User Profile

Customize

cafedouleur

Add Friend
Add Note
Track User
Send Message
Send V-Gift

FALL OUT OF LINE, YOU COCKROACH

[ clever.sleazoid ]

Created on 2008-01-17 14:26:28 (#14697945), last updated 2008-02-01

215 comments received, 80 comments posted

Plus Account [Gift]

2 Journal Entries, 2 Tags, 0 Memories, 0 Virtual Gifts, 15 Userpics

Basic Info

Name:	pein&
Birthdate:	05-26

Bio

UNDER THE NAME OF JUSTICE

Being torn away from his mother's womb malnourished as she struggled in dying breath, father screaming hysterically and being forced out of the ER by the Hospital Security. One, two, CLEAR- as he was rushed away to be hooked up to IVs and medicine before even being cleaned of the wastes covering his small body, and Pein was named in one of his mother's last erratic screams, taken after the English word of her first language, one of which none of the doctor's in the ER took any time to dwell on as her heart abruptly stopped and the monitor flatlined.

It began at birth, as his life was saved and his mother's lost, and his father's mental state deemed too unstable to raise a child when he threw himself off a fourth story window two weeks into taking his son home. Wherein the man was taken into heavy mental rehabilitation, Pein was taken to a halfway house, a rarity for children, let alone infants, to be raised in replacement of a common orphanage or the government's care, and his father was never released from the Asylum that kept him sedated long enough to not go into convulsions or violent episodes.

In reality, it is unlikely Pein knew any of what was going on. That his parents were both dead (-to be prisoned under drugs is as close to death as birth itself), that he was only a few weeks old, so very underweight and nourished for a child, living with kind women who just want to help who would all be his mothers until he turned five, attacked two of the eight, and left the halfway house completely. (It is unlikely that a two week old Pein knew what was happening, but-) the five year old Pein knew exactly what was going on around him, regardless of what he was so repetitively told.

As a child, he was incredibly well read. He started early, reading through (-even as a three year old he could call the Bible a weakly written yet awkwardly persuasive novel. And nothing but a novel.) the books in the Halfway House's library, moving from Japanese to French, from French to English (-and that is where he learned the meaning of his name. Ha, ha, Mother dear.) and from English to Latin, getting a firm grasp on Japanese and a decent grasp of three other languages before he was scheduled to enter school. Of the few belongings he took with him, dictionaries, a leather bound blank notebook, and four heavy books squeezed into his little backpack upon his bloody leave.

YOU CAN'T BREAK MY SOUL

Pein's attacks (involving a trip wire nail gun with one and an overdose of Abilify of two of his eight guardians seemed unnecessary, but in His Reality (-demented as such is) it was demanded. Demanded so that age may not hold him back. (So that his hands are stained, his tongue trained, no longer an incompetent child but something much greater. Set on repeat, Once More With Feeling!) Once more to be what he is required to be to live correctly. (Pein's mind began to twist into something erratic and intangible by the time he was three, when he saw a Real Monster in his closet and only sat and stared for as long as his eyes cold hold the image.) Somewhere, miles away from that scene, Pein's father was being treated for schizophrenia. (It's said that it's genetic, you know.)

The point in time from when he was five to seven was a blur. Two years of witnessing the world for what it truly was something Pein found tragically beautiful. (Sasori and Deidara are fools. Art does not exist. Reality exists, and art is only the morphinated, hideous attempt at re-creating it. No matter how "abstract". No matter how "unique". In the end, it is only a duplicate of what has been seen before, whether in the mind's eye or with the physical eyes. And it will never be as beautiful as the original. As reality itself.) Pein has always been complicated. (That will never change.)

Two years of experiencing things. Not events. Not people. Just... things. Things like what litters Pawn Shops and Hand-Me-Down clothing stores. Two years of books, pages, the occasional overly-complicated thought for someone his age (-but he had lost age when the nail pierced the woman's thigh. Lost time and presence, really. A lot of things.) being recorded in the blank, leather bound notebook on his person at all times. The occasional illustration, one he never claimed to be anything as silly as Art, but as a cheap duplication created at his hand. (At his fine, experienced hand. Even at five, six, seven- However old he was today.)

Pein started and never stopped self-educating himself. From the point he abandoned his first home, even with a Missing Person tack on his head. By the time he was seven he had made his way across Japan, the two years since he'd left, as stated prior, blurring together so painfully he could hardly recollect anything that wasn't book-read information. (He has long since forgotten how he got his first piercing. How he managed to get a twenty one year old woman to fall in love with his brilliance before abandoning her without knowing it. Love is something Pein has pondered many times but has given little to know credit to. That is how it is.) And once he hit eight, he began to tour with some rock band or another, the youngest on the bus or boat or flight ever time, the one who only ever spoke when needing to speak, and the one listened to far more closely than any lyric, chord, or word spoken by anyone else in the group.

UNDER THE NAME OF JUSTICE

He stayed with the band for a couple of years, reading and documenting carefully in most of his time and occasionally letting someone put another hole in his face. (Body Modification had been fascinating from the moment that the opportunity arose. The force the body to adapt to something foreign as a ring, something it can't kill but can only.. weave around. Like governments, like spilled blood, like the feeling of being punched so hard in the stomach you throw up. A lot of things are comparable to a lot of other things in Pein's mind. But Pein's mind has always been black territory.)

He left the band with six piercings, a tattoo, and his notebook stuffed with several new, painfully complex ideas. Pein is persuasive in the idea that he can make anything sound correct with well wrapped words and cold expressions, but he is reserved in the idea that he does not live to persuade. His ideas, complex, well kept, were never meant to be given away like Mary's virginity to God himself. (Mary was a whore.) He is a persuader with no words to say, and that developed and didn't ever change.

At ten, he was no longer in Japan, but in Paris, France, simply having left the tour bus and never coming back. The band didn't seem to make an effort to find him either, so, out of more curiosity than anything else, he climbed the stairs to Paris's largest basilica, school kids rushing past him with their friends, glancing at him and often double taking at the number of protruding spikes from his face. (This never did and never will bother him. He neither enjoys or rejects attention. It only Is. Like many things.) And it was in the Basilica that he discovered his first fascination: Celtic Mythology.

Symbols and shapes, while he had acknowledged them in the past as just cheap impressions of what truly exists, now were on a whole new level. A level that Pein could not bear to ignore out of pride, for unlike the members of the organization he would later create, he is sinless. (Irony comes with death, and his mother had relieved him of any coming sin between her screams and the jolts of electricity that had brought her back to life long enough to utter his name before her heart stopped.) The book, thick and leather bound not unlike most of his books, was paid for with the money he'd loosely collected over a few years, and he left France having read everything in Paris's library on Celtic ritual and myths.

Nothing truly monumental happened for many years. He attacked more. Developed more extreme ideas. Went through bands to get across the world, and often preformed rituals on them upon his leave. (-Nasty little things, they were, and the blood would coat the walls. But Pein...) And yet his sanity (which could only ever be perceived as a lack thereof) remained in tact still upon turning eighteen, abandoning an apparently well liked German band he'd toured with for a few months to explore Boston, their last American tour date.

As he aged with time, he slipped around different countries, educating himself further, eventually working his way into discovering a job that he would not find pointless and yet would supply him with a sufficient amount of money and free time. (How he came to the conclusion that something as social as a restaurant is beyond himself, but he was more than correct in the assumption, because while he manages it in a first rate fashion, he rarely has to leave his office. By enlarge, he spends time writing essays or working on making the café better than it is, because Pein is never particularly satisfied, and therefore he makes sure no one else is by comparison either.

KILL YOURSELF

Profile_layout ♥ MUN ♥ RP ♥

Connect

External Services: