THORN RACA GRIMM, DISTRICT 1

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

Name: THORN RACA GRIMM
Age: SIXTEEN
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 1
Appearance:

Personality:

Uh so stuff yeah and you know things, wow um why are you looking at me like that, look at someone else please wow um I'm not really confronta- WANNA GO? WE CAN GO, LET'S GO OUTSIDE RIGHT NOW MAN, FISTICUFFS MAN, I'LL FRICKIN KILL YOU MAN, I CAN KILL YOU WITH LIKE ONE THUMB OKAY YEAH MAN. Wow I'm sort of only half sorry about that but not really because let"S GO COME ON, ENJOY MY FIST YOU LIL BITCH.

History:

A LOT OF THING.

Codeword: odairrrr
Comments/Other:

XANTHAS NEFARIOUS GRIMM'S YOUNGER ILLEGITIMATE BRO. COUSIN IN THE GRIMM FAMILY PLOT.

TEMPLATE BY CHELSEY.

FACE CLAIM USED WITH THE SWEET PERMISSION OF RASERI.

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/b6/66/67/b6666798c3be03977c75a0ffa0f7e9aa.jpg); border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 475px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 25px 25px 0px 0px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: e5e5e5; border: 0; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 475px;] T H O R N R A C A G R I M M

[/color][/center]

The day you were born they all called you a bastard. You were a bastard son of a bastard, and so maybe you were a bastard squared. Either way, they all agreed that your lack of a father was a rather suspicious thing. Still, In the slums of District One where you were raised it was not unheard of, and so your early childhood was relatively normal. Your mother made her money by babysitting children on your block when their parents were at work. The money paid was a small amount, and if it weren't for the weekly deliveries of money given with a silent nod by the same man every week, you might have starved. At four years old, you believed the man a secret agent of your father’s. Once you tried to follow him as he walked away, but your chubby little toddler legs failed you. With the fall, the skin on your left knee split and you ran crying back to your mother, forgetting about following the man. For an odd reason that you regret now, you never tried following him again.

The other children on your block were hollow eyed things, hunger and fear transforming innocent little lambs into cautious terrors. One time you got into a childish scrap, wrestling one of the other stick thin boys to the ground. You were five years old and when your nails caused red welts to form across their skin, a feeling of power filled you to the brim. As your mother pressed your favourite tribute’s band-aids to the cut on your forehead, you begged her to send you to the training center. You were five years old and dying to have something to hold onto. Where sometimes you might go without a meal, or heat, you could always focus on beating the living daylights out of a punching bag. So the next day, your mother brought you to the nearest training center, a free place. District One wanted to win, so everyone was given the training they needed, free of charge.

As they assessed you, they found that you were very light on your feet. The grace you still carry to this day was given to you by your mother, although your mother always said that the lovely way you moved was a very grim trait, whatever that meant. So they trained you in acrobatics, an good stepping stone to martial arts. Yet, when they tried to teach you the stances, all you wanted to do was throw your fists out and make blood happen. A lovely pair of boxing gloves were given to you by your trainer, and you haven't put a pair away for good since. You love the way your fists whistle through the air, the sweat running down your cheeks, and the fear in your enemy's eyes. Sometimes the lack of it is an even better feeling.

When you were six years old, the small sum of money that would come weekly stopped abruptly. Your mother cried for days about something in the paper, and you did not understand why. All you could do was place one chubby little boy hand on her knee, and tell her in a rather serious tone, “Don’t worry Mum, I’ll take care of you.” Always true to your word in the most annoying of ways, you did. First it was just a lemonade stand, built of cardboard boxes and erected on the richer side of the District. Every morning at six you would climb out of the bed you shared with your mother, mix the lemonade, and be on your merry way. The walk was a half an hour long, and during that time, you would practice adding and subtracting in your head so that no one could cheat you. Then you would set up your stand, and shout at passerbys like the people in the market. When you were sweet and little, people might buy a cup or two, pat your head, and give you a couple bucks.

As you aged, your lemonade stand felt like a silly idea and you took up a paper route instead, always handing over every dollar you made to your mother, who’d place it in a jar. There were many jars, labeled ‘mortgage’,’ electrical’, ‘plumbing’, etc, and they were never ever full. There was even a jar labeled ‘ice cream’ and that jar sometimes had a penny or two in it. If times were tough, you’d hide the ice cream jar because you knew your poor mum couldn’t spare the money, no matter how much she wanted to give you a treat. Still, every now and then she'd buy you a chocolate bar anyway, and in a panic you'd try even harder to save money. At some point in your short life, you decided to be the man of the house, and became the plumber, the electrician, and the mechanic combined.

Although you never went to school, you couldn't even dream of it, your bloodline has always held some sort of genius that you somehow obtained. When not delivering papers, training, or trying to develop a get rich quick scheme, you'd go to the mechanic shop down the street and watch the men in there build things. You began to learn the names for wrenches, all those screwdrivers and your young eyes began to pick up on things that even the older men couldn't. The first time they finally let you work on something yourself, you turned a washing machine and an antiquated camera into a self warming, interactive cradle. From there you moved on from your paper route and became a shop boy. Your hands and sometimes cheeks were always covered in a thin layer of greases and oils, and your weapon of choice a hammer. Those long digits, your mother called them grim, definitely lent a helping hand to your trade.

Things were very hard for your mother and you, living together in such a small, cold place was never easy. Sometimes she was bitter, and fights would break out between the two of you. Although you had asked the meaning of your name at a young age, your mother would tell you that it was because you seemed too beautiful to be a rose. She had wanted you to be deadly since birth. So, you were named Thorn. Once when she was angry with you, she gave you the meaning of your second name, Raca. "Raca," she'd say, voice soft and pointed, "Means, worthless. It means good for nothing." That's what you were to her when she'd given birth to you. When she'd use your middle name against you, you began to suspect that Thorn held a different meaning as well.

The day she died, you shook your fist at the world in rage. It hurt you because you could not afford to bury her well, so she sleeps without a head stone, in an unmarked grave. If you had the money, you would build her a tomb ten stories tall because that’s what she deserves. However, your mother forbid you from selling your tiny little house in the slums, a place to lay your head down and feel the relative comfort of home is hard to find these days. Your sweet mum said she could not bear the idea of you sleeping on someone’s couch, roaming and lonely. Still, she could never stop you from using the electrical money jar to buy a tiny cedar tree to plant above her head. When the tree is old enough, you can go back and carve her name into the trunk, so everyone will know the beautiful woman who is laid down below its branches.

The day she died, you were fifteen years old, just a kid, and now you were on your own. You had a belt of tools, some boxing gloves, and twenty dollars in your pocket. Your house was creaking, old, and lonely. When you would get home from work, it would be freezing because your mother was not there to keep it warm in the day. The one thing you never bothered to teach yourself was cooking, you figured your mother would always be there for you. You ate burned toast and wore three scarves that Christmas, while in the drawer beneath your bed was the gift you'd been working on for her for months. You were angry then, she'd died of some quick bug that had hit her and dropped her in the space of a week. You wanted to drop people too, so you took your small frame to the fight club that would meet at night in the basement of some bar.

At this club, it did not matter where you came from, rich or poor, the goal was blood, bruises and broken things. You've always been good at causing pain, you were a bother to your mother from the very start. She never wanted you, and you let the knowledge of that spur your movements on. Each raw knuckle was worth it, each split lip a blessing. Worrying over the dried blood on your chin turned out to be an excellent distraction from your loneliness. You've always been a slight, small thing. A good meal for you consisted of a bowl of rice and carrots from your mother's garden. With the lack of protein in your diet, you never really grew large. You are small, dainty, weaselly. All that you have going for you in a fight are those long limbs and that overpowering rage.

Your hair is raven dark, they match those eyes of your's. Don't look away, they are sweet to look at, at least at first. At first glance there is a sort of kindness lurking in the shadows of coal you have. Yet, to watch you for a while, you can see a manic sorrow building it's self up brick by brick behind your iris. It is an uncomfortable sight, like seeing the diary of another. The honesty that expels it's self from your eyes is frightening, it's hard to mistrust anything you say, a sweet little thing like you shouldn't be capable of lying. Yet, you do as if it is needed for your survival. Your tongue holds words, letting them slip out smooth or staccato, caressing each syllable as it exits your mouth. Your voice, though soft, cuts through the noise in any room, commanding the crowd in any room so easily it's as if you were born to lead.

Maybe that voice is what made them seek you out in the darkness of the club, blood slipping out from the corner of your mouth in a fast getaway car. As you wiped it off the road map with the back of your hand, they whispered what they could offer you for those fists. You're still not sure what made you say yes, the twisting pit of loneliness screaming in the bottom of your stomach, or the sum they gave you as your starting wage. Whatever it was, you instantly agreed and you found yourself in the thick of it the very next night. They gave you a gun on your first night on, told you only to shoot it if you needed to. Suddenly you were in a mob, you didn't know your boss, or what you were doing. You just did what they told you each night, and if you did it right, you got a wad of cash.

There is something about working so closely with the same people each night too, you begin to form a brotherhood, made up of sisters too. Teasing happens, and you've never had that before, but you love their attention. You miss the warmth of another person actually caring for you, and these guys become almost family for you. The first time one of them dies, it's a bullet to the brain and you all get a bonus. You could pay off your electrical this month, but instead you all get some ink. On your chest, almost over your heart you place a skull. It is your mother's skull and your dead sister's. It becomes a ritual to get ink after each loss, and it's a silent thing that you all do. One day you have less ink then the one before, but it always comes. You have three tattoos now. Both cryptic with a lost meaning to those that aren't you.

“Not see the wood (one tree) for look into (more is a) deeper forest." The woods are crossed out with a quick slash of ink, small arrows pointing to other words, as if creating a treasure map for the phrase. They planted carefully across your chest in a swirling script. On the back of your neck, you have placed what you've known for a very long time, "I'm truth." In the pit of your stomach where the loneliness wrests, there is the knowledge that you can trust no one but yourself. In the deepest part of yourself, you know for a fact that you are alone, and in the end, if you get a gun held up to your head no one will save you. It is a brotherhood full of boys and girls who know this, every man for himself. You've been in the mob for a year now, and currently it's been tossed into turmoil. Your leader has just died on the television for everyone to see. Your sixteenth birthday came and passed on your leader's death day, but none of you felt like celebrating. The flow of money has stopped.

Over the last year without your mother, something has happened to you to make you crooked as a fence post. There is something crooked in the make of your right wrist, as if it has been broken and never healed properly. Some might say it know's the feel of another person's pockets too well. Those long fingers of your's are excellent at quietly slipping a paper off a desk, or a coin from a pocket. There is something crooked in the corner of your smile, as if that too has been broken and put back together slightly wrong. Whatever it is, your tongue spills out more honest lies than truths now, less poetry and more guarded silences.

This is gospel for the vagabonds,
Never-do-wells and insufferable bastards
Confessing their apostasies
Led away by imperfect impostors

N a m e : Thorn Raca Grimm
A g e : fifteen sixteen
L o c a t i o n : District One
F a c e c l a i m : Park Hyung Seok
C o d e w o r d : ödair
C h a r a c t e r s : click!

[/blockquote][/justify][/size][/td][/tr][/table][/center]

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

Compleeeeeeete (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧

[[ retro gm ] angel lí ✨]

Magnificent!

[/center]