6'1" / 185cm
Unemployed / HomelessZONE:
Parasitic / Liquid Skin
Black liquid encases body. Stretch, bend, expand, constrict—
Expanding becomes liquid. Suffocate target. Compacting becomes smaller, denser, solid—
Or something more elegant? Slicing, piercing—
Bones that bend, bones that sharpen. (But then they're not really bones at all, are they—)
Maximum standing height 10 ft. Can't talk but can fight.
Fight like a machine.
It's hard to talk, to communicate. Talk to people. Why are people so strange. They talk and talk but I can't keep up—
They say your brain's broken.
Unresponsive, unfeeling, unfocused, undeveloped—
Autism? Schizoid? Schizophrenia? What do those even mean. They say there's medicine, but who has that kind of money.
How did I get here?
The people passing by, they say the streets suit me.
How long ago... Must be years, 'cus my legs got longer and my feet got bigger (or my shoes got smaller?)—
School was too hard. When all the kids moved to grade 6 (how are they so smart—) I moved home.
To learn better, said Mother. To protect you, said Mother.
So home it was. Imprisonment. Replacement for the intangible—
(But I can't be him.)
And so she kept me by her side, until long after I grew so tall that I saw over her head.
Until after I began hearing voices—
You hear them too, don't you?
They tell you all sorts of things. They tell you Mother's in danger, that she's in pain.
They tell you to grab a kitchen knife and drive it straight through her neck, because she's in pain and she needs you to save her—
And they tell you so loudly, so frequently, so insistently, so menacingly—
And the police, what could they do. They say that I was underage, that I was crazy, that I needed help—
His Honor sent me to a hospital, but the voices told me to run.
Is that why I'm here now, on these streets?
Maybe I shouldn't have listened to them. But how could I talk back.
Talking is too hard.
(+) Photograph faces, printed words, a good meal, silence...
(-) The chatter, the static, harsh weather, boredom, the voices—
Age 16 at time of murder. Fled mental ward at 18.
Mother: Dahlia Yates. Father: Nathaniel Sayers, location unknown. No siblings.
Occasional manual labor work here and there for money. Change for smokes and camera batteries.