Post by benjamin on Dec 15, 2012 3:18:06 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;]BEN OLIVER
CITIZEN. MIMI. EVAN PETERS. WAITER. TWENTY. CYNICAL. CHARISMATIC. CHARMING. TWISTED. NARCISSISTIC PERSONALITY DISORDER. SELF-CENTERED. DEMANDING.
| [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://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c72/lemonice5/5-2_zpsb9d45a3e-1_zpsafec278c.jpg);][/style] | [style=height: 180px; overflow: auto; font-size: 9px;]Beat Me Like the tart with the note, eat me. She took my invitation and beat me. I asked God the other day How he could give his son for our sins. I asked, how does his son feel, Knowing his father turns him away? I asked, how does he feel to meet me? God laughed and said, “Beats me.” I asked my mother if she loved me, (I didn’t have the courage to.) She laughed and then she beat me. The front door suddenly slams open with a bang and I know that she's home. I close the notebook, shoving the pen into the rings of his spiral spine. I push it under my bed with a force strong enough to lodge it under something larger. I hear footsteps on the stairs, angry. Bracing myself, I turn towards the door to meet my mother's angry hand. The door to my room opens. "How many times have I told you not to close the door, you little shit?" Her voice is harsh, unrestricted; no one can hear her reprimand me in this lonely home. My father died years ago. I have no brothers or sisters, thankfully. It's just me, and my monster mother. She needs me, though, I know this. If it weren't for me, who else could she talk to? She lays a slap on me, quick, sharp, the pain searing so hard it reverberates in my mind. I can't hear her because my ears are ringing but I know she hates me from the look in her eyes. I don't say anything in reply, and I don't cry. Crying only makes it worse. My mother turns on her heel and storms out, muttering about her worthless monster child. I wait for the sound of her fury to fade, and check my face in the mirror. There is a bruise still healing under one of my eyes, and my face is pink where her hand hit. I take a deep breath, and reach under my bed for the tattered spiral notebook. The pen feels right in my hand. The words stream out of my mind, through my fingertips, to the page with ease. Ben was abused by his bipolar mother since his father died when he was five, until he had the courage to run from her when he was 13. The 7 years between are a distant memory to him. He tries hard not to think of them, but they play the biggest role in his life yet. They are to thank for his Narcissistic Personality Disorder. In order to compensate for the physical and emotional abuse he suffered as a young child, the disorder manifested itself in his mind. If you met him today, you'd think he was the cockiest asshole you had ever met; the truth is that his self-esteem is a facade, and a weak one at that. The slightest critique can shatter him in the worst way. He has a dependent personality, as well, and can be described as jealous and demanding. He is hard to please but he is full of tenacity. Ben grew up in foster care after leaving his mother's custody. He jumped from home to home, acting out in each one so that they wouldn't make the mistake of keeping him. Because of this, he's very good at adapting to new situations. He is charismatic and has a twisted sense of humor that most people find funny at first. It's the ones who get close that see the real him. Currently, Ben has set up life in Boston, the hometown of his last foster home. He stayed with his last foster parents for a long time, as they were the ones who could put up with his shit the best. Ben prides himself on his literary prowess; he has a brilliant mind despite what his mother seemed to think, and is naturally gifted with the power of words on ink-stained paper. He's a published poet that goes under the pen name E. P. Oliver, which is his mother's name Elise Penelope, and, of course, the family name. |
