Post by steph on Dec 5, 2012 14:02:13 GMT -5
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[style=width:350px; font-family: josefin sans; font-size: 30px; letter-spacing: 0px; text-align:center; color: #000; line-height: 80%; text-transform: uppercase; padding-bottom: 5px;]CHERIE EDITH FOSTER
CITIZEN. STEPH. BARBARA PALVIN. CELLIST. EIGHTEEN. FEMININE. MUTE. INTELLIGENT.
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,386,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, width:130px; height: 200px; background-image: url(http://i46.tinypic.com/2j10umu.png);][/style] | [style=height: 180px; overflow: auto; font-size: 9px;]FACTS: * Yes, she is the Cherie Foster, youngest sister of Evan Foster, who committed the school shooting shortly before committing suicide in the small perfect town of Brookline, Massachusetts, killing five students and injuring ten others. * She is mute and does not communicate through sign language. She knows it but most people don’t. She carries around a small notebook where she writes what she wants to say (which isn’t often) in order to communicate with others. * She is a world-class cellist and is considered a prodigy – extremely advanced for her young age. This is how she makes her living. She has written twenty five symphonies in her lifetime so far. * Has an older sister, the middle child, who is a supermodel and currently the face of Burberry and Victoria’s Secret. She hasn’t kept in contact with anyone, minus her sister, in her family since she moved to Boston last year. * She only wears dresses and skirts. She only wears pants when jogging which she does every single morning at the crack of dawn. THOUGHTS: I used to think that when you died, you'd done it on purpose. You knew, deep down, how much I needed you; how vital you are - or were - to my existence, I can't tell which tense I should even be using anymore. I could use the present considering your hold over me. It's sickening sometimes to think that someone could just have that effect on another human being. I never saw it happen to anyone else around me and everyone would tell me I was lucky I found you so young. Together always and forever. Forever and always. It feels like a joke now, you know, because when you died, shouldn't I have died with you? I didn't, though, and now everything seems to lack that certain something that once made it so vibrant and iridescent. Before you, well, there was no before you. Just after because I don't remember anything or maybe I just refuse to. With you, well, I suddenly started living. When we first met, it was raining. You looked like, literally, something the cat dragged in. Your hair was dark and like a mop on your head; all curls and no definition. Your eyes were almond shaped and the coolest shade of emerald, as hard as the gem itself. Your nose was a bit big and when you'd complain about it and hope our children wouldn't end up with it, I'd tell you it gave your face character and that I hoped every single one of them possessed it so they'd look just like daddy. You wore dark denim with chains and leather, Chucks that were soaked to the bone. A cigarette hung loosely from your full lips and you told me you liked my eyes. Weird, isn't it? I normally didn't get compliments and neither did you. We were the same and yet polar opposites. Your favorite colors were red and black and mine were yellow and pink. You played the electric guitar with charcoal covered fingers and paint splattered shirts while I played the cello with neatly manicured nails and floral scented sundresses. You smoked like a chimney, I ran like a cheetah. And yet we clicked and managed to find, for a while, our own version of happily ever after. We were untouchable in our own little bubble of playful kisses, tender words, electrified arguments I should have just let you win instead of being so stubborn, steamy hours of sex, and trying to sneak around strict parents. We lived our teenage years like we already knew what would happen, like we had a clue as to how the future was going to go for us. We planned on getting matching tattoos, remember? It would have been another one to your collection and my very first. We planned on getting it in the future-when I turned eighteen. You weren't there, though, on my eighteenth. You were still buried in the cemetery back home, saving me from the feeling of nostalgia that no longer plagued me after two years of not seeing your grave. I don't miss home anymore. I just loathe it. I was in Boston on my eighteenth. I was sitting on a stool with velvet cushioning in front of an audience of over one thousand at Symphony Hall. You would have been proud of me, to see me holding my cello and playing for such a large crowd in a champagne colored dress and my hair done by some stuck up professional hairstylist backstage that said he would make me look like a Greek goddess. According to the papers, he did a fine job. According to me, I didn't care all that much. I never got that tattoo and neither did you. We never went on that road trip you wanted across the country, we never went skinny dipping in the Caribbean, never went cliff jumping in the Philippines, never swam with the dolphins in New Zealand, never ate Italian food in Italy, and never visited the Eiffel Tower in France. We never did it together and I can't bring myself to do all of it alone. So when I saw those bullets hit you when I was just shy of turning sixteen and that last look you gave me before I screamed and my voice left me for good...I thought you'd done it on purpose. You didn't fight to stay alive, didn't care that as you went down and your head hit the pavement, I was smashing to tiny pieces right along with you. My blood was splattering along with your own, my chest filled with cancer and rotted, my voice followed you to the grave. You must have done it on purpose; you always said you wanted to die before me so you wouldn't have to see me suffer. Pretty selfish of you, huh? I could say that was my old mentality, what made me as bitter and mute, as unresponsive as I am today, but then I'd be lying to myself and I've had more than enough years of doing that to myself. No, you died because that's what people do. People become cynical and hard, cold and calculating, bitter and angry because they simply do just how people can just cease to exist in the blink of an eye. You're dead and I'm not. But at this rate I might as well be. |
