, and now he had slipped on a patch of grease in the alley, face smacking into a pile of garbage. The garbage bins began to shake, spilling out onto the pavement as something burst from the first bag. A rotting mound of pulsating meat, nothing more than a hunk of corruption that was rent open by a fierce set of insectile mandibles, the blackened appendages cracking at the still air. Lights from the lampposts would dim, the last clatter from the shops would die down, and even the sound of cars would become a dull whisper. The creature that had been birthed from the garbage began to lengthen and broaden out, becoming something akin to a nightmarish centipede. Chitanous plates, many-jointed legs that scritched against the paving stones, yet something else was happening to it. Above the head of the fearsome insect would sprout the face of the dead-eyed boy from his nightmares, the one that had been following him all that time. It would twist upon the armored-plating of the centipede, lips twisting open in a smile. Leathery tendrils burst out from the creatures back, skulls filling out with flesh, eyes appearing and hair sprouting. The smiling faces of the children the man had murdered. The mass of appendages were joined by even more, tiny hands erupting from stalks that swayed through the air. A hand would snare Harold's ankle, orange nail polish flaking off from it's fingernails onto his trousers, the man sliding through the alley, screaming. The thirty heads upon the stalks were drawn in close, and the voice of the young man would herald his impending fate, as so many tiny teeth carved into his flesh.
------------------------------------------------------------
His name was Jonah, and he had quite the lively imagination. He sat, dreaming the day away at a card table and numbly inscribing his thoughts down onto a memo pad, pen arching in and out across the pages as days ebbed by. They would be close to him, soon. They would quell the monster that resided only in his mind, something that lived vicariously through his actions. They were becoming worse, weren't they? The dreams? Yes. The demon inside of him needed to feed, it needed to sate it's hunger on the flesh of the wicked, and it made his head spin.
Jonah could speak to Jesus. At least, it's what he thought. The young man believed that the son of God visited him in the deep of every night, showed him the way, led him to the holiest of retributions. Those who had done wrong could be marked down in his mind, tracked down, stalked like the animals that they were.
------------------------------------------------------------
The authorities would find Harold Clemmens, the fifty year old office worker, husband and father of three, in an empty alley way. There were no eye-witnesses, although many claimed to have heard something of a struggle the night his death had occured. A leather strip had been drawn against his teeth, clenched in his mouth, his limbs crooked and jagged bone peeking out from the confines of his flesh. He had been beaten savagely with a tire iron, stabed no less than sixty-five times, and left to lay in a pool of his spreading blood.
They had caught the young man entitled 'The Wendigo' by the press, victim to his own carelessness. Or rather, ignorance of how the world operated. Security footage of Harold's workplace had shown Jonah lurking about, always turning up to where the office worker was heading to. A search of his home showed that it wasn't his first murder, either; Forty had was the best estimate from the trailing notes and letters that he had managed to fill out from four memo pads and two journals, most of it nonsensical or illegible.
Without a trial, without family or friend to investigate what would become of him, Jonah was sent off. Media, of course, had been calling for his head. Something had to be done!
------------------------------------------------------------
"Insanity is relative."
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Personality: As normal as one would expect. Meekly centered, mildly put, it seems for all appearances that he would never hurt a mouse. Jonah pays his bills on time, doesn't curse in polite company, and seems to be as bland as an unsalted cracker.
This isn't to say that there isn't a certain charm about him. No matter the topic of conversation, the young man always seems to have something to say about it, going great lengths to keep one interested, poring over any mundane detail as if it were a treasure to marvel about.
Slow to anger, decisive when warranted, he has never been in any sort of trouble other than the one that landed him in his current predicament.
Appearance:
As plain as could be, just someone you could see on the streets and not look twice about. Ruddy facial features offset by clouded blue eyes, dirty blonde hair, of an average stature. He has no piercings, no tattoos, nothing that could indicate his personal life or ideals.
The biggest thing one would notice is his spotless attire. Typically wearing chambray work-shirts, tan trousers, black loafers, and a long evening coat before his arrest, he seemed to take great care in his appearance. Nothing was stained. There was little to say of dishevel, as everything seemed to just be a piece that he carefully constructed. Ordinary. The best way to describe Jonah.
Desired position: Patient
Diagnoses: Unknown
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The alley was slick with grease that had been dumped outside the door from the neighboring Chinese restaurant, the corner-side eatery still lit up and the remnants of lousy food being cleared from their tables. A city, like any other around the world. Bustling, full of life, stinking of pollution and human desperation. Enter the life of Harold Clemmens. A portly and currently disheveled man of fifty, mumbling to himself and running his fingers against the wiry whiskers that sprout from his face. A tired slob with sunken brown eyes, whiskey breath, wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt that had been marred with gravy stains. Harold, once full of confidence and seeming to be a bursting globule of happiness to all those he came across, was now a stuttering and fretful mess.
The crimes ascribed to his name were numerous and horrific. A proverbial boogey-man, he had stalked and murdered children, around thirty of them all across the United States, under the guise of business trips. He had drowned, slashed, burned the innocent little angels, not a single victim being older than eight. Yet, something had been dogging his every step for the past few days. Every time he stared out from his workshop window, his gaze was met by the indifferently hollowed eyes of a young man, standing out on the walk, always in a new position each time he turned his head away. Then again every time he went out to fetch something or the city, or to have lunch. That same young man. The same emotionless eyes. Harold's heart was now filled with bare fear, and why? The ghost had been waiting by his car after work. Hadn't moved an inch, hadn't seemed to even recognize he was doing something wrong.
Harold had been all over the city, yes, and now he had slipped on a patch of grease in the alley, face smacking into a pile of garbage. The garbage bins began to shake, spilling out onto the pavement as something burst from the first bag. A rotting mound of pulsating meat, nothing more than a hunk of corruption that was rent open by a fierce set of insectile mandibles, the blackened appendages cracking at the still air. Lights from the lampposts would dim, the last clatter from the shops would die down, and even the sound of cars would become a dull whisper. The creature that had been birthed from the garbage began to lengthen and broaden out, becoming something akin to a nightmarish centipede. Chitanous plates, many-jointed legs that scritched against the paving stones, yet something else was happening to it. Above the head of the fearsome insect would sprout the face of the dead-eyed boy from his nightmares, the one that had been following him all that time. It would twist upon the armored-plating of the centipede, lips twisting open in a smile. Leathery tendrils burst out from the creatures back, skulls filling out with flesh, eyes appearing and hair sprouting. The smiling faces of the children the man had murdered. The mass of appendages were joined by even more, tiny hands erupting from stalks that swayed through the air. A hand would snare Harold's ankle, orange nail polish flaking off from it's fingernails onto his trousers, the man sliding through the alley, screaming. The thirty heads upon the stalks were drawn in close, and the voice of the young man would herald his impending fate, as so many tiny teeth carved into his flesh.
------------------------------------------------------------
His name was Jonah, and he had quite the lively imagination. He sat, dreaming the day away at a card table and numbly inscribing his thoughts down onto a memo pad, pen arching in and out across the pages as days ebbed by. They would be close to him, soon. They would quell the monster that resided only in his mind, something that lived vicariously through his actions. They were becoming worse, weren't they? The dreams? Yes. The demon inside of him needed to feed, it needed to sate it's hunger on the flesh of the wicked, and it made his head spin.
Jonah could speak to Jesus. At least, it's what he thought. The young man believed that the son of God visited him in the deep of every night, showed him the way, led him to the holiest of retributions. Those who had done wrong could be marked down in his mind, tracked down, stalked like the animals that they were.
------------------------------------------------------------
The authorities would find Harold Clemmens, the fifty year old office worker, husband and father of three, in an empty alley way. There were no eye-witnesses, although many claimed to have heard something of a struggle the night his death had occured. A leather strip had been drawn against his teeth, clenched in his mouth, his limbs crooked and jagged bone peeking out from the confines of his flesh. He had been beaten savagely with a tire iron, stabed no less than sixty-five times, and left to lay in a pool of his spreading blood.
They had caught the young man entitled 'The Wendigo' by the press, victim to his own carelessness. Or rather, ignorance of how the world operated. Security footage of Harold's workplace had shown Jonah lurking about, always turning up to where the office worker was heading to. A search of his home showed that it wasn't his first murder, either; Forty had was the best estimate from the trailing notes and letters that he had managed to fill out from four memo pads and two journals, most of it nonsensical or illegible.
Without a trial, without family or friend to investigate what would become of him, Jonah was sent off. Media, of course, had been calling for his head. Something had to be done!
------------------------------------------------------------
"Insanity is relative."
