Post by red on Jul 2, 2012 6:38:38 GMT -6
Chase Seamus Clark
Name: Chase Clark
Nicknames: Clark
Gender: Male
Age: 40
District: 4
Job: Owns a shops which sells fishing tack. It is a family business and very close to his heart.
Description: Chase Clark is a large, sturdy man of 6'4". His hair still retains some of the fiery red he had in his youth, but has dulled a little to a mousey brown, which although not unkempt, he cares little for and leaves to its own devices.
He is often unshaven, especially after periods of time when he has been lying around in a drunken stupor, which are frequent. Having a neat and tidy appearance would to him be deemed making a 'special effort', which he only does for special occasions.
He is of a bulky build, and is exceptionally strong, having retained most of the strength from his youth. His eyes are grey-blue.
Personality: Chase likes to think he's seen it all, done it all, and is now completely hardened to the world. He is an angry man by nature, with an intolerant personality and a tendency to lash out at those closest to him, although finding a way to get close to him is no mean feat.
Despite his gruff, irritable exterior, he is essentially a man in a great deal of pain, who has suffered a large amount of trauma in his lifetime and still suffers as a result. However, he has something of a superiority complex; he often feels that the majority of people around him are beneath him, as be believes they cannot possibly have seen the things he has seen, or know what it is to feel the kind of pain he does.
As a result of this, he treats others with a kind of mocking impatience, and feels justified in doing so. After all, he's better than all of them. Or so he tries to convey. Despite his very obvious excess of ego, he does have insecurities about his own humanity; his superiority complex shrouds a very deeply buried inferiority complex. Deep down, he knows that having done everything he has done, his soul is doomed. There's no-one worse than him.
History: The breeze was cool on the back of his neck, but 18-year-old Chase Clark still felt the familiar prickling of sweat and erect hairs that accompanied this time of year. He glanced towards his mother. It had been a little while since he'd lived with any member of his family, but he still needed the comfort of her warm gaze at a time like this.
At least after today he'd have nothing to worry about. This year was the last year when he was eligible in the reaping. He would never have to worry about it again. The concept that very soon all the apprehension would be over...it was a little thrilling. He was an only child and so therefore his name had been put down far too many times for tesserae, in order to provide for both parents and grandparents. Aside from this, he had everything going for him. He was handsome and relatively charismatic, if a touch arrogant. Yes, he could be insensitive, and wasn't particularly kind, but he was loyal enough and a good friend to those who earned it. The people around him valued his company. He was respected. Girls fancied him. His future was secure; he would soon take over his father's successful shop.
These thoughts gave him some comfort as he approached to stand with his peers, but his thoughts were crushed into silence as he recognised that names were now to be drawn.
The first name was a blow. He knew her. He could imagine regretting her death.
Two or three years ago he had gotten drunk for the very first time with a small group of youths, and had shared his first clumsy, alcohol-infused kiss with the pretty, dark-haired creature. She was a year or so younger, but well-known as having flitted between nearly every boy in the district, breaking hearts as she went. She'd never broken his heart. They'd barely spoken since the kiss. Despite this, he retained a soft spot for her. She was pretty and delicate and soft. He realised with all the certainty that he possessed that she was very surely going to die. How could a pretty little brunette like her defend herself against strong tributes who had trained in murder?
He didn't hear the second name being called out. He only felt hands pushing, dragging, until he was on the podium beside her, staring at the crowd with eyes that did not feel like his own.
"Chase Clark is our second tribute from District 4!"~~~~~~
Oh, how he'd underestimated her. Delicate and soft? No sir.
The girl he had shared his first kiss with was quite literally sinking her teeth into him. She was on top of him, and had one hand tangled in his hair and one struggling to reclaim the dagger he had taken from her. In a moment of desperation she had driven her teeth hard into his shoulder.
Admittedly, he couldn't deny having fantasised about the very same girl in a not-so-distant way to this scenario. She was straddling and pinning him, that was for sure. He hadn't imagined that the situation would be quite so life threatening, though.
The sudden pain in his shoulder spasmed down his upper arm. What had she done? Had she managed to bite through to tendon? Bone? Regardless, with the agony came adrenaline, and a sudden burst of strength.
Then she was dead. Chase's old crush lay on the ground with her neck making a sickening angle. Blood stained her teeth and lips. She looked grotesque, but still very beautiful.
"Aaaaaaaand....Chase Clark is the winner of this year's Hunger Games! Congratulations, Chase!"~~~~~~
A home. A business. A family. A wife. A son. He could have dreamt of nothing more. He had barely any problems, except perhaps Clayton Riddle and his pesky rival business. The Hunger Games were far behind him. She had found him in his darkest hour, turned him into a man he could live with. A loving, kind man. She could see past his arrogance and irritableness, and she could see past the bloodthirsty killer who had broken necks and stabbed and choked and crushed during the games. She was everything, and she was about to have his second son.
His love screamed as though her insides were on fire. Blood was on everything. She writhed and gasped and screeched and twitched. Was giving birth always like this? Her face contorted with every push and contraction, and Chase clutched helplessly at her hand with both of his own, his eyes wide with panic, his fingers slick with her blood.
The doctor shook his head very slowly.~~~~~~
He stared at his twelve-year-old son with an expression of profound distaste. He looked just like her. He didn't deserve it, though. He didn't deserve to wear her beauty. Chase had seen him in training; he was just as vicious as his father. Something capable of that kind of violence did not deserve to wear that kind of beauty. It was wrong.
One more shot, Chase thought. Then I'll sleep. Then I can forget the brat.
He downed it in one, feeling his son's questioning eyes on him. Suddenly furious, he felt his hand fly out. The shot glass flew across the room. He turned away, ignoring the fact that his child had just cried out in pain.~~~~~~
His son was fourteen now, and looked more like her every day. Chase felt at war with himself. He couldn't control the sudden bursts of anger that he occasionally experience when he set eyes on his son. He also couldn't control the regret he sometimes felt. The self-loathing. The disgust. Sometimes, he felt an unexpected little surge of pride when he saw his son in training. This only added to the self-hatred he had for so frequently beating him to the point where it became dangerous. But he couldn't help himself; the anger was something he couldn't control. When he saw Aidan, he was reminded so much of his younger self that it hurt. The memories of how he had honed his violence in the same way that Aidan was now doing were ones that had once been something be proud of...until the days when he had actually had to use them to kill.
He was even drinking in the shop now, during work hours. He couldn't get through the day without it. He sat at the counter, looking sad and pathetic and drinking only the strongest of spirits. Today in particular, he was so drunk he could barely walk. Barely talk. Barely think but to wallow in his misery and his regrets.
What had he become? Where was the man she had found in him? The loving husband, honourable citizen?
Aiden's voice behind him tore him from his thoughts.
"SHUT UP!" he roared, without thinking. "I'm busy! Can't you tell I'm busy? S'bad manners to interrupt!"
And then he was on his feet, he had staggered across the room, his powerful fists were bruising Aiden's young, wound-spattered skin with a strength derived from fury. How dare he have her beauty? How dare he? His only child seemed to sink like a fishing weight as a brutal fist collided with the side of his head.
What have I become? Thought Chase desperately as he himself sank down, numb with drunkness and shock at his own brutality.
Password Phrase: Stolen by Alli (:
ACK! I'm sorry the history's so long and melodramatic xD xD I got super carried away.
