Username: TenguInariViscet Name: SamsonGender: MaleGender for breeding purposes: MaleTheme Song: SHC - Foster The People "First name Sam, last name Son... nah, just messing with you, mate."
xxxxxThe viscet was only seven years old when he lost his parents to the sea. After he was found all alone by patrol officers among the ocean waters, he was put into an orphanage. He had no other family members that lived within the country, nor did those family members ever visit or contacted his parents in the past. Confusion swam around the once young and innocent viscet. He grew up with what little love was left from his parents, the memories dimming as the years went on by, living in the orphanage. Samson endured physical and emotional abuse that was thrown at him by both the caretakers and other orphans. By the time he hit thirteen, he overheard one of the caretakers discussing to another fellow co-worker, about the rumors of the boy getting transferred to another orphanage. It would seem that the owner had finally had enough of the poor lad facing the problems that others had thrown upon him.
xxxxxAnd so, a week after that rumor, Samson had been transported to another orphanage that was farther than he had expected. The thirteen-year-old viscet was no longer within his hometown. He had hoped for a better experience at this new orphanage, and he indeed got what he wished for. Everyone at the orphanage welcomed him and made him feel as if he belonged. For the first week there, Samson got the chance to know almost everyone that lived and worked there. They were kind, they didn’t hurt him, and they showed him many things that he had learned to love: music, playing bass guitar, and skateboarding. Among all of the positives that had come out of the new orphanage, it didn’t take long until Samson had met the group of rascals that roamed the building. The group had seen the progression of the teenage viscet ever since his arrival and decided to take him under their wing. The group of troublemakers welcomed the young boy more than the other members could. Eventually, they initiated Samson as an official member of their little club. "The Skulls" were what the group of orphans called themselves, as they weren’t very fond of etiquette or interactions.
xxxxxThat is what then began to shape Samson as he grew older. The group of mishaps would run around the orphanage, vandalizing walls and furniture, causing a ruckus, and thieve away to their pleasure. Unfortunately, for Samson, he was the one who got caught the most as he wasn’t as experienced as the rest of The Skulls. On the bright side, punishments that were given out at the orphanage he was now at were not as severe as the older one. Samson had become very close friends with the members within his group. However, not everything lasts forever at these facilities. One by one, over the span of two years, each member of The Skulls had either been adopted or transferred to a new orphanage. The teenage boy was once again alone. He had tried to talk to those that he knew before he joined the immature gang, but they turned their backs on him, disappointed to see what he had become.
xxxxxFifteen-years-old he was. All secluded in his own little area, plucking at the bass guitar that was used for concerts at the orphanage. Memories seeping out from the lock-box within his mind, his close friends and their little troublesome group, the old orphanage where he had endured pain, the waves of water where he had lost his parents, and the faint familiarity of warmth and love. Droplets of saltwater hit his fur. Never had he had the chance to experience the feeling of sadness. The young viscet abruptly strung at the metallic strings before he proceeded to violently smash the bass guitar against the wall, breaking it. He didn’t care if he got punished, nor did he care if he was going to get transferred to another orphanage for the chaos that he was about to ensue for the next three years at the current institution.
xxxxxSamson never got transferred; never got adopted. No one wanted to take him in due to his destructive behavior. The viscet was eighteen-years-old by then, the staff working at the orphanage attempted to set the young adult straight. They came to an understanding that Samson was going through a moment in life where he felt that everything was going against him. They knew that what he was doing was to get his mind off of the pain that lurked within his memories. They tried to empathize with the viscet, but he refused their help and sadness. The caretakers gave up their attempts of helping the boy, lost within his troubles. Instead of the help that would try to come Samson’s way from then on, he would receive more severe punishments that no other orphan would get at the facility. The viscet would also be the only one to get a scolding from the caretakers, which only fueled his resentment towards everything that existed. Samson then put a plan, that he had held secret, into motion.
xxxxxA nearly empty backpack with only a week’s worth of snacks, one set of clothes, and a handful of stolen cash. The troublesome viscet had snuck out of the orphanage and managed to take a bus far, far away. He didn’t care where he would arrive as long as it was anywhere, but the city where the last orphanage would look for him. Eleven hours and four break stops later, Samson had arrived in a city in which others called: San Francisco. The bus ride was a lot more expensive than he had thought, leaving him with only seven dollars left. Where was he going to live? How was he going to wash his clothes? Where was he going to buy more clothes? What was he going to eat? Those were the questions that Samson had not thought about before leaving. Maybe living on the streets wouldn’t be as bad as it sounded. Seeing that the new area he was in had beaches, maybe the viscet could visit it for a free shower and wash his clothes in the process. As for getting more clothes and eating real food, those were something that he would have to scavenge for; he might even possibly have to steal. “
To a new life in San Francisco…” Samson quietly said to himself.
xxxxxOne whole year, he had managed to survive in the streets. His little hideout filled with stolen necessities and luxuries. One of his prized possessions was a bass guitar that a local street player had left unattended. Samson had managed to grab a miniature amplifier and cable that same night, but from a different musician. Sadly, he had no outlet to plug into in order to play the bass. He would still play it anyways, carefully listening to the quiet hums of the strings at night. Another luxury item that he had treasured was a skateboard that someone had also left unattended. The number of objects left unattended by other viscets was quite alarming. Samson never learned any tricks on the board, but he did use it as a mode of transportation whether it be casual or getting away from trouble that he had caused. Unluckily for him, he had been caught by the police and thrown in jail. He was set to serve for two months.
xxxxxThe nineteen-year-old was caught vandalizing after he ran off from payment for his food at one of the local restaurants. Those that resided near Samson’s little hideout had been reporting him for thievery and vandalism several times, earning the nickname: Parasite. It was only now that the authorities finally acted upon him. Not giving a care in the world, he served his time without any complaints. It was the only place where he would actually receive free food, a bed, and a roof above him. When the police had asked for his name, Samson jokingly replied, "
First name Sam, last name Son... nah, just messing with you, mate." The sheriffs were not about to have any of his shenanigans. His two-month sentence started from there.
xxxxxAs long and tiresome as it had felt, Samson’s jail time had already ended. The authorities that worked the day time shift quickly escorted him out of the building, telling him to not make the same mistakes again before closing the doors on him. The lad walked off, casually traveling back to where he remembered his hideout to be. It was as if a tornado flew by. The local residents managed to find his hideout and rummage through his stolen items, tearing through the clothes and breaking several objects. They thought it was a good idea to steal back from him while he was gone. Samson rummaged through the heap of trash, trying to salvage what was left. His mode of transportation was intentionally snapped in half, the front side of the miniature amplifier was punched into, and the bass guitar cable was cut in half. There was no doubt that the viscet was upset, but he did sneak a small grin. The ultimate hiding spot within his hideout perfectly kept his bass guitar undamaged, intact, and unseen.
xxxxxNight time had already come and Samson was tired, but he couldn’t sleep. Memories came washing back as he lied on the heap of torn clothes. Frustrated, he sat straight up, grabbing the bass guitar. There he was, sitting in silence, as he thought long and hard. He started plucking at the bass guitar for the first time in two months and muttered out into the night:
“I’ve been numb in my thoughts for hours
I know you wanted to save me from myself
We’ve been wilting and young for seeds
And I can’t compete
Until I’m strung to the field
What’s real?”
Credit wrote:All art is made by user, Yugi.