Post by damien gabriel oakley on Feb 23, 2012 19:29:59 GMT -5
damien gabriel oakley
IM HELL ON HEELS
SAY WHAT YOU WILL, I DONE MADE THE DEVIL A DEAL
SAY WHAT YOU WILL, I DONE MADE THE DEVIL A DEAL
FULL NAME: Damien Gabriel Oakley
NICKNAMES: Damnit, Dame.
AGE: Eighteen
MEMBER GROUP: Teenie
SEXUAL ORIENTATION: bisexual and certainly not into horses. This is a secret, the former, not the latter.
PLAYBY: Ezra Miller
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HE MADE ME PRETTY
HE MADE ME SMART, IM GONNA BREAK A MILLION HEARTS
HE MADE ME SMART, IM GONNA BREAK A MILLION HEARTS
“Obviously my older brother turned out to be a disappointment, at age two… if he wasn’t a disappointment; you’d think my parents wouldn’t need another child, a better child. This story is a favourite story of mine. I sometimes go into detail over the dinner table about how my brother failed so dramatically at being alive, that a replacement was necessary. My parents used to laugh it off, now they tell me to shut up. So I do shut up, and then I tell another favourite story of mine, like how my next older brother turned out to be a bigger disappointment than my oldest brother, at age two… if he wasn’t such a disappointment, you’d think my parents wouldn’t need another child, a better child. And now this is definitely my favourite story, because this is where I come into it. I like to point out that when I was age two, my parents didn’t need another child, a better child. Therefore I couldn’t be a disappointment, not at age two, and probably not now. Well maybe now.
When you read any book, it always takes a couple of chapters to get into the swing of it, so let this next paragraph be my first couple of chapters. I’m going to tell you about the time before I was born. Obviously I can’t give you too many details because it’s a secret, and secondly I wasn’t born. But I’ve heard rumours, they circulate quite a few places, especially given my ‘dad’s position. I’m not going to bother telling you how long Josh or Jacob, the eldest two, were in their diapers or how they took to each other, but I am going to tell you about my scandal. My dad’s a politician, he thinks he’s real big and hip, doing nothing and earning a fortune for it. He’s a hypocrite, but then so is my mom. All of those long late hours that my dad worked, a typical story would place him as the unfaithful one. Of course, it couldn’t be the prissy little housewife, she would never be to blame, she wouldn’t do anything wrong, she would just clean up after my smelly big brothers. She wouldn’t hire a baby sitter and slag about with our next door neighbour, good old daddy now, would she? Yes, she would. And nine month later I was born. I prefer the first story, that my brothers were merely a disappointment.
Despite the fact that my distinctive jaw and cheek bones gave me away at once as the neighbours bundle of joy; “Oh Dylan, he has your bone structure,” my mom would say and it was as if my dad were so desperate to believe it, that he would nod and agree. “I’m sure he’ll grow into them,” my dad would reply, if only to reassure himself that I was actually not the double image of the guy who parks too close to him. The problem is, my dad looks like my brother, and my brother looks like my other brother, who likes like my mom, and then there’s me.
Nonetheless, as I’m sure you figured by now, my family are good at pretending. My mom pretended I was my dad’s, my dad pretended I was my dad’s, and I guess my brothers treat me like you’re meant to treat a little brother. They tortured me. I don’t mean a gun to the head, but the typical older brother pranks that are meant to make you tough. If I’m honest, I don’t really remember that much from my childhood. I was really well off, probably spoilt and never left needing for anything. If a new toy came out, of course my parents would invest in it for me. Then my brothers and I would fight over it, then my parents would buy us all one. Then we’d get bored and move onto the next fad. We played outside a lot, running around the neighbourhood like we were villains and cops. We were probably loud and obnoxious. And that’s where my next little story comes in.
You see I thought I was loud and obnoxious when daddikins next door took me aside, a bit roughly really, for squirting his cat with a water pistol. I had dogs, of course I wasn’t going to humour a pussy cat. So anyway, I thought I was being kidnapped but I was about five and naïve enough to go with it. He took a hold of my hand, which I remember being a little anxious about because my parents had always told me not to go off with strangers. But he was our next door neighbour, so technically he wasn’t a stranger, he was just cranky. I followed him, and I thought he looked a little bit strange, given his mock of black hair and his distinctive appearance. He didn’t look like my dad very much. He lead me into his house and picked me up and sat me on a counter in his kitchen. My feet couldn’t touch the floor. I bit my lip. I know you probably don’t believe me, because I was five. You can’t remember biting your lip at five, but I can because it’s where I picked up the habit. He poured me a milkshake which settled me a little. It was strawberry. Then he stroked my hair. And we just talked. He asked me about myself. I told him I liked football. I thought he was going to shout at me for squirting his cat, but he seemed a lot more interested in my education. I didn’t really know that much about school and what it meant to do well in those days, and I told him that. He gave me this real inspiring speech about education and how you could go far. Go far, like my dad, I had asked. He gave a wry smile. I knew then that we were on the same page. My dad was a hypocrite. He knew it and so did I, even at age five. I don’t know why I knew this, or how, or even what the word meant, but I’m taking credit. Then someone knocked on the door. It was my dad. He was really worried because I’d been gone hours and nobody knew where I’d been. When he saw me, he was really angry with me. He shouted at me for walking off with strangers. And then he took me home. I was grounded for a week, but that didn’t really matter because I had too many toys in my room to care.
These trips to Daddikins house started to happen more and more as I grew up. He would teach me how to shoot hoops and he was real about things. He knew just as much as I did that politicians were false, along with the kids I went to school with. But he also knew just as well as I did that to survive in this world you had to adapt. I didn’t really know why he paid such attention to me at the time. I guess I was ‘growing into’ my cheekbones as my father put it. I guess my dad had hoped that growing into my cheekbones meant I’d share his resemblance, but the older I got the more I seemed to resemble my adult friend next door that my dad hated. And finally he banned me from seeing him, which was a little difficult since he was my next door neighbour. My dad thought it was sick, wrong. He was worried for my safety. He would shout at my mom. He would say that anything could be happening over there. My dad was paranoid. We only ever talked or shoot hoops.
After this, I started hanging out with boys my own age. It was a nice break from my annoying brothers, at first. But it was weird. I was a teenager at this point and so used to hanging around with older people. See I was home schooled as a child, my parents ensured I had a tutor to satisfy all of my education needs. I tried school when I was real young but I just didn’t dig it. I wasn’t a clingy child by all means but I just didn’t like other kids. I guess I had a bit of superiority complex, I guess I still do. But I wasn’t as tolerant as a child and I was quite outspoken. A five year old who looked down on all of his other classmates, who called them phoney and dumb for being rich and wannabes just didn’t work out. Home schooling, at the time, was the best route for me. But I had to start school at one point and high school seemed the best for it. Plus when I first started all of my brothers were in high school too. I didn’t much like the prissy uniform. It reminded me too much of my dad, and he reminded me of my mom, and how she stayed at home organising charity auctions and other pointless stuff all the time. You see over the years I begun to hate fake people, and ‘normal’ stuff, or rather cool stuff. The idea of popularity, Queen Bees and being a participant in all that stuff kind of sickened me. Gossip Girl in particular kind of sickened me. It wasn’t that I cared so much about the stories she told about people, it was more about the fact that I didn’t care about those people. They were phoney and I was better than them.
And then I got sucked in. I didn’t think I would. It’s not that I became phoney. It’s not that I stopped hating the phoney people, in my head, I just got drawn into the lifestyle. I would never get a limo to school like my classmates, but I wont deny that I’ve been in a limo with my classmates. Nor will I deny that I’ve been to parties, that I’ve drank expensive champagne, as if I’m all grown up, as if I was some special politician that changed people’s lives by doing nothing and getting paid a fortune. I’ve done all of those things and I’ve done worse. I won’t lie and say I haven’t experimented in drugs, or that I still don’t. I’m the first person to accept a pill at a party, even though I tell my parents that I’d never accept a pill at a party. I suppose I justify these things to myself as living, as being anti phoney. I know pills could be considered fake, because they affect your senses and surely your senses are real. But not really, I mean I kind of see pills as allowing you to feel, freeing you to finally be able to see for the first time, every time. So I guess I never learnt from watching The Basketball Diaries, I guess I party too much and I probably have too much of a bad boy image. Or whatever. But the thing is, I don’t, I just should. I’d hate to say that I come across as respectable because that would just be like my dad and, if you haven’t already guessed, being like my dad is not what I want to be like. I’m not really as wild as I’ve made out. I mean I don’t really sleep about like the majority of the boys at school. I’ve had sex once. I don’t really discuss my sex life. Apparently that gives me mystery. As far as I’m concerned I just don’t want to become another story on Gossip Girl.
I know I’ve given a quick summary of my life, and you probably hate me for not going into much detail, but if you tried to tell your life story I’m sure you’d struggle just as much as me, especially if you were rich. There’s just one more story I want to finish before I go, and that’s to tell you how I found out about my real dad. I went to visit my old friend last year. I was seventeen, and on a bit of a come down. Suffice to say I couldn’t really go home. The old guy chilled out with me, we talked for a bit and I fell asleep on his couch. When I woke up, with an absolutely maniac hangover, he was sitting across from me. And he suddenly just told me everything. I wasn’t too shocked. I guess I was a bit relieved because I got on with him a lot more than my own dad, but it was weird because he was my friend and I told him about a lot of things; girls and parties, my views on people and how I was confused about a lot of things. I’d even spoken to him about my sexuality and nobody knows that I’m bisexual. He gave me a hug. And then I left. And I never told anybody since, not even my big brothers, and especially not my dad. And especially not my mom, though it’s impossible for her not to know. I’d like to hold something over her but given that she… well she doesn’t do much since we have a maid, but I guess in that respect she can’t offer me anything either. Whilst I like to play games, she’d be a lost cause. My brother’s girlfriend on the other hand, I guess we’ll see.
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IM HELL ON HEELS
BABY AND IM COMING FOR YOU ---
BABY AND IM COMING FOR YOU ---
ALIAS: Auby
AGE: 21
TIMEZONE: England, GMT
OTHER CHARACTERS: Not yet
