Anistasia Ardnt is GRAFFITI - WIP

[irobashi]

Anistasia Krahe Ardnt

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"Is it that I'm insane... Or that I see more than you ever will?"

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Full Name: Anistasia Krahe Ardnt
Code Name: Graffiti
Age: 18
Date of Birth: August 14th
Sexual Orientation: Hetero
Species: Human
Alliance: Currently, neutral. Waiting for a path to choose her.
Citizenship: DC
Canon or Original?: Original

"Victory is MINE Baldy!
And if you had any hair I'd take that too!"

Hair: Normally her hair is a golden brown, more, a dirty blond. Once it had reached down to her waist, but in order to help change her identity, she has cut it and died it a vibrant red. It now reaches down just passed her shoulders. Kept straightened rather than allowing it to curl or wave as it once naturally did, it's layered in different places to give it a more playful look.
Eyes: While it isn't unknown to see her squint due to both a nervous act and her light sensitivity, her eyes are actually large and round in actuality. Lined with medium, thick lashes. A hazel gaze that shifts from different tones and hues of grey, blue and green with what appear to be silver stones (or angel tears/petals) lining her irises all to look like a soft, glowing pond. All lined with a thick, dark border. All of this, covered by dark green color contacts.
Height: Five foot four inches
Weight: 115 lbs
Distinguishing Marks: Her ears are pierced though she never wears earrings. Most metals tend to irritate her skin and cause infection when it comes to piercings. Though she lacks tattoos, her body is covered in scars even if many of those are either small or thin and hard to find at first glance. On her hands alone are at least forty scars, all, inflicted in random situations during her childhood. One heart shaped on the back of her left hand, faded and thin. On the back of her right hand, to thick crosses, one over the other and more to the right. Given to her by the powerful jaws of a dog when she was seven. On her left left is her largest scar. Long and almost an inch thick, a mishap when she was five. From there, what appear to be goose bumps on her legs and arms, always there. A skin condition gained after receiving third degree sun burns.

Appearance: (At least one descriptive paragraph)

Face Claim: Hayley Williams

"I’m not interested in making new friends,
I don’t even like the ones I have”

Likes: (at least five)

Dislikes: (at least five)

Personality: (at least two good paragraphs)

"With great power comes great responsibility"

Powers: THE ARTIST: Perhaps not to be recognized entirely as a mutant ability, but more, power earned through the outer reaches of our own insane minds. This minor has discovered the secrets behind unlocking your own true potential, allowing her to rein the ability of bringing your art to life. Taking the phrase to an entirely new, unworldly level.

The power to bring one’s creations to life with any form of writing instrument one unstable mind can dream of gives one the pros of imaginably limitless potential. Well, if such a power were in the RIGHT hands. Some of her inked creations are there to fight, most already drawn and ready to go on a red trimmed, old papery texture scroll she carries on her disguise. From large, wild beasts, to copies of her disguise that she can hold and drag off the page into reality. Ink and color tearing from vortex into life.

Easy transportation depending on what she would like to ride on today. Whether sketching herself a scooter or a giant pig with wings. The sky’s the limit, though, one might see stealth as a far better option, Graffiti often disagrees. What good is life without fun? By fun, she means confusing the hell out of everyone she passes by and taking pictures of their expressions.

As for a disguise, while the rest of you hide in the old fashioned phone booths, she draws her disguise on. Underneath that hood of hers, her body is entirely black with the same texture as Nightfury from the movie “How to Train Your Dragon”. The reason? Other than the abilities the design brings along with the dark like she prefers, if you were to remove the hood, you still would not be able to see her secret identity. Those kuki white, cartoonish eyes you see beneath the hood itself belong to the black face before it. Nothing more than a round, black, somewhat scaly face underneath, with large eyes and a talkative person who physically appears to lack a mouth most of the time.

Something easy. You see those situations in movies where someone planted explosives and locked everyone in a cave of eternal doom. They panic, what does Graffiti do? Stare for a moment, for her own amusement, then find a good spot to draw a door and leave. You could say it’s like she has the skeleton key as long as she’s got the strength to open the door. She's become rather skilled with it, seeing as she unlocked the ability from a door in her own mind. Tearing reality to shreds, and pasting it back together with her own estranged reality.

One would say her own, beloved, heart and soul that has gone into certain ideas and designs are always the strongest. Perhaps within her stories, whether writing them on paper or only in her own mind, she will grow to love and covet certain characters. Bringing those to life, they’re likely to be far more “solid” than the others, as if they were a natural part of the world. This girl loves Transformers, have fun with that.

THE OUTSIDE LOOK: Despite what physics and laws say, the eye shape, black outlined, pupil lacking eyes beneath her hood, move much like a kuki cartoon’s would. Fitting the animated and unstable personality of Graffiti.

As for her scaly, black skin look with the long claws, it’s not merely there for appearance. Graffiti had both the game of Left 4 Dead 2 and Nightfury from "How To Train Your Dragon" in mind when she designed it, though, wished for a different style than that of a dead person. She may not be able to spring as far, but she does leap much like the lovable howler zombie along with climbing silently up the sides of buildings and walls. A good way for easy transportation in mind.


Weapons (if you do not use weapons, just put n/a, three max unless canon)


Strengths/Abilities:

A combination of different circumstances and traits coming together were what built this rising star today. Without everything that has happened in life, she would still be just Aniastasia Arndt. From her abnormal upbringing, driving her deeper and deeper into her own broken mind, to the elements and fragments of herself and surroundings adding into the equations. There had always been something odd with one female per generation in the family on her father’s side. Her aunt could see the dead, as Anistasia could in reflections. Her grandmother would always see a shadow figure before someone near and dear would die. The list went on. Her mother could always feel when something bad would happen, said woman, nearly as sinister in her craze. Anistasia had had this gift, only for it to fade with age. Leading only to more trouble when her gut failed and dumped her into trouble and turmoil.

Posing as a civilian, you guessed it, she has the skills of an artist. Having been the main thing she focused on in her childhood, the hard times pushed her into going far with her skills.

Ani will not fail to find weakness in you and what makes you tick. She has a subconscious voice that wishes to irritate you until the chase of hunter and prey begins. In fact, the only hero she has in her so far, is the fact that she may be able to plant a seed into the heads of villains and make them self conscience about themselves. Such as her idea of Loki... "BALD! SO BALD! IT SCARES ME! HIS BALDNESS SCARES ME! CAN I DRAW HIM A HAT?! SO MANY HATS FOR PROTECTION!" In the end, she shoes not fear it. Graffiti loves a good game of chase and hide, she's very great at it.

Along with being well coordinated with her eye for detail and her right hand, Anistasia is musically incorporated as well. From guitar, to drumming, to tap, to singing. Though, it is a very unusual occurrence to be allowed to hear her shy voice.

To further your annoyance, while she is a tool that could very well be used, Graffiti tends to be rather useless. Off in her own little world with little idea or care of what's going on around her, so far. While this is all true... It is quite a pain to try and kill her let alone rid yourself of her. She can, and will, find a way to make it on in the end. The little unknowing escape artist.

Many found her strange and thought her stupid due to her lack of work effort in class. In actuality, this girl is very smart. Intelligent in ways that most humans are not. With photographic memory and the ability to take a concept in her mind, scale it, rotate it, take it apart, and put it back together and mold it into reality. It would appear, unfortunately, there was a price to pay in the end that would handicap any chance of recognition for this. Graffiti is a class A problem solver and learns/memorizes new concepts at fast rates. Just not one to often care about the consequences of what goes on around her whether her fault or not.

It's not much skill rather than genetics. Fantastic hearing, with the downside that many sharp, solid high pitched tones do harm to her. Wonderful sight in the dark, but it can prove near impossible to see where she's going on a bright, sunny day. The worst balance and sense of direction one may ever see. Her knees face inward and as for the bad direction response, blame the genetics on her lost father. Never expect Ani to know where she's going.


Weaknesses:

Of course, manipulating her appearance, you could also expect her try and play look alike with others. All depending on her skill. One thing that will always give her away, her personality, and the graphic detail that goes into eyes. The problem with modifying herself though, she wouldn’t be able to make herself Godzilla or anything too big. Being Godzilla, it’s very likely she wouldn’t be able to draw herself back to “normal”. With that, you would have a deformed, and horribly wounded Graffiti’s whose brains likely just exploded all over the sidewalk. As for other creatures, if she could at least drag her old former design off of her scroll or a pre-made drawing, she would be fine. As long as no one interfered with that.

When all is said and done, and the creation has survived, she may return them back to lifeless surface for repairs if at all possible. To breath again another day. When dead, defeated, destroyed, her beloved pieces of her will fall apart, splatter into mere ink. Leaving the last of their mark on existence. Terminating any of her drawings, will likely cause a sadness. Killing off one of her deepest innermost creations, will likely kill her on the inside. Long before she gained her ability gifted to her by insanity, a single indent or wrinkle in the paper was enough to cause a tad bit of grief. Her drawings have always been her, reflected. They were there for her, when no one else was. They were her all, her only, her savior, until it was too late and all was no more.

Of course, while it has so many useful advantages, there come major cons.. One of those being blood drawings. She could take a stick in the dirt and draw, that will work, but the drawing will be short lived and weak. As for blood drawings, when there is nothing else, she can most certainly draw some blood of her own and use that as ink. Making sure to be careful the entire time, she MIGHT be able to make a livable being. The creature or object would likely be black, transparent, or red, with the outline dripping crimson liquid at its feet. Such a creature is normally made blind or somewhat blind due to a contest run of blood in the sight. Purely rage and little thought, they’re made to die, no matter how much it hurts the creator. For she knows in the end, with the material made for them, they’re to meet their end in order for her to escape with the help of their distraction.

Another con, there is no waiting around, you must be quick about your work. This could fumble her in a fight if she has not come prepared, unable to put ideas down on paper, not quite able to consider all of the things needed for the creation to live without heart wrenching failure. Many things could go wrong, including instant death of the drawing, or, her own death if she’s modifying herself.

Often, our misguided Graffiti finds that recreating the same thing over again is IMPOSSIBLE. Well, maybe aside from her disguise, thanks to a lazy technique of hers. Making copies, after awhile, can lose their effect, and considerably weaken the creation until it is able to be supported in reality no more. Many times if it’s something simple, such as her costume of choice, she could draw a circle and add the main colors. The idea is in her head, everything is accounted for, it’s all there, it’s all ready to go. She knows what is to come out in the end.

Having something to draw with certainly helps. She has gone as far as biting herself open and trying to stick her nose in the blood to draw with that. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make for a very stable or well balanced creation. Tied down and without a means to sketch up her savior, you can be assured that Graffiti’s artistic abilities will be bothering you no more.

Something she has learned the hard way. Different “inks” prevent different things. Such as waterproof markers prevent having your disguise erased right off of you when heavy rain hits you. Her drawings are not safe from water, nor are they completely at its mercy. With a drizzle, the most they would do is get a bit runny like mascara might, and begin to bleed into the street drains. Of course they do feel pain, and being splashed does introduce the damage response. Send a wave of water their way, you will easily wash away the problem from before you. Still, Graffiti hates drawing with marker, and if needed, will have a sharpie on hand. Normally, Sharpie is more resistant to water as the strong, permanent marker it is. Giving her “childrens” as she calls them, a better fighting chance.

Another, very large, set back would have to be that the size of her drawing depends on the size of the canvas. Villains out there, if you want her to draw you a tank of mass destruction, give her something more than a piece of printer paper. Unless, you know, you want something for your key chain. If anyone ever sees Graffiti running a paintbrush around an entire block of sidewalk... RUN.

"All it takes is one bad day to reduce
the sanest man alive to lunacy,"

History: Born to two parents, as most are, one from Germany, and one from here in the United States. Graffiti’s memories of very early childhood are faint. At first, only consisting of the nicest things she could possibly remember, her damaged mind, all being lies that were created by her imagination. From young she was seeing things that a Schizophrenic. From a skeleton walking through the living from back when she lived in Germany, to a pair of pants dancing around. Born in Fort Sill, Oklahoma, her father being in the military led her family to Germany. There, she had to endure his leaving, and the irresponsibility of her mother. She abused her father before her eyes, along with her. Sometimes leaving her alone to go elsewhere. Kids, something the blond woman had never wanted. Graffiti remembers none of the beatings from her, or being left to sit in her own filth as a baby. The garden her and her father had worked so hard on, robbed because no one had watched over it in his absence. Today, she does know who was to blame for her illness that she had most of her childhood. That, she remembered. From about age three, constantly coughing, wheezing, unable to breath. A bacterial infection never cared for until it was too late. Eating was always a hard thing to do, mainly because hardly anything could ever be kept down. Sleep wasn’t commonly come by for her either, nor the people she lived with. Her hacking kept everyone from peace and quiet, when she was quiet, they had to make sure she hadn’t suffocated and finally passed away.

After her years in Germany, rarely seeing her dad, being left with a nanny when she was ill enough and needed to be supervised, she moved back to Oklahoma when her father obtained injuries to his knees. Anistasia was brought to the base where she was born often, able to see her dad work, riding with him in military vehicles, and on many occasions, helping launch missiles at the balding mountainside of fin the distance. Their firing range. She was always that tiny little soldier to be, watching the planes go by, happy to see her father and his friends when she could. When she wasn’t home with her mother. Divorce came for the small family living in Tulsa at four years old. She remembers not of how it happened, just the memories of her crying mother. The woman had drawn the last straw and cheated, with whom, Anistasia will NEVER say. The loneliness had always been there, striking her even more with pure emptiness. Her dad still worked often, now, honorably discharged due to his injuries. The girl had no idea that her mother didn't want anything to do with her, and was forced to visit and stay in her life. When promises that she was to be visited, lies, her father would sadly watch his little girl stare out the window. Coughing violently, waiting, refusing to eat or sleep until she finally could bear it no more and would drift off.

Now, they had almost always had some sort of dog around. Tiny the weiner dog staying with them after the divorce, along with Anistasia’s fluffy black and white herding dog, Precious, and her father's dalmatian-Pitt Bull mix, Buddy. Soon, all we gone except for Tiny and her first litter of puppies. Despite her troubles at school where she gave the teachers hell and fought with other students, heartbroken, she still attended. One girl who went to school with her was grades older, a number diagonal from her, one that taught them both of them the valuable lesson of leaving bees alone.

There is one memory she has never forgotten, when she saw another five year old die. Anistasia knew not of whose bright idea it was to put gravel under spider web monkey bars, her and Keith didn’t consider the consequences of hanging upside down over them. Humpty Dumpty fell down, cracked his head wide open, blood everywhere, a teacher came and got him, and she never saw Humpty Dumpty ever again. From then, the woman had taken vacation time off from school, before transferring. One of the two only people that didn’t treat her like an object to be kicked.

Memories that she still has but does not want, being under the care of a real live Vicky, The Evil Babysitter. Mary was a kind enough aging woman, caring for a handful of kids for a fee while parents weren’t around to do so. Often unfortunately, she would leave Anistasia alone with her teenage daughter, whose name she can not remember. The five year old was forced to watch black and white opera, sitting on a stool up close to the antique television. If she blinked, the older girl would sick the kennel full of child-unfriendly weiner dogs. One of them skittish, often unsure of how to join in if at all. When being chased around the yard by them didn’t scare the abnormally small girl, she would be subjected to a larger variety of punishments. A belt buckle beating, being hit with whatever object the teen could get ahold of, being picked up by her hair and dragged to the corner and beaten there. She had to watch said woman eat in front of her, while she got nothing. Not that she could keep it down anyways. Anistasia became great at holding her breath for record time, trying to restrain the coughing so not to irritate the wretched babysitter’s daughter. Never could she say anything to her parents, not that they suspected anything. Her biological mother didn’t give a damn either way, she didn’t want the sickly little child she had to drop off and pick up before and after divorce.

Of course, she wasn’t the only child there. Well behaved, Mary had trusted leaving Anistasia alone with the cruel teen. While home, a boy would usually be around. He was a REAL winner, that one. Talked Graffiti into eating dirt once because he said it tasted of golden eggs. Then he crapped in the yard, which she refused, and peed on the skittish weiner dog. Fed up, she yelled and scorned him, then told him to go apology to the dog before the teenager let them loose and the kids ran for the trees or whatever it was they could climb up for safety.

The loneliness was still there, and building. Deciding that she was at play, all ignored her speaking to her fragmented personalities. Craz was the first, loving to play, always happy and rambunctious, keeping Anistasia company and keeping her from seeing the horrible things that went on around her.

The next tragedy to come, her father’s third marriage. When Anistasia had first met the woman, it was at some party in her friend’s house involving much pizza. Distant, Anistasia took her time with these people, along with storing a slice for later behind the sofa. She was not at all used much socializing. Her dad watching television, playing video games, or sleeping most of the time when he was home. Some memories were brought up of when she and he had gone fishing, only to be interrupted by reality. Something she often avoided, preferring to stay in her own little dream world.

With the marriage, a psychotic grandmother in law that seemed to be just as crazy as the other women from Tulsa. She was easily angered with Anistasia, hating her and treating her as scum. The four other children Ani now lived with did their mischievous best to get her into trouble with the old woman who whipped her and forced her into the corner. Later, describing how she was going to kill her if she upset the other children again. “I’m going to put all five of you on the road, you chained down. Only they can get up and leave first, if you follow them, I will get in my car and run you down. Do you understand?” Anistasia had annoyed the other children, following them, wanting the loneliness to fade away, wanting to be wanted.

From there, the gold digger, the gay step-son, and the thievy children drove her father into a bit of his own depressed madness. Things were getting expensive, and his current wife didn’t help. Taking money and hiding it off for herself, hiding bills and leaving them to be ignored, messing up their television in order to talk him into get the one she wanted. She and him both went overboard in abuse, driving Anistasia being driven further from humanity. By age six, after having to put up with schooling under the roof of a shack at another school because the staff had burned hers down in order to close it, she moved across the US to Oregon, North Bend. Her craving for attention got her to be seen as annoying and childish at the new school, even her cousin trash talked her and sent her off. Still, she tried hard to please people, one night girl pitying her and offering to play tetherball. With things thrown at her at home, she turned it down, and left to try and squeeze into a game with others.

Thievery, utter fear of human beings, and the fact that she is a lesser creature than all others was what she had learned. Keeping herself shut away and her head in the clouds, letting dreams come to life by sketching them onto papers. Wolves were her first obsession. Preferring to think of herself as a wolf. Ferocious. One day, she would be able to create utter carnage with the soon to be victims that tortured her now. While there was always the gullible hope that letting someone else in would mean she belonged somewhere, that she would be loved, it only led to further disappoint. There in the trailer park of psychotic people, and at night, mountain lion on the prowl, it was hard not to let more bad influences rub off on her. She wasn’t the only one messed up in her family.. Her cousin Eric, though he continuously slandered her and spoke not one word of kindness, often pulled weapons on other children such as knives. It was all funny, a game. They lived much like animals outside of her drug and booze addict, jolly uncle’s falling apart house laced with a garden. At one point, Eric, two years older, had taken a shovel to Anistasia. The boy made the mistake of dropping his guard, when she got back up, she found out that boys have a weak spot down yonder when whacked with gardening tools.

Every year or few her biological mother would visit, though the girl becoming more and more deranged remembered not of anything bad. The blond woman poisoned her mind with lies of her father, spinning her around, sending her to lands that never stilled. The cruel woman spoke lies of Anistasia’s father beating her rather than the other way around. The psychotic shark trying to buy Anistasia with pink clothing and gifts, staying for a day, leaving the next. With that, each time, Ani was thrown into further turmoil, crying hysterically for days as if she had lost her mother all over again, every time. She couldn’t help but feel that mommy was back, and she was there to stay, even though she wouldn’t go near daddy. She had to trudge back home, her father feeling pity for her, though not ever showing it. He was as volatile and short tempered as ever, taking it out on others. Whether through words or violence. “YOU WORTHLESS LITTLE SHIT! YOU’RE NEVER GONNA AMOUNT TO A DAMN THING! FUCKING WORTHLESS! ALWAYS IN THE GOD DAMN WAY!” These words she would hear for years and years and years to come. The memory of the black haired woman he was married to, her words, fading. Constantly disappointed with not getting his way, with his wife making them financially fall apart, with his flesh and blood stealing from the cupboards at night.

Her illness still went on, and perhaps at its worst. Each year she could get lucky and get a month or two vacation from it, less active. She would gain a little bit of weight back, and then go back to the same rib showing, abnormally small child. It was painful, yet, numb. Glared down in class, unwanted. Yelled at both there and home to just leave because no one could take it anymore. The teachers could hear he cry and cough violently in the bathrooms, whatever she had ate, lost. She kept to her drawings, shaky, clinging to them. They were her greatest friend, and she would protect them with her being.

At age seven, Tiny was still there, and their dog, Ranger. The stepmother had let a friend leave their own weiner dog with them, Rusty. Black, brown around the mouth. The same mouth that bit into Anistasia’s right hand when she decided to try and save Ranger during the male competition deathmatch. The sight of her blood building at the large holes in the top of her hand made her stare in horror, breaking down when they became fountains that a vampire would approve of.

It had been like that, for at least a month. Let’s just stick a bandaid on it and all it good. Today, Graffiti questions if it was due to lack of money and health insurance, taking pity and sorrow on her father for that reason. Finally, it was too much. Contest pain aside from her lung illness, her right arm over twice the size as normal. To her disgust and sadness, a yellow pus constantly out did the blood that leaked from the entrance of the bite wounds in her hand. When finally taken to the hospital, she was immediately rushed to the Emergency Room for life saving surgery. She remembers how many vaccinations they were shoving into her arm. Antibiotics, Tetanus, god knew what else. She remembered a terrified, regretful father running alongside her stretcher before she faded.Usually filthy, not often showered Anistasia was in surgery. Over night he received three phone calls. “Your daughter could quite possibly lose her hand, but, you’re lucky that is all.” “She’s too small... We took a lot, she might lose her arm..” “We suggest you come down here. We don’t think she’s going to make it through the night. We’re sorry, there wasn’t time..” She did make it, waking up later, having lost her voice from having tubes shoved down her throat. She felt weak, but other than that, no pain at all. After throwing up several times, she did get better, her voice returning once more. She thought she remembered seeing her dad there. She was bedridden for days, why her blood went up into the IV having to be explained after she panicked. Her step siblings, her father, her uncle in law (who still lived in Oklahoma) all showed up to visit her. He had given her two polished rocks, one a grey blue, the other red, shaped into hearts. Things she regrets having lost today. As for the giant buffets they gave such a little girl, she gladly shared with her siblings.

After more being spun around by her biological mother, heart aching fighting between her parents, the same treatment from the rest of her so called family, divorce came again. When they left, she thought of the time her ex-stepmother had tried to take her and the kids and her father had taken her from the van and back in the house before going to be along with his head in his hands. Silently, she and Craz played. They created the voices of her stuffed animals in her large, empty, echoing mind. One of the puppies from Tiny’s second little was hers, Copper. Ranger long gone, but very well known as the father. Indica had been given to her local uncle, Dolly Dew to her less sane aunt, and Flash to her grandma who later gave him to a grandson of hers, the crazy aunt’s son. The cousin that had tried to burn down the school in fourth grade. Her only living friend. Her ex-stepmother had come back for her things, trying to warm up to her father, with no such luck. The next relationship was a bust, though the lady was nice, and Anistasia deeply enjoyed playing with her cat. Most other cats were shot at by her dad, because they usually had rabies. One had ventured through their doggy door once.. Very unpleasant.

With his finding another ‘could it be?’ online, the dogs had to go. Anistasia did not miss the crap eating weiner dog, Tiny, but cried her heart out when a man came to take her puppy, Copper. Her grandma had tried to get her to calm down and explain things to her. The man took him right out of her arms, trying to convince her that he’d have a nice life on his farm, chasing cats. Taken from one kid, to give to his own. Heartbroken.

Completely alone. Her dad was there, though when he was angry, she was terrified of him. Often she flinched when someone would so much as jerk, covering her head and tearing up, getting ready for the beating. In their solitude, he would return from work, and give her what was left of his Orange Slice soda. At some point she had attended a fishing trip, and many to the docks. He had a boat, something he had wanted again for so long. It had been far too long..

This other woman and her three year old daughter moved in, being there to celebrate Anistasia’s birthday. She still has the wax Pikachu left at her grandma’s house that was on that modestly sized rainbow colored cake. It made her miss the trips from Germany to that very house, back when her grandpa was alive. Not knowing of what that man had put her father through, why he had joined the military at seventeen. To get away, far far away. From both the physical and mental abuse, being referred to as worthless, subjected to cruelty.

One split personality she hadn’t yet noticed, who knew how long she had had it. Many times she would find herself being accused of things she had no memory of. They were there basically, to stick up for Ani, since she never would herself. There to combat the problem that would not leave. Whether to make the girl zone out and miss the hours of torment and emotional abuse, or with the children at school who cut her down. With her father’s girlfriend becoming ill from the trailer park water that she was not used to, plans were made to move.

There was good and bad news. Good news, she finally managed to make friends at her new school along with a boy who had moved from her old. All she had to do was nervously ask if anyone liked the show Lilo & Stitch, Rebecca and Ashley jumped right on her. From there, it would appear she had taken their leader’s place, who tore from the group and seethed.

As for home, emotional abuse from her pregnant, married stepmom. After the baby was born, she could remember different things. Such as having her right wrist crushed until her pores bled. When she told her dad, her stepmom too seethed, having been yelled at.

She got her first C that year and was beaten for it, stole an item in class, received in school suspension, and nearly had police on her family when she begged them not to rat her out, quoting her dad; “I will be beaten every time the clock goes off or the doorbell rings. Please.” Fifth grade was just plain unpleasant, sending her off, making her cry was no hard feat. The school staff were becoming confused when she tried to cheat on a math test and was caught, desperate. Her grades were slipping, and she had once been one of the advanced students especially when coming to reading. She never did learn the maturity that came with aging, she was barred away with the little kids in her house, the favorite always supported, her step sister. Who destroyed her things.

Sixth grade came and at least, it seemed she had become rather popular. Those who once bullied her, gave her friendly greetings. Socializing was all that seemed to matter. She failed her classes, didn’t even try, only drew. Continuing her comics from fourth grade with her fifth grade best friend who she had met when they had a problem the last year with being given a Spiderman Valentine card.

A wonderful thing did come from the beginning of the marriage besides a mother that cared enough to check that she was still breathing.. Her stepmom refused to accept that what Anistasia had was Asthma, tired of hearing her stepdaughter cough so violently that when there was nothing left to throw up, she spit blood. The doctors soon discovered the lung virus, with the help of antibiotics, rid her of it. From there, she discovered that her immune system was poor, trash. Only truly there for her stomach, but other than that, she was on her own. She did have love for her parents, but, felt that she did not often get it back.

She soon moved, all of that gone, to Northern Oregon. No more sandy dirt, it was thick and clay-like. The people were even worse. Quickly, Ani had taken to people who thought they could increase their popularity with the new kid, only to find they had stuck themselves with someone they found more obnoxious and childlike than ever. It made things even worse when she tried to tell teachers, who listened not, of the bullying she endured. At least at the last school, she was never physically harmed. Here, it was both emotional and physical abuse. She tried to get this new group she met into her wolf comics called Dragon, pronounced Dra-gawn. She did, a friend of a friend constantly took a hammer to her self confidence throughout that year though. At the end, Teleesha finally asked Dezeray why. “Because she has giant bug eyes and I hate them.” The response she would hear for years to come, being referred to as a fly, or an alien.

This went on through seventh grade as well, the bullying had worsened, her need to try and get on the good side of these people dying down. There was little effort in her school work, coming home, and trying to get online as fast as possible to get onto roleplay sites and chats. A place to make her wildest dreams and ideas a reality, something to put her draws to use for. While gaining respect and friends over the internet, it would appear she had no such thing in real life. Always wanting to be able to lean on another, only to be let down and fall once more. The emotional abuse became far too much at home and in her depression thoughts of suicide arose. With that, raising the number of voices in her head. Cist was a tad sadistic at time, a bit of a sociopath, entirely a genius. Always serious, keeping Craz in line. The emotional pain was becoming a physical pain. In the mirror she saw nothing more than a hideous misfit that could be wanted nowhere, always worthless, not even a mother could love that face. Some nights she broke down in her room, unable to take anymore of it. On the ground, clutching her heart which pulsated agony. Her head could have very well split.

Her transcript was one of the worst that the school had seen, yet, they were still willing to pass her on nonetheless. Eighth grade year something in her had snapped. She was there to please no one but herself. Although the wish still remained to make her dad proud of her for once, she wouldn’t try. Everything rude outside of home thrown at her as an attack, the turned around into a joke for all to enjoy. No more enemies made, calming things down entirely. After enduring a humiliating graduation night in a pink, Oklahoma, tacky, Barbie dress covered in rounded black and white rectangles.

Being shut in at home for the next three months with the terrifying abuse, it was enough to shut her down by the time she enrolled into highschool. Joining choir with as much stage fright as she had had, joining since seventh grade when someone said she sounded awful, she got a few on her side with one of her jokester comments. Other than putting her into a falling apart group, a bully of a control freak leading it, it didn’t help much. The only person she did like amongst them was Jill. Another artist, one to compete with. Anistasia was used to being the best of the best. This girl had Aspergers, and while she didn’t get everything said to her, she was a goddess of singing. More to put Anistasia down.

For the first year she was called what she was, a zombie. Pasty white skin, sunken in eyes with dark bags and circles. Still annoying as usual when she actually tried to socialize. When coming home, raising the other kids when her parents were at work, cleaning, cooking, trying to keep up with laundry. Bypassing her home work for roleplays on the internet with what time she had left to herself. If that wasn’t enough, she had become a bit of an insomniac. There would be no sleep during the day either. Ghosts had hung around ever since her current stepmother came around. The ones in their house terrified her. Violent, frightening, invasive. From being pulled out of her bed once before, attacked, nearly driven into stroke from pure terror, she had learned to lay in bed and pretend to be asleep. She could feel their presence, see the electricity which appeared like white noise on a television, in the air. She could see Hat Man, and when she did, she would shut her eyes and not open them again until morning if she slept that night. If her angry father didn’t come upstairs for whatever she had done, rip her from bed, and punish her. The creaking of a child’s feet on the stairs at night, when there was no child to be seen.

Sophomore year in highschool was somewhat better. Not grade wise, that was for sure. She held her end up, listening to others in need as she had all of her life. Things about her though, she wouldn’t stand for anymore. From middle school where kids had LITERALLY tried to kill each other, one time, in the gym. Stormy nearly killed the one who had talked crap to the wrong spitfire, the preps cheering it on, blood and hair pooling on the floor. Casey came into the picture, her hate, her anger. Cellist had formed, all voices, yet she still didn’t know what they were. Cal as well, a man, casual, a bit of a smartass. Cellist was all of the pain that she had ever felt. She was quite unsure when the others had come along, she was lucky if she could remember the conversation she had five minutes ago.

That next summer was pure, ungodly Hell. Alone at home with the kids most of the time, it would appear the dead picked at her as much as the living. She was constantly dead inside, hardly able to move. The kids hid upstairs, they could hear their dad’s work boots, but he wasn’t home. They could hear his voice calling for Anistasia, they answered by silently shutting their doors. Later, Jill swung by, she too could see the dead clinging about all over the place. She was just as fatigued moments after entering the house along with the same headache that traveled. While Ani had a Transformers rp site and the people on it to distract her some of the time, the hauntings became worse. Terrified, and having had enough when one of them hit her hard enough to smash her into the ground and rip open her forehead, she encircled her room with salt. Hiding, finishing the salt circle around her bed, she froze when she heard a scratching at her door. No longer did they care to change their voice. “Ani.” It was a little girl’s voice. That night, the fifteen year old tried to sleep, a constant stream from her eyes. There was a reason she was greatly terrified of the dark, despite that it was so hard for her light sensitive eyes to see in the light at times.

By Junior year, despite the friends she had made, a couple of them guys, her hyper and annoying personality was a mask to hide the pain ripping her apart beneath it. Towards the end of it, her site falling apart along with the people there losing trust in her, respect for her, she went completely off the deep in. That night it started out with her laughing and crying hysterically at the same time. Her family had triggered her, she hated being alive, she wanted no more of it. She just wanted a painless way to go. The pain overtook her, the heart attack was setting in during her accusation to absolution no one about her stolen glasses that she didn’t have. She lay on the floor, curled up, eyes wide, vision blurred here and there. The room was out of focus, words like clickable options sliding into shaken view. Anistasia knew exactly what was going on physically, and was now scared to die. Scared to die and have not one damn person truly care. She felt as though NO ONE would ever miss the problem child, twisted, turned about, lost in her spinning. Right now was the decision. Anistasia took deep, yet, shallow breaths, fading. She could stop here, and go down the high road, leave this insanity behind. The pull was hard, she felt her heart cringe again, tears trickled from her bright crystal blue color changing eyes. No. These people walked all over her, they gave not one single damn. Not that it mattered anymore. From now on, it was her and her split personalities. She would gain her high school diploma, from there, who knew. That night, everything changed. She was cut off from reality, taking from it, and replacing it with her own. The world would abide by her rules now, the world she hated. Yet, she pitied, at the same time. The world hated itself, sad, alone and would never be able to solve its own problems.

The next year she graduated with a 1.97 GPA, that year and the last having busted herself to get her credits. Noticing how much her father had mellowed out, regretting her decision, but feeling far too numb to put too much focus on that. Her father had said once, that he was proud of her, and it made her ache even more with what she was going to do. In the past year and a half, they were like a normal family, besides the grandmother in law that seemed bipolar and at times, sadistic. Other times, nice, and empathetic. Her stepmom acted like mom, having shared with her the truth of her biological mother who she now refers to as her ‘gene donor’. On the night of her departure, she dress herself, a near splitting him. The ability she had gained through insanity, walking through herself, unlocking doors to new worlds, brought the clone to life. The clone bright with happiness and the self confidence Graffiti never had, never would. Though lacked the strong, explosive will that this masked person did hold. Water proof, she had learned. Hopefully it worked correctly, hopefully nothing was to go wrong. Her family would have the Ani they always wanted, and she would leave with the torn heart strings. Off, far off, into the city with lots of talk of having just as much confusion and emptiness as her. Craz, Cist, Casey, Cal, and Cellist, all accompanying her on her voyage into insanity and her ever so shortened lifespan. Maybe one day, she could come back, and take the clone’s place. She could hug her dad who had ceased his old ways from his own pain. She could hear that she was indeed loved the entire time, and that her parents are proud of her.

"Next time guys, we should just
rebuild this place outta Lego."

Writing Sample:

There was always the question of whether or not what the lady in paint did was right or wrong. Many would say her blanketing the town in graffiti was a pure mess. More money and more underpaid workers spent on cleaning up after her trails of hues and color tints. In the eyes of the one who named herself after the titled crimes in the newspaper articles about her misdeeds, it was a kindness, a gift. For awhile it stumped the hooded one when officers would become irritated, to put it nicely, and call in the clean up crew on her beloved art work. Then, it hit her, that perhaps she was merely being given a clean slate to work on. One day she would have painted this entire floating city, and one day, ran out of something to do. While Anistasia hated to see her hard work, heart and soul, scrubbed away, she paid them back with a mural more beautiful than the last as thanks.

Not far from Dylan in this desolate alleyway, the sound of compressed paint hitting air in a spray filled the empty, smoggy air. Really, the smell of the next image at work left a slight cloudiness in the air that was only beginning to disperse with the short break that its master had taken earlier. Anistasia in her whole attire stood around the corner, finishing her newest painting for the wandering eyes of those who slept here. Why this location? Something pretty for the homeless to look it. On the filthy brick was was now a roaring tiger, possessed with a demon it fought against constantly, biding with a rushing wave of colored waters that came crashing down onto the insolence of the city shore. Those who opposed freedom and emitted ill will were no match for the tidal wave while those who knew how to love mankind and all of its twisted traits were spared, taken by the tide to a safer location. Colors seized into tones. Purples and reds bleeding through the water from seemingly nothing as it reflected onto the rest of the portrait.

The painter in her usual disguise, her body blackened and covered with round, flat, stone-like scales that reflected blues might like the Nightfury dragon from Dreamworks. With it, claws on padded and slightly webbed feet and a somber maroon color to her curbed horns that hugged the sides of her head. Large, white eyes, so unreal and cartoon-like. Ever so expressive of her current volatile thoughts with no more than a bridge to tell that she did indeed have a nose with no crease to give away a mouth below it. Large ears, much like the mix of a nake cat's and a bat's perked and taking in all around her while her mind wandered off. As soon as law enforcement received wind of this, she would have to bail. Hood on, it completely hid her round face and horns from view in shadows just as unreal as her blank, white eyes. No mind had yet been paid to the man around the corner that could very well attack in an accused fashion.

"I'm through talking, get out of my cave,"

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