Stein

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Lurking and shit. Maybe kinda interested

The Haunting of Crestwood Hollow - A Supernatural Thriller

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Kae shouldered her bag, gripping the straps until her knuckles bulged. To keep the from twitching from ill-timed laughter, she worked her lips into a wry smile and gave a quick nod at Mr. Jonas’ assignment. Walking down the aisle of the classroom, it was moments like this that she dreaded. Like walking through waist-deep water layered with sand. Each second exacerbated by fears or anxiety. Giving more credence and weight to the eyes of her new classmates.

Mikaela had found early in life, it’s harder to be disappointed if you expect little from your surroundings. If you look for the undercurrent in the stream. She learned there was always a caveat, conceit or reverse-side to situations in this world. Those things aren’t always negative or malicious. However, it’s good to always expect a punch, jab or swipe from life. Kae started to develop the habit, years ago, of slightly relishing in the pain of disappointment. Relishing in the pain of being proven right for withholding being invested or committed to anything. A schadenfreude from the bayou ghettos. She tried her best to keep her eyes from resting on anyone too long. Kae was infamous for her resting bitch face and she had promised her aunt to do her best. Put her best foot forward, a smile in the pocket and all that jazz. It was difficult, though. Especially when she felt so…”surrounded.” She passed a girl with hair like red like a blood moon giving her own face of being completely over her current company and Kae had to work to stave off her own bitch face from creeping up. As everyone knows, like yawns, bitch facing is a reflective habit.

She smirked a little at her warped and self-deprecating humor. It got the best of her briefly and she tried to play it off as a full on smile to a random person in the class as she did a quick once-over the room before nearing the group Mr. Jonas had indicated. She gave them a general wave before introducing herself. “Hi, sorry. This is my first day and…well you know, a lot to process and all that.” She tucked one of her locks back into the up-do she had put them in. “I’m Mikaela, Mikaela Maven. Y’all mind if I sit?”

She wasn’t given much time to familiarize herself with her classmates before the scream cut through the room. A cleaver splitting through the slab of meat that was the mundanity of their class. Her body instantly tensed, and her eyes began to plot exit routes. “That wasn’t any normal scream, was it?” she asked her group. Hearing a chair scrape, she turned to see Mr. Jonas heading to the door.

She probably shouldn’t have done so, but she quietly got up as he left, caught the door behind him before it closed. That was the scream of someone who had found something they didn’t want to see. Something they would never be able to forget. She knew that scream because she’d produced that scream herself. Maybe that’s what drew her down the hallway full of students peering down the way. Whispers hushed by teachers and a few demands for them to get back in their seats.

Kae caught her breath, felt her chest constrict as she came up on the scene. How did she describe it? What was it? It looked like someone trapped

“…in the wall?” she whispered to herself, standing in growing crowd of students.

The Haunting of Crestwood Hollow - A Supernatural Thriller

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Kae was on to smoking her 4th Al Capone sweet cigar, staring at the school from across the street. Tucked against a water tower on the opposite building, she noted the students milling in for the first day of classes. The sea of blonde and brunette trickling through the doors. There were bouts of laughter and a few squeals of excitement from the courtyard of the school. They were carried on the low wind current and warmed by the yawning sun on their way up to Kae’s ears. She took another drag, barely feeling the punch against her throat. Even as the first tones sounded, directing students to prepare for the official beginning of the semester, Kae sat and stared just past the school.

She tried to take in the sky, forget herself for a moment. The tone sounded for the late bell, and Kae fought a small urge to hop down and book it through the front doors, a flurry of apologies preceding her as she entered the front office to be marked tardy. But she held back as she saw the last students darting inside. She flared her nostrils and huffed out the last bit of her 4th cigar. “Nah, fuck this. I can’t—I won’t,” Kae began as she stood and dusted the flecks of rust from her pants. She looked up at the old water tower, a Jackson Pollack of rust spots and dirt. “It’d be real convenient if you decided to collapse and broke my leg or something. I’ll even go further and let you slice my side for some a tetanus scare if you want. Whaddya say big guy? Anything to give me an excuse out of Pasteville High?”

“I don’t think he’s feeling very talkative today,” a voice said below her. Kae spun to find the source, feeling herself bristle from being snuck up on. But she overcorrected, the weight of her messenger bag throwing her weight off, and promptly proceeded to fall off the water tower, ready to make an abrupt introduction to the roof of the building it sat on. But she felt herself swooped and cradled in a pair of muscled arms. The throaty chuckle that emanated in response to her involuntary squeal as she fell told her everything she needed to know.

“Dammit, Sensei! The fuck? Who the hell gives their pupil a near-death experience this early in the morning?” She squirmed out of her dojo instructor’s arms only to fall to the ground anyway with a soft thud. “I meant to do that!” she told him while glaring and dusting herself off as she stood.

Her sensei, jiujitsu instructor and mentor, Makarios Lilis, crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at her. He didn’t say anything, simply stared at her with that smug and knowing smile she hated. She knew what this was, and she wasn’t playing the game this time around. She squared her shoulder, crossed her arms and looked away. She was ready to play the silent game as well.

But then, maybe she wasn’t. She could feel his eyes, and she knew the bastard had the patience of a turtle. “I’m not giving you what you want, Sensei.”

“Yeah you are,” Makarios told her. She kept her eyes trained on the skyline in the distance, but could hear him shuffle and sit down. “At least I can now tell your aunt you aren’t dead or kidnapped. You just aren’t woman of you word.”

With a grunt, she threw her hands to the air and gestured around. “Okay fine! I just didn’t want to do it, okay? I thought I could, but I can’t. When I left home this morning, I thought I was going to walk through those doors, give those white people my best smile and let them fade into the background of mundane necessity.” She stopped and looked at him fully, feeling her nostrils sting briefly. “But I can’t.” She expected to see him still looking at her with his arms crossed, waiting for a better answer—one that she wasn’t going to give fully, because fuck tears this early in the morning, her eyeliner was too on point—but he wasn’t even looking at her. Makarios was sitting on the ledge, patting a space right next to him.

Kae looked around, breathing the open air and hoping to fill her stomach with something other than the butterflies that currently resided in it. She finally sat next to him, feeling her shoulder unstiffen a bit as the first tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m sorry, Maki. I really am I just—maybe I’m not ready for this.”

Makarios put an arm around her. He told her he was only 28, just 11 years older than her. And everything about him correlated with that age. Hell, she even believed he looked around 25 in the face. But his eyes, as he looked out over the expanse beyond the school, always threw her off. Sometimes they aged in an instant when he was lost in thought. Their normal light green even came off a little more dark jade at times. In those moments, they looked like they belonged to someone who had walked this earth for a couple centuries. Sage-like, almost.

It was few moments before his voice interrupted the whispers of the soft wind that whirled around them on the roof. “There was a monk a couple hundred years ago who took years to truly get the knack for meditating. Others could see the pain he shouldered and carried like scavenged materials from trash—unable to let go, but it was all he knew,” Makarios stood up at this point, and balanced himself on one foot, adopting one of his favorite meditative stances. “One of the elder monks sat with him one day, and the young monk revealed he didn’t know how to get around his pain to find the peace and ask questions of it.” Maki spun on the foot to face the school without losing his composure, even balanced on the edge of the building.

“Every time the monk sat to meditate, to explore within, he would try to understand and explain his pain to himself. But the elder monk shook his head, telling him that going around was not the route to go within himself.” Makarios brought his hands together and took a deep breath, still looking out toward the school.

“The young monk didn’t understand him until one day, he stopped asking questions of his pain. In the open air of the temple’s courtyard, faced with blue and dusted tips of mountains, that he simply tried to embrace it. He spoke to the wind, capturing his painful memories in raw emotion.”

“It was poetry, if you will. The first words that came to his mind, before meditating, about any situation or problem, were words he held on to. Mentally repeating to himself.” Makarios was now bending over in one fluid motion and balancing himself on his hand. His voice was still even and measured as he spoke in a handstand position. “It was his way of giving form to his emotion. In his mental repetition of the words, he would lose himself. Allow himself to be lost. And before he knew it, in the midst of the setting Sun he would feel his spirit rising.” Makarios flipped himself and landed on his feet, arms outstretched and taking a deep breath.

“You see, he didn’t try to understand or explain away his pain. He simply tried to capture it and delve into it. For him, it was about losing himself on the way to finding himself that he could find and accept peace. And from there, enlightenment of such stature, he went on to reach 135 years of age. It was at his behest, his students said, that he actually passed on. He spoke aloud ‘I’ve accepted you, Death my old my friend. You are the pain I’ve tried to explain from the beginning. I delve into you and find my true worth,’ before he passed on.”

Kae blinked herself back to the present, only just realizing she’d lost herself in the story. There was a moment of silence between them before she glanced at him again and asked: “Really Sensei? That makes it sound easy but…is that true?”

Maki shrugged and motioned for her to stand. “Mmmm, eh. I don’t know. I made a few parts of it up. But my point is this: you’re trying to explain your fear. To understand and justify it. In doing that, you’re tying it your pain, Mikaela.” They were going down the fire escape on the side of the building now, the clang of metal on brick echoing off the building.

“But much like your pain, the only way to get past your fear, is to go through your fear. To delve into it. When you do that, surrounding yourself in your fear, you’ll see that most of it is just wisp. There’s body, but little substance to it. It doesn’t hold power over you until you look away, skirt around and make it bigger, heavier than what it actually is.” They were on the ground again and Maki lead her toward the street.

“You can do this, Mikaela. This first day of school is nothing compared to what you have overcome. The pain you fear this place giving you is almost laughable compared to the trials you’ve endured already.” Mikaela knew he was right, but there was something that was holding her up still. But even as she began to question it, she shook her head hoping to dislodge the thought.

“Trust yourself,” Maki told her. “And if you can’t do that, trust me. I won’t lead you astray, alright?”
Kae nodded her head, looking up at him again. “Alright fine, Sensei. I’ll give this a shot because I think at this point you might physically subdue me to get me to class.”

Makarios chuckled, but didn’t deny it and patted her on the shoulder. “Good thinking, Kae. Because we’re here.”

-

After dealing with the barely-concealed side-eye from the front desk secretary, Mikaela was able to get her schedule for the semester. Like she thought, “All this fucking advanced placement shit,” and as the urge in her rose to crumple the paper and stalk out the double doors again, she could almost feel Maki’s hug as he parted ways with her after checking her in. Her aunt would be pissed, for sure, but it was the disappointment, Kae was starting to realize, that would hurt her the most. Kae spent most of her life being disappointed by the people she trusted. Aunt Bea and Maki were the first people to start breaking that pattern. What kinda bum shit would she be on if she turned around and started fucking them over? Mikaela shook her head and rested it against the cool metal of the locker for a moment.

“Don’t mix the pain with the fear. Delve in, delve in, delve in.”

At this point, she’d already missed the first day’s assembly, homeroom and first period. It occurred to her that if her intent was to not draw attention to herself, maybe this wasn’t the most apt way to go about doing so.

Looking at her schedule in the empty hallway, Kae saw it was time for that Social Conscience program she’d been chosen for. Kae outright rejected it when the notice first came. While she walked the hall toward the room, she couldn’t help but reminisce over first learning of it. Her aunt worked for 3 days to talk her into it, because Kae always bucked from any program that seemed masked as an opportunity to turn her out and parade her “well-spoken” and “surprisingly insightful” self for the sake of a post-Affirmative Action goal. These ‘special programs’ always had a knack for drawing more attention to her than letting her lose herself in academia.

It was a moment before Kae even realized she had simply been standing in front of the door, schedule clutched in her left hand and the right one poised over the door. She could hear a voice, one she assumed belong to the course instructor, orating to the rest of the class based on his measure, cadence and pauses:

“You are in this class because each and every one of you has shown potential, potential to be able to make the world a better place and change the injustice surrounding us every day.”

Kae rolled her eyes, but stopped herself from groaning. Other teachers in her past have lamented about her resilience to “using her knowledge and talents to change the system.” She hated that speech, because it always seemed a clever way of putting the impetus on her to try and change the world, when she was simply trying to survive a system set up against her. But something in the instructors voice…the way he said ‘showing potential’ kept her listening on. But she still wouldn’t fully grasp the door knob. She listened on:

“…By discussing the difference between man and animal, we’ve begun to develop an understanding of how we’ve grown and developed as a species and our society is a huge part of that.”

Kae was certain someone had brought up man’s love of violence and our sense of morality. But had anyone mentioned?... She stopped her train of thought enough to gather the end of his speech to the class, and squared her jaw, flipped back her locks and opened the door the classroom just as he said:

“Well, get moving."

She kept her eyes deadlocked on the space above his desk, trying not to look at anyone and make a beeline for his desk. She cleared her throat involuntarily as she approached him.

“Mr. Jonas?” she started, “Hi sir, I’m Mikaela Maven. I think you’ve been in contact with my Aunt Beatrice about this course. I’m…” Mikaela found her eyes start to wander around the room. She wasn’t surprised but still disheartened. It was the same everywhere. The classroom was small, and being her first official day at this school, she didn’t have a hope of knowing anyone.

Her blouse suddenly felt as if it were trapping her body heat for thermal energy and she could feel the heat creeping up her neck and caressing her jaw. She realized she’d stopped speaking mid-sentence while glancing around the class. She brought her attention back to the teacher. “I’m sorry for coming in so late. I..fuck—I mean, I’m sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that I just—I’m, it’s. Umm. It’s—been a rough start to the day.”

But screw that, she didn't need to apologize so much. Like her mom said, 'Don't be sorry. Be better.' Mikaela took a quick breath and locked gazes with him and gave her best smile.

"But if I may, from what I heard of the tail-end of your speech. I'd like to give my own two-cents on the difference between man and animal. I don't know if anyone's brought this up, but there's something to be said about the way we lie. Our ability to mask emotions and deceive. It runs tangent to our language because, on some level, we break the rules of language we've established to deceive others." She shouldered her bag and gave another glance to the group work that was starting up. "I know that's...kind of an odd way to look at it, I guess. But, is there any way I can still get in on a group?"

The Haunting of Crestwood Hollow - A Supernatural Thriller

L E T H E

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^{M I K A E L A – L Y N N E M A V E N◼ 9 – 10 – 2001 ( 1 7 ) ◼ F E M A L E ◼ F U C K Y O U}

"You had the fire, and they burned you to the ground, baby."

▼ A P P E A R A N C E:

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"He tried to stamp yo pretty little self into the manure."

//STATS:

◼ HEIGHT | 5’ 9”

◼ WEIGHT | 125

◼ BUILD | Average-Curvy?

◼ ETHNICITY | African-American; 1 Part Galactic Deity

◼ EYE COLOR | Brown

◼ HAIR COLOR | Black

//DESCRIPTION:

Mikaela inherited her mother and grandmother’s legs, and early on her mother always joked about Mikaela being a great volleyball player. An average build, with slightly curvier hips and legs, she was always active with Tara after school. She loved the freedom of shorts and dresses in the humidity o the south. Her step-grandfather liked her attire choices for other reasons.
In the time following, she chose to mask her body. Dark hoodies, simple black shirts. Jeans or sweats. You can blend into the darkness better that way, you can more easily be forgotten.
After a year of living with her Auntie Bea, she and Mikaela have been able to compromise on attire. Mikael still tends to blacks, greys and whites in her clothes. But she’s a larger fan of patterns now. Instead of black halters and skinny’s, Mikaela is growing to light black polka-dot blouses, plaid patterned sundresses and the occasional heel if she’s feeling extra bitchy. Maybe even dressing up the solid darks with a touch of color accessories every now and then. Her aunt told her “clothes can be an armor and weapon. Not just a display of feelings, a compliment or shelter for them.” Essentially a rendition of the look good, feel good policy, it’s been sticking with Mikaela.

▼ B I O G R A P H Y:

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"They did you wrong and fed you ashes of more pain."

Mikaela-Lynne Maven lives with her Great Aunt Beatrice in New Hampshire.

’In the nearly 2 years under Misses Johnston’s care, Mikaela has shown significant emotional responsiveness; a willingness to smile is more readily apparent; a higher likelihood of free-flow communication. She speaks of dreams and nightmares more than she recounts night terrors. There’s an openness toward the future and she has even taken to the occasional hug.’

From the Patient Journal of Ryan M. Skaryd

But Mr. Skaryd, is still hesitant. And Mikaela knows why, as she shifts in his lounge chair again. She’s trained her eyes on the print of a 3-D maze, hanging on the wall across from his office window. The silence is fine with her, because the only alternative is Mikaela cracking into her head and letting all of… ‘that’ bleed from her mouth and onto his legal-pad paper from his gloss-inked pen.

A brief memory of "Once upon a Time..."

“Mikaela?” He leans forward a bit, and his scruffy face does have a soft smile, even for a 32 year-old. “You still with me?” He takes her nod as an actual indication to keep talking and continues on. “It’s just, I know the past is difficult. But remember what you told me about your Mom and Tara last week?”

Mikaela tenses her throat and squints at the maze. Where the fuck does it start? If she can find it’s start and mentally trace out it’s path, she’ll let herself put him out with her House Special. That’s the plan.

“How it was growing up with them? There were the Girls Fight Club nights with Tara. The garden with your Mom.”

Of course she fucking remembers growing up with her Mom and Tara. She remembers there home above the closed auto-shop Tara had inherited from her father. Tara, the whiz of dismantling. She even made the joke, that’s how she’d gotten to Mikaela’s Mom’s heart. Dismantling all the emotional booby traps “and flaky bullshit” Mikaela’s deadbeat birth dad had left lying around her heart. Mikaela remembers her mom pinching her nose every time Mikaela slipped and called Tara “Dad.” She remembers Tara coming up behind Mikaela and nuzzling her head approvingly and whispering it’s the best mistake anyone’s ever made.

Of course she fucking remembers Girls Fight Club where Tara invited Mikaela’s 3 best friends, at the time, over every Thursday and taught them different Jiujutsu moves. All the laughs, squeals, earned bruises and happily tussled hair from the 5 of them. Until her Mom came in, tired from work, but able to give a tired smile, sitting and cheering the girls on.

She remembers all of these things, which is why the Thursday ritual she has now of sitting in a confined room for 2 hours is so grating on her nerves.

Because she can’t. She won’t. She can’t crack open the memories after those “Once upon a time” days. Each of the memories following those days is like a Wonder-Ball candy of pain or tension. She just…can’t do it. She’ll bite her tongue of in lieu of reliving anything.

She just wants to forget, and he won’t let her.

So when he asks, “How did you feel? When you had to leave your home that night?”…

• …she’s 13 and a half, and there’s a bed with ivory sheets tinged starlight in the full moon, filtered through parted sheer curtains; the wind whispers by pushing leaves outside on the sidewalk; two figures are still, draped over by the ivory sheet, shadows covering the faces; the sharp scent of iron digs up her nostrils, while the familiar scent of oil seems misplaced in the home; there’s a single bead of sweat etching al ine of moisture down the dryness of her back although the night is cool and filled with stars outside her moms’ window. She can hear a cascade of crackles from a campfire and smell one too, though it’s only July and they’re not near a park—
  
  —and she sucks in air, tastes the ash. Spits out a scream while turning to the door. A tendril of smoke drifted from under it, but her dread was higher turning to her mother’s bed. Even as she gathered the remnants of her voice—smashed with foreboding air and a plummeting gut—to deliver a weak “Momma?”, something told her there would be no response. Hidden in the pool of shadow, she felt a warmth that spread over the sheets. Pulling it back to the night, she felt the wail scrape it’s way from her throat before she knew it was there, pushing it along. She wanted the blackness to cover them, cover her mom and Tara and her. Keep them safe, take away the blood and the world. The crackling and heat was apparent now, but she thought only of darkness. Smoke now decorated and danced the ceiling and crown moldings, but the muscles in her legs clicked off at once and she met the ground, holding on to the red-splayed ivory sheet. She only stares at her mom while her vision fades. What can this heat, this smoke, these flames take from her that hasn’t already been pillaged? Her eyes swim, before they fade to black…
  
  …When the nurses bring her to, they tell her how lucky she is. She says it’s their job to get her before the fire does, right? But she’s a silly girl, according to the nurse monitoring vitals. It’s the smoke the kills people, and you should have been dead long before they got to you.

And no matter how innocent he thinks “How was it? Having to say your big goodbye?”, the question still throws Mikaela to where…

• …it’s a month later and there’s 3 dozen people garbed in black, seeking shade from the Louisiana Sun under a hanging moss tree; sniffles and veiled sobs distract her from the holy man letting scripture and platitudes dribble from his mouth; the white coffin being lowered into the fresh hole appears so cool and inviting, it rebuffs all the bullshit emotions of the black-garb surrounding Kae trying to feed on her grief; gardenias release their fragrance throughout the crowd and the humidity makes the scent thicker until Kae can lose herself in memories of dirt wars with Tara while her mother planted gardenias in their backyard; there’s a hand over her shoulder blades because the ceremony is apparently coming to a close, and the heat of the day on top of everything else, causes Kae to slink away from her own Grandmother’s touch. Her step-grandfather clears his throat because it’s time for them to go. She can be sad in the car, they’ve got to be back in Texas by tomorrow.

She’ll always fix his gaze unwaveringly when he asks “How did you feel when you moved in with your Grandma? What were your thoughts toward them at that time?” because...

Grandma Naya and Mr. Staley

• …she’s 14 and there’s a dark brown leather-bound bible on an oak desk, lighting the pages and the rest the study with an emerald green lamp-shaded light; a persistent throat clearing and myriad of coughs fill the room from her step-grandfather, absorbed by the bookshelves and thick curtains; her grandfather’s eyes bulge and dart around the room in rapid succession, landing on his pipe tobacco strew on the carpeted floor, his side table upturned, his belt tossed near the door and Kae’s hardened face; it’s the sweat that reaches Kae’s nostrils first, followed by the soft musk of the smoke; there’s his hand at her throat, squeezing and grasping and clawing and faltering. His eyes roll back one more time, and this time they do not come to. There is no surge of energy, his body slacks Kae hopes this proud man was aware of his pants at his ankles in the seconds leading to the great equalizer—
  
  —because the first time had caught her off guard. The night of her mother’s funeral, alone in her new room, filled with old dolls. Only just slipping into the throes of dreaming, her body leaden as the last vestiges of strength left her body for the past couple weeks. That’s when she felt a hand at her chest, running its course to her thighs. She didn’t know why she knew but she knew it was best if she didn’t fight. She willed her soul to be a wisp and leak from her ears, take her somewhere else. And it started a pattern of progression over months. But not this night. The anniversary of her mother and Tara’s death. By the time the belt came off, Kae knew what she was ready to do. She suddenly knew her mother’s aversion to family gatherings, hiding her life with Tara, and Staley’s pointed dislike of Tara. When he grabbed her pants she grabbed his head and thought of the night of the fire. Only the fire and the pain…
  
  …so when they found him the next morning, they couldn’t explain why his lungs exhibited signs of severe smoke damage. Like he’d been around too many campfires at once. Like he’d been thrown in a burning building. Like he’d been placed in hell during his last moments. And her grandmother hadn’t said anything about it, only told Mikaela that “Anna-Mae’s depravities were cursing them from the grave.” Kae felt like her grandmother must have had more knowledge than she let on, and guilt is a spectacular silencer.

Mikaela opens up more near the end of their sessions, as Mr. Skaryd steers them toward talking about the not-so-distant-past where…

Auntie Bea

• …she’s almost 15 and the road to New Hampshire shows her what seasons can actually be as the explosion of amber and honey juxtaposes the soft blue of a lightly clouded sky; the crackle of the leaves reminds her of sounds she’d like to forget but the closer she comes to her new home the easier it is to let roar of the wind wash over with the windows down in the car; there’s the aroma of fresh cut grass as they pull into the driveway of her Auntie Bea. She doesn’t know what to expect after so many years on edge, as the door opens and a slender frame appears in the doorway,—
  
  —but she doesn’t have time to think as the woman pulls her in for a larger hug than she’s known in years. There’s a barrage of questions, 15 in less than a minute. She’s eventually saying something about how terrible Kae must feel but all Kae could hear was the earlier question of: “Were your momma and Tara at least happy? God I hope they were happy.” She’s brought into the house before she can question it, and the social worker is on her way soon after. Auntie Bea is rushing her to her new room of hand-quilted blankets and lovely paintings, apologizing for the “all the mess” in the pristine house.
  
  She sits Kae down and takes a breath. Seemingly the first since Kae arrived. Looking at Mikaela, she tells her that she’s lovely, and she’s sorry that world hasn’t caught up to accepting it the way her momma had. This auntie Bea her Momma had mentioned on more than one occasion. The “Chosen Mom” vs the “Birth Mom.” It’s like she knew what Mikaela was thinking and placed a hand on hers, telling her – “You had the fire, and they burned you to the ground, baby. My damned sister’s husband. He tried to stamp yo pretty-self into the manure. They did you wrong and fed you ashes of more pain. Well honey, this is where you come to grow. I loved my niece, your Momma, and I’ll be damned if I let the best thing she ever grew be treated like some roadside wildflower. I want you to flourish, you hear me?...”
  
  Mikaela didn’t know if she could trust those words, so weighted with hope. It was because she knew pain in surplus, that it took almost 6 months. Half a year before she cried in front of Auntie Bea. Before she watched Aunties Bea’s face twist in horror but knowing shame as she recounted the story of Mr. Staley. Before she admitted there might be something wrong with her, and could only stare at her skin in disgust.
  
  “I’m sorry, Auntie. I’m not pretty flower,” Mikaela mumbled at her hands.
  
  But it only took Auntie Bea a few seconds to say, “You’re right, you aren’t any pretty flower.” She placed a hand on Mikaela’s leg reassuringly. “You’re a damn beautiful oak, baby. An oak tree to withstand anything.”

▼ A B I L I T I E S / S K I L L S:

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"Well honey, this is where you come to grow."

//ABILITIES:

◼ HIDDEN |

//SKILLS:

◼ JIUJUTSU: | Since attending classes at a new school, Aunt Bea thought it would be good to get Kae involved in something right away. Her skills were rusty, but the dojo she now goes to is a small one. She can focus and release her anger when it comes.

◼ OBSERVATION AND AWARENESS: |Tara always taught her to get a sense of everyone in the room upon entry. Though hr mom always tried to play down any sense of danger, it was something Kae took to heart. Especially after the fire. But even before then, their home was in one of the rougher areas of New Orleans after Katrina. She's always been a observant child, but learned to scan over people, getting a sense of energy and potential threats.

◼ FORTITUDE AND FOCUS: |In those memories with her step-Grandfather, Mr. Staley, she learned to take herself away. Remove her soul from her body and place it at whatever mental goal awaited her at the end. Her body can take pain, it can take trauma. And her mind can endure.

//LIMITATIONS:

◼ Windy Terrain | REDACTED

//WEAKNESSES:

◼ Extreme Cold | Extreme or localized cold hinders her ability and she's more susceptible to the cold when using her abilities for some reason.
◼ Dehydration |Kae has to stay hydrated worse than a club kid on molly if she’s using her abilities --[REDACTED].

◼ A Deft Tongue and Blunt Eye | Mikaela learned early on that not everyone deserves your best. She also learned from Tara that most people rely on social niceties as a crutch or mask, and Mikaela has always been one for authenticity. She can be rather blunt with most people she meets. It's not an attempt to be rude, but she likes to get past the social posturing quickly.

▼ N O T E S:

---

//SUPPORTING CAST:

▼ ALLIES

◼ TBD| Test

▼ FRIENDS

◼ BEATRICE JOHNSTON | Her aunt and -- unashamedly -- one of her only actual friends in this new place.

◼ MAKARIOS LILIS| Her dojo sensei. He's only in his mid-20's but there's something about him that seems almost ancient and sage-like. She tells him he reminds her so much of Old Heads on her block for a New Hampshire white boy.

▼ ENEMIES

◼ TBD | There are probably a few people at the school who give her a side-eye, but she could care less about them. A few girls tried to ogle over her being from New Orleans, a little southern and of course, a lotta dark. She didn't entertain any of the foolishness and openly dismissed them. So maybe, they're a little mad about it.

//STOMPING GROUNDS

◼ TBD | Test

//PARAPHERNALIA

◼ TBD | Test

Crestwood Hollow - A Superhuman RP

<Snipped quote by Stein>

What's a guy gotta do for attention around here <3

@Lord Wraith

3 death drops in a row, 2 wig reveals and a 2-in-one costume change within the timespan of a 4 minute song.

Crestwood Hollow - A Superhuman RP

Oh bby, you know these antihero roles speak to me and coax me out of my grave.

Hiiiii~

Before The Dawn

They just keep coming out of the woodwork!

@Tyler

Um, excuse you. I came out of the Free Clinic.

Hilly came out of the dumpster. Or under it.

Before The Dawn

Oh so y'all wanted a twist?

:Insert Laganja death drop:

Justice League Unlimited

@Stein Accepted. I didn't see she could also fire off stored heat the first time.

-00492

@Member 00492

Thank you!

And yeah! I figured it'd be logical as she's essentially absorbing heat around her. I don't intend for her to rely on it much in her early stages due to it's more uncontrollable nature at this point.

Justice League Unlimited

@Member 00492 what is the status of my character?