• Jackson, Eine Jun 24, 2009 23:44:06 GMT -5
Post by • jackson on Jun 24, 2009 23:44:06 GMT -5
[/size][/i/-ne jahck-sun] '
full name •
Eine Elliot Jackson
given name •
'The handful of trouble'
birth date •
1869, february the 29th
A writer, on most days
Staunchly middle class, though he manages to keep a few servants around
The first thing to keep in mind about Eine is that he has been diagnosed insane by five separate doctors and (fortunately for you) none of the mentioned doctors were correct. A doctor of today might diagnose the boy with mild bipolar disorder, but it seems Eine was born in the wrong century.
Even as a young boy he was very shy and withdrawn, preferring to seek company with fictional characters rather than people in the real world. When his father took Eine's books away in an attempt to move the boy to socialization, Eine wrote his own stories (though none of these still survive). He was very creative, highly intelligent, and a good listener, and remains so today.
At the drop of a hat, Eine can turn become moody, reclusive, angry, and even violent. Slowly, he has developed a way to channel these emotions into his writing, instead of inflicting it on people.
Eine is also a lover of music, and though he is no virtuoso, he knows how to play the violin and piano decently.
In terms of relationships, Eine looks for no friends and doesn't keep them, being very distrusting. He is unable to operate in the 'human' aspect of things, and can only see the 'synthetic' side of it.
Writing, his acting skills, being a moody bitch, channeling his anger into less violent acts, passive ambition, his pacifism, his talents and the reputation that goes along with them, his detachment from society's regulations which allows himself peace and earns alienation, quietness, gentleness
His hermit-like lifestyle, his generally moody and lonely disposition, distrusts everyone and takes no friends, his inability to understand the 'human' concept of things
odd points •
Can't operate properly with more than seven hours of sleep, becomes very cranky if someone even attempts to cut his hair
Raven black with hints of blue, cut rather unevenly (the stories we could weave of Eine and scissors) with bangs covering his forehead and obscuring his features at times. His hair is of a medium thickness with visible layering at the back; hiding his ears at the sides.
Eine's eyes are a very bright, very noticeable blue that with his black hair and ghostly skin lend him the appearance of a spirit or ghost. They are fairly large, but appear tired and even reserved in the right lighting.
Ghostly pale, especially in low light. He has no freckling and bears no other marks on his skin except a minute scar on his left cheek.
body type •
Skinny and lean. He's never had to do much physical labor, which is quite obvious. Unless you count lifting boxes of books as physical labor.
distinguishing features •
Eine's most distinguishing feature is his height, which most notice on first sight. He is, almost embarrassingly, only 5'6" which means he is quite often dwarfed by everyone else. This, and other factors of his appearance hint at Asiatic descent. He has a writer's hands; with long and thin fingers.
All stories require narration. My own story I will narrate for you, as I am sure you were not there through my whole life.
I was born in 1869, on February 29th. I remember this date only because it was unusual; it was a leap year. I was born in my parent's abode in Westminster, into a family that was unable to decide if it was middle or upper class.
My mother was from a family of no small wealth, her maiden name being Lowe, and her fortune being the same. She had no desired to be married to my father, and it is my belief that she was too beautiful to be confined to such a fate.
My father was an ex-soldier who had left the trade and turned himself into the owner of a semi-prosperous trading venture. The marriage between the two was more forced upon than suggested, and they were married three months after their first meeting. I was born a year later. My father was thirty-eight, my mother was nineteen, the age I am now.
My father must have expected great things from me, that I would grow and become strong and forceful like him. Instead, I was raven-headed, blue-eyed, and slender, just like my mother. At birth I cried so little the midwife feared I was dead, and only speedy observation spared me from the unnecessary coffin.
My relationship with my grandparents was varied. My mother's mother didn't take to me, and even today I have reason to wonder why. Her husband treated me not harsh nor kind and seemed to afford me little of his time. Of course, my father's parents -being Scottish- were both unnaturally loud and unnaturally friendly. Though their brazen behavior didn't suit me, it was a much better cry than the treatment the Lowes gave me.
When I seven years old my parents, being type to care for such a thing, arranged for my learning under a private tutor. Mr. Jacob Newfield came off as a severe, no-nonsense man; the kind suited for my father to choose, of course. And when father wasn't looking, there was no kinder, more knowledgeable man in England, who taught me how to learn by listening.
At thirteen I was deemed competent in all subjects Mr. Newfield taught, being various mathematics, science, literature, history, and geography. I 'graduated' with flying colors, and retired to my books. Father, unamused with this, took the books and hid them.
Undaunted, I wrote my own.
The genre, the plots of my stories varied. It seemed as if the creativity would never end, and even today I dread when that will happen.
At first I told fairy tales, and silly stories, exploring the boundaries of my creativeness, testing my writing talent. It was from there that everything really began for me. I told my father nothing of my stories, though on occasion, when I thought what I had created was good enough, I would allow my mother to peek into the world that was my evolving mind. I would generally refrain from bothering her, however. By now I had a sister, Jane, and my mother was kept busy by her.
I love Jane. Though one would expect the rivalry of siblings, by the time she was born I was already at an age when I thought of such things as petty. In appearance she was nothing to weave ballads about, her hair was ruddy-blond and her eyes were a muddy brown, but all I thought was that I finally had someone I liked, enjoyed being in the presence of.
Then everything began to go wrong. For me. It started when Jane, just starting to walk tripped, broke a lamp, and cut herself on a jagged piece of glass. I was unaware of what I did, though my mother made it quite clear what I had done. As soon as saw Jane, I had gone into what could only be described as a fit of insanity. I had broken down into tears, picked up Jane, and had refused to let her go, screaming for everyone else to get away from her. My father had to lay a solid blow to knock me out.
(You must understand, friend, that there are some points in my history I refuse to share and will not tell you of here)
Things like this continued to happen. It seemed like nothing was wrong, and then I degenerated into depressed, reclusive, moody monster. My 'normal' self began to change as well. I no longer smiled, an action that almost made the change to a 'monster' easier. On five different occasions, five different doctors said I was mad, insane, psychotic. The adjectives varied.
I didn't get better. I refused to get worse. There was that terrible balancing act that I kept up every day. My mother blamed herself, my father blamed me. And yet we continued to live on.
And when I was sixteen my father died. That was the day I stopped crying.
It was time for me to decide what to do. Whether I enjoyed the prospect or not, I now had the responsibility of caring for mother and Jane. I needed a job to do that. After fiddling with the idea for a week, I mailed a short story of mine to a local newspaper. People loved it apparently, and whenever mother went out to buy something she would 'always hear something about the story'. I decided that I could be a writer.
My first novel, 'Autumn Shores', seemed to take years to finish. It was short, only eighteen chapters, and sold remarkably well. Novel followed novel, each one better than the last. I learned how to channel my negative emotions, my moments of misery and anger, into my stories. This emotion appealed to my readers, it seemed and this was well enough for me. Better the paper than a human being.
With the money from my novels I was able to buy my own house, freeing my mother from the responsibility of caring for me. I hired a maid, who amazingly was undaunted by my pseudo-insanity. I was able to provide for my mother and sister, and even today they are quite well-off.
I hope things remain this way.
father : James Edgar Jackson + deceased
mother : Rose Jackson + currently resides in Westminster
sister : Jane Maria Jackson + currently resides in Westminster
To be edited
sidenote • 'Eine' rhymes with 'vine', kthnx