MONTGOMERY, arthur Dec 8, 2013 15:46:43 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Dec 8, 2013 15:46:43 GMT -5
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Face Claim: <Dakota Fanning>
OH, HAI THERE! I'M EMMA AND IT IS MY PLEASURE TO MEET YOU. I'VE BEEN DOING THIS FOR TWELVE YEARS SO I KNOW WHAT TO DO. YOU NEED TO TALK TO ME? HIT ME UP VIA PM AND I'LL TRY TO GET BACK TO YOU.
FULL NAME arthur lillian montgomery
SEXUALITY straight... probably. maybe heteroromantic asexual.
BIRTHDAY september fifth
art’s a little short for her age - only five foot two, and she doesn’t anticipate getting any taller - and pretty skinny, too, at about a hundred pounds. her hair is blonde, with the odd pink streak, and usually pretty long, mid-back or so. fashion sense isn’t a term one would usually associate with art - she’s happy to throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt most days, though she is partial to a nice sundress in the summer.
any happy kind of musical actually
children’s fantasy, specifically cs lewis’ the chronicles of narnia (the lion, the witch and the wardrobe is her favourite)
little kids because gosh they’re just so cute
cute clothes, even though she hardly ever buys them
being lied to
people who put others down
extensive physical activity
art is sensitive to other peoples’ emotional states, and also very good at being able to tell if someone’s lying. she’s also great with kids.
for all her skill in detecting lies, art is still very trusting - too much, if you ask some people. she’s also a little naive on occasion, and can’t lie to save her life.
art is almost perpetually cheerful - and it tends to be contagious, too. she’s rarely seen frowning, and on the occasions something does get under her skin, she’s more likely to withdraw than lash out. art makes friends easily, and trusts easily too - though perhaps a little too easily, sometimes. she loves music of almost all kinds, although she can’t dance at all, and she can almost always be found doodling on a spare bit of paper or the corner of a notebook page. something of a spendthrift, art learnt to budget young and prefers to spend money on things she considers important - food, mostly - rather than luxuries like new clothes she doesn’t absolutely need. art has mixed feeling on authority figures, because while she trusts them, she understands that adults hide things from children that they feel are for their own good.
Art realises she’s not like the other kids when she starts school, when someone says an unfamiliar word and she repeats it and grimaces at the taste, and when asked what the problem is, she says, “Tastes gross,” and all she gets are blank stares.
She’s never known her parents, and it’s not until she’s eight or nine that she ever thinks to ask why. And when she does, Granddad gets this weird look on his face that’s kind of like a smile but also not, and Granddad B kisses him on the forehead and then leaves the room. When he finally talks, Granddad’s voice is all blue-grey, nothing like his usual vibrant navy blue tone, and Art hates it immediately, even without the information contained therein, the newfound knowledge that her parents died in a car crash when she was just a baby. She’s a little young to comprehend death, still, but she gets that they’re gone forever and that it probably wasn’t pretty. Worse still, she thinks, is that their names don’t taste of anything. ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ are just words, nothing more.
By the time she’s in junior high, she’s stopped mentioning the synaesthesia (as she learns it’s called, eventually). Because, well, how do you slip that into a conversation? Hi, my name’s Art (short for Arthur), I like baking and climbing trees and by the way, I see sounds and taste words? Yeah, it probably wouldn’t go down well. And the longer she goes without telling people, the harder it gets to tell. Not even the teachers know – and the only tell is the one side-effect she could do without, migraines that come on without much warning and lay her low for a day or more. In retrospect, it’s easy to tell the signs, because sounds get a little brighter, white-hot in her vision, and every word she speaks is washed in treacle, sickly-sweet in the back of her throat.
High school is-- not easy, but bearable. She gets slightly above average grades in almost everything, averages an A in art, and when her granddads tell her they wish more for her than being an average student who ends up in an average job, she buckles down and studies more. Studies more, sleeps less, eats less, smiles and poorly lies her way through talks with the guidance counsellor, because she wants them to be proud of her, because she owes them.
Some words have a taste straight away – most foods, for instance, some words with particularly strong connotations – but some, like names, take a while to form. Granddad tastes like sponge cake mix, whereas Granddad B tastes the way wood smoke smells. Alice tastes of hot chocolate with strawberry, a legacy of many years of bedtime stories. Her own name used to taste sweet, just the sensation, but these days there’s a patina of sourness over it that she tries not to examine the reasons for too hard.
He studiously doesn’t think about it at all for the first day and a half.
And anyway, his back is killing him, bruised from shoulder to hip, and the underneath of his forearms, where it's all bone, are a complete mess, and there’s literally fuck-all he can do about it. He sleeps on his front – not that he sleeps much at all, even less than normal. The house feels too big, too empty, and even though he’s been sleeping alone for years now, waking up from a nightmare and having nobody to talk to about it (or sit in silence with, more realistically) is weird and unpleasant.
After the day and a half of not thinking about it at all, he can’t think about anything else. It hurts, which is ridiculous, because it’s the end of the world, every man for himself, right? And they’d only known each other a couple weeks, tops. And for some reason, he remembers being told, at thirteen, “You’re too trusting, kid,” by an upperclassman, and thinking that that was bullshit, because if you didn’t trust people, where would you be? Well, he thinks sarcastically, probably in a better place than this. The alliance was a good idea, no doubt about that, but he likes to think maybe they were getting to be friends, of a sort. And that’s why it hurts.
The fight, he can deal with. He’s the one that threw the first punch, after all, and the kid had clearly missed his meds. What he was taking them for exactly is another matter Harry never expects to get the truth on – if he ever gets the truth, if he ever even speaks to the kid again. That's all Harry can call him in his head, the kid, because he's pretty sure his real name isn’t Clayton, because nobody has named their child that for about a hundred years, and the form of address lends a certain air of detachment. It doesn’t really help, though.
Mid-morning of the fourth day, he’s dozing in a half-aware state on the dusty couch when someone knocks on the door. It has to be the kid, because who the hell else is going to knock on a door after the world’s ended? And he seriously considers not answering it at all, for a moment. Then he gets to his feet, slowly, briefly thinks about finding a shirt to wear and then decides not to bother, moving over to the door and opening it. He folds his arms carefully across his chest, leans his shoulder against the doorframe, and waits.