Post by Prudence Chamberlain on Aug 18, 2009 2:40:25 GMT
'Cepted.
Account E-Mail: (This is needed to validate your account) pjsproule@gmail.com
Name: Prudence Chamberlain
Nationality: Mixed Background; Comes from French Canada
Character History/Writing Sample:
(Since most of the writing for this character will be in notebook form due to the lack of other civilian characters to have neutrals with, this application will be done as a notebook entry about her history)
Date: August 17
I never meant for things to get the way they have. This never was my goal-to be trapped here in this cramped and decrepit New York apartment, but there has never been a choice in my life. No one has ever asked me what I want to do or what I would appreciate. It always is passed along to me in different forms weather it is in letters, a discreet phone call, or through someone that I may or may not know—once the butcher told me the next turn, right in the middle of cutting a slice of pork for me.
This all started when I was a young girl in New Brunswick. My parents had given temporary hire to a young woman—she was probably about 23 at the most—as a live in nanny to take care of me when I was only either 13 or possibly 14. My parents were quite well off as my father had founded some large company, so they could afford those kinds of luxuries—filthy bastards. This woman started off the series of events that have destroyed my life. I wish that somehow I could find her and tell her all the problems that she has caused for me, but I don’t think I would recognize her if I found her. I only remember small things about her and she has probably changed over the years.
After only a few days working as my nanny, she brings me out to the park to get some ice cream and to see the ducks—I always loved seeing the ducks fight for the small pieces of bread. I had just assumed that she had known that my last nanny would take me to the same park once a week. So, we go to the park and get ice cream from the street vendor there—she got pistachio and I probably got something like chocolate because I was that age where I only want sweet foods—and we pick a bench to sit at to throw the small cuts of bread to the small birds. Once we have been playing with the ducks for a while and have gathered a small flock around us, my ice cream falls to the ground splattering on the pavement causing small speckles onto my feet and on a few nearby ducks. I look at my hand and try to move it but it is unresponsive so I look back to my nanny who now has a small grin on her face. I passed out shortly after—or at least everything went black.
When I came to, I was lying on a table completely nude, when I looked around I was expecting to see a doctor’s office like the one that I had been in when I had broken my arm a few years prior. Instead, the room looked like it was someone’s kitchen. Large appliances looked like a row of towers by the wall the fridge being open reveling a large number of hospital syringes filled with solutions of various colors and shades. The remains of an old dinner were piled onto the counter, which led to a stove that had a small kettle boiling on it. I was on the counter opposite the stove; there was a sink by my feet. Turning to the other side, I was able to see out a nearby window—seeing snow outside made me realize that it definitely hadn’t only been a couple hours that I had been out. The fridge shut, startling me and causing me to look the other way where my nanny was pushing a cart of syringes back towards me. Noticing that I was awake, she yelled at a man standing behind me who put a mask on my face. I fell asleep from the gas in the mask just before my nanny had stabbed the first needle into my thigh.
The next time I woke up it was early spring. I was lying on a small street in Berlin wearing a warm coat that reached my ankles once I stood. Inside one of the pockets of the coat, there was a small envelope labeled with the phrase “Open Me”. As I had no other options of things to do without money or any sort of identification, I did open it. Inside there had been a name and an address, of which I asked someone nearby to help me to find. It brought me to a small house on the edge of the city where I met an older man who gave me another envelope that told me to go to a specific store and also had a couple thousand bills in a currency that I didn’t recognize at the time. The man there told me that I had no choice but to follow the envelopes. I went to the store from the envelope where the man at the counter gave me a pistol once receiving the envelope. I looked at him, very confused about why I had received the pistol. He only said, “You’ll need it.” And gave me another identical looking envelope.
And so, this same pattern has now gone on for a large portion of my life. They have caused me to forget my name and my actual age. For now they have told me that my name is Prudence and that I am 23. Neither sounds quite right as a match to my memories, and since this isn’t the first time they have told me “who I am”, I can’t believe them. They also have put me in New York and have had me meet a young man by the name of Owen Pearson. They told me to get together with him as a girlfriend—probably the only thing they have had me do that I am happy with—and to wait for further commands. I am only able to wait for the next message. I hope it never comes. I hope that I have been given freedom from this terrible path that they have given my life.
I can hope as much as I want, but I know that it is not going to slow them down at all. This is a war mind you.
-ME as I don’t know what to call myself.
Account E-Mail: (This is needed to validate your account) pjsproule@gmail.com
Name: Prudence Chamberlain
Nationality: Mixed Background; Comes from French Canada
Character History/Writing Sample:
(Since most of the writing for this character will be in notebook form due to the lack of other civilian characters to have neutrals with, this application will be done as a notebook entry about her history)
Date: August 17
I never meant for things to get the way they have. This never was my goal-to be trapped here in this cramped and decrepit New York apartment, but there has never been a choice in my life. No one has ever asked me what I want to do or what I would appreciate. It always is passed along to me in different forms weather it is in letters, a discreet phone call, or through someone that I may or may not know—once the butcher told me the next turn, right in the middle of cutting a slice of pork for me.
This all started when I was a young girl in New Brunswick. My parents had given temporary hire to a young woman—she was probably about 23 at the most—as a live in nanny to take care of me when I was only either 13 or possibly 14. My parents were quite well off as my father had founded some large company, so they could afford those kinds of luxuries—filthy bastards. This woman started off the series of events that have destroyed my life. I wish that somehow I could find her and tell her all the problems that she has caused for me, but I don’t think I would recognize her if I found her. I only remember small things about her and she has probably changed over the years.
After only a few days working as my nanny, she brings me out to the park to get some ice cream and to see the ducks—I always loved seeing the ducks fight for the small pieces of bread. I had just assumed that she had known that my last nanny would take me to the same park once a week. So, we go to the park and get ice cream from the street vendor there—she got pistachio and I probably got something like chocolate because I was that age where I only want sweet foods—and we pick a bench to sit at to throw the small cuts of bread to the small birds. Once we have been playing with the ducks for a while and have gathered a small flock around us, my ice cream falls to the ground splattering on the pavement causing small speckles onto my feet and on a few nearby ducks. I look at my hand and try to move it but it is unresponsive so I look back to my nanny who now has a small grin on her face. I passed out shortly after—or at least everything went black.
When I came to, I was lying on a table completely nude, when I looked around I was expecting to see a doctor’s office like the one that I had been in when I had broken my arm a few years prior. Instead, the room looked like it was someone’s kitchen. Large appliances looked like a row of towers by the wall the fridge being open reveling a large number of hospital syringes filled with solutions of various colors and shades. The remains of an old dinner were piled onto the counter, which led to a stove that had a small kettle boiling on it. I was on the counter opposite the stove; there was a sink by my feet. Turning to the other side, I was able to see out a nearby window—seeing snow outside made me realize that it definitely hadn’t only been a couple hours that I had been out. The fridge shut, startling me and causing me to look the other way where my nanny was pushing a cart of syringes back towards me. Noticing that I was awake, she yelled at a man standing behind me who put a mask on my face. I fell asleep from the gas in the mask just before my nanny had stabbed the first needle into my thigh.
The next time I woke up it was early spring. I was lying on a small street in Berlin wearing a warm coat that reached my ankles once I stood. Inside one of the pockets of the coat, there was a small envelope labeled with the phrase “Open Me”. As I had no other options of things to do without money or any sort of identification, I did open it. Inside there had been a name and an address, of which I asked someone nearby to help me to find. It brought me to a small house on the edge of the city where I met an older man who gave me another envelope that told me to go to a specific store and also had a couple thousand bills in a currency that I didn’t recognize at the time. The man there told me that I had no choice but to follow the envelopes. I went to the store from the envelope where the man at the counter gave me a pistol once receiving the envelope. I looked at him, very confused about why I had received the pistol. He only said, “You’ll need it.” And gave me another identical looking envelope.
And so, this same pattern has now gone on for a large portion of my life. They have caused me to forget my name and my actual age. For now they have told me that my name is Prudence and that I am 23. Neither sounds quite right as a match to my memories, and since this isn’t the first time they have told me “who I am”, I can’t believe them. They also have put me in New York and have had me meet a young man by the name of Owen Pearson. They told me to get together with him as a girlfriend—probably the only thing they have had me do that I am happy with—and to wait for further commands. I am only able to wait for the next message. I hope it never comes. I hope that I have been given freedom from this terrible path that they have given my life.
I can hope as much as I want, but I know that it is not going to slow them down at all. This is a war mind you.
-ME as I don’t know what to call myself.
