- Character Profile
- Profile
[ JOHN DOE ; An unidentifiable man, one with no known name, one given to those with identities that are hidden or cannot be verified. ]
> Trigger warnings: Depictions of an epileptic fit, child suffering, suicidal ideation.
“Move it, JOHN. Blimey-- s’happened again. JOHN?”
He felt it all.
Every single stone, every speck of sand, the muddling of twigs wound tight against frayed roots spreading onwards to bite against the flat stone path, oh, it was a sea of sensation against his bones that made the child whine and coo and struggle to find himself against it. The world was black with harsh white highlights, distant buildings rising into an endlessly dark sky in feverish streaks, and as he panted open mouthed with mud beginning to gather at his wet, frothy lips, JOHN let his eyes try to adjust to the day-time sky with blown-wide pupils. He was down. Splay-limbed upon the earth, pushed haplessly upon his side, the curve of his ribs beneath thin cloth knew the pressure as well as his mouth did the dirt, as well as his muscles knew the throbbing pain of forced stress. With wild russet hair sticking to a damp brow, the child pushed himself into a laborious and unsteady sit, heavy head hung low as the ringing rattled his brain,
“Hffum…? Hu…”
“JOHN, you bloody fool.” A heavily mitted hand gently grasped the child’s shoulder, sparing his small body a shake of sorts, “Snap outta’ it. Y’know y’ can’t be seen here.”
It was all coming into focus slowly but surely, for the chilly fog contained within that addled skull was lifting to disappear from the dream-realm it hailed from. A blue sky, a solemn streak of tumbling clouds, a winding road… and the gleaming metal of a guardsman’s plated boots. All around them footfall echo’d off mighty walls as chatter began to rise, a mix of accents, a melody of indifference and self-importance; but the guard had been talking to him and him alone. In the shadows of the entry-posts wooden beams, the child had been dragged up against the warm stone in hope that his small body would not be trampled, a far kinder act than many would consider in the scenario… but that was because this guard had an 'affliction' of his own. The prevailing, nauseating emotion was ‘pity’. JOHN could see it clear as the sun itself the moment he swept hazel eyes upwards to meet the armored man’s dusty blue gaze--
“H… Hey, hey, don’t--”
“Quiet down, you. Are you empty between the ears, lad? You ain’t supposed to be out this far.”
“‘M not a dog, Tuleus. ‘Can’t jus’... expect me t-ta’ stay.”
In the shadow of the great Crown’s hold was the stretch of mottled encampments, worldly swaths of fabric and half-bent branches serving as poles in a great ring about the southern wall. The floor was a mixing of the mesh of dirtied fabric, the fleeting strands of straw come undone from their holdings in bound sacks and the repetitive stamping of a thousand feet tamping the earth into a flat plane; and the fourteen year old JOHN had a ‘home’ amidst the gigantic sea of tents, all rising and falling with the gentle wind like they breathed as a one. He knew he was not supposed to wander far, and certainly not up to the haughty stone arch with its iron teeth and the piercing gaze of armed men upon the battlements above, but there was no more work to be found outside of the towering city. The occupants of the refugee camp had little to their name and thus certainly did not have the coin to fork over for work they’d tirelessly attempt to do themselves. With shaking hands now calmed, JOHN tested the single copper he had in the pockets of his shorts-- gave a sigh of relief that it was still there-- and forced his body against the sun-baked wall to draw himself into an unsteady stand… the tremors had ceased. The pathetic thumping of his fluttering heart was beginning to slow, and taking deep, slow breaths, he found clarity came with every second the cool afternoon air came to eat away the harshness of his previously rattling form; and yet… Guard Tuleus still had that emotion shimmering within his gaze. The well-meant flickering of worry that caused the youth to bristle unceremoniously, despite how tautness brought him the pricklings of pain.
He did not want to lay about in the shade. Did not want to curl upon the path with splayed palms and beg like the adults, the adults who lowered themselves belly-down in the mud, the adults who let emotion claim their voices in the way of warbled tones. It did not work, people did not care, when one face became a hundred and fingers pointed upwards lined the streets like teeth no-one cared to stray too close to the edge, lest they capture the pathetic gazes of the downtrodden, the un-homed, the poor. A single hand rose to wipe the crud from his mouth in defiant dashes, yes, he was one of the poor, but he wouldn’t be for long. Something would happen, someone would want him for some task, if only he could worm his way past the gates… if only the guard would let him, for the moment JOHN took an uncertain step forward, Tuleus blocked his way.
“No. Yer sick, boy. If ya’ fall over in there and start ya’ shakin’ like that, they’ll stick ya’ in the loony gaol, if the priests don’ isolate ya’ first. We know it don’t spread, but do ya’ think others are thinkin’ the same way?”
“I-It don’t spread!” Snapped JOHN breathlessly, skinny hands balling into fists, “I’ll tell ‘em it ain’t ever spread, not ever, and I’ve been about!!”
“Come on…” The guard’s voice softened to match his stare, “M’just lookin’ out fer ya’. The camp sisters see ya’ up ‘ere, they’ll give me an earful, and probably a clobberin’ if you actually go in. City ain’t no place fer you, lotsa’ people, far less kind than they are out here.”
“Ah don’t wanna’ be out here… I wanna’ work, I want coin. Too many mouths ta’ feed at the sisters camp, Tuleus… a-and the babes get in first.” JOHN gave a weak and wobbly-legged turn about in the spot, showing off the wear of his faded red shirt, given to him by the wiry, worn hands of the orphanage nestled amongst the tent-city. Holes. A tear. The boy brought his hands to his concave belly, where there was a noticeable absence of matter… he’d lost weight. Lots of it. Felt it in the weakness of spindly arms, in the pressing of a harsh spine at night. Two moons gone, one bread-end eaten with a shallow plate of gruel, the hunger was as painful as the biting lice and the pitiful way he bruised and stayed coloured from the merest bump against another; the fits came after to snatch the energy the boy had left like a leech ever affixed to his persons.
“... I just…”
And he did not want to be upset about it all, because being upset invited in the thoughts at night, chilling enough to dampen the heat of the many decaying fires of the tent-city. Thoughts about laying there, thoughts about being the good dog they wished he’d be, stationed by the sisters camp and never moving from that singular spot, not even when the call to eat was screeched and the fighting began over the morsels turned down from the charities within the walls-- JOHN would lie when the sun came and fell and when the fits shook him violently and when the people walked on by… and eventually he would turn to stone. A perfect still image of his small body forever cradled by the earth, free from both self worry and the lowly gaze of others. Stone did not feel sadness and hunger. Stone did not yearn for bedding or baths. Stone did not feel pain.
And it had to be stone, because the Celestial’s knew that beneath the thin layers of dirtied bronze skin that the child was a coward at heart. Again and again reason had come to whisper into his ear with jealousy and anger in tow, why were some born into luxury when others were born just to suffer…? Were the Gods above brimming with glee at the unfairness of it all, the terrible inequality of the living-things plight? JOHN knew these were not original thoughts-- the wild froth of the rivers sometimes bore pale bodies, the trees sometimes creaked as curved branches struggled to keep a swaying figure up amongst the leaves-- but he could not understand why this was the way things were. Why was he absent of any wealth, the health of the common man, any talent with magicks, or even any sort of connection with another living thing? Why had he not been blessed with the same bravery that the others held when they knew the end was lightning fast approaching the steaming earth, inevitable? Why why why did the sound of a noose pulled taught frighten him, the image of the ground shifting far below a tilted ledge make him panic, the flashing of a blade in the dark rising slowly to his throat make him feel hazy-eyed and nauseous? Where was the fairness in it all?
It had to be stone because life was a prison of his own making, built brick-by-brick by a fearful child who could not find the courage to simply... leave.
“Lad…”
The fourteen year old had not noticed the fat ripples of falling tears smearing the mud upon flushed cheeks falling, and instinctively made to shy away from the oncoming hand that sought so desperately to pat him upon the head. It was allowed, tentatively, awkwardly, desperately. The weight there made him feel like already his small frame had become a headstone, HERE IS JOHN, it spoke silently, undeterred by the barely restrained whimpers of a boy, HE EXISTED, BUT NEVER LIVED. Headstones could not breathe but he did, quickly, clumsily, overcome with the rolling heat of embarrassment mingling with fear.
“I-I’m… afraid.” A crackling voice, itching to spring free, held down by a meager sense of pride that was fast vanishing. Thin hands rose to grasp at each other at the keel of his chest, fingers wrestling in anxiety, “I-I dunno’ what to do. I got nowhere e-else ta’ b-be. S’all goin’ w-w-wrong. I, I don’ think, I-I’ll--”
“-- Ey, enough of that chatter, now.” The warm mitt was ruffling his hair gently, and those eyes swollen with pity hurt, they hurt so much it was like a spear to the chest, so pathetic, he was so pathetic, “Yer luck will turn, it will. Even heathens get their chances, an’ the Gods ain’t owing them nothin’. A good boy like you will come up soon.”
“Dunno’ i-if… if I have time ta’ w-wait for Gods.”
“Don’ be talkin’ like that, boy…”
“E-Every day… it’s jus’...”
A look down to the patch of threadbare grass twisted from the body of the youth, the smear of mud caused by limp-tongued drooling slowly evaporating in the high sun, the sharp lines of legs like bent posts sticking out of fourth-hand shoes. The ambient droning. The chewing of innards devouring themselves in desperation. The still, emotionless face of a rock that once had sat high upon the battlements turned up to face the heavens now laying there silently, discarded by the greater length of the wall itself. JOHN wrapped his scrawny arms about himself in a self-soothing motion and hung his heavy head low.
“I-I wish I was brave, T-Tuleus. I jus’… wish I was brave.”