ＴＨＥ "ＧＲＵＭＰＹ " ＯＮＥ
❝ why am I so ｃｏｍｐｅｌｌｅｄ to
ＨＵＲＴ
ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ I
ＴＯＵＣＨ ? ❞
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Hey, my name is Duke. Duke Harrison Archer. Pronounce it how you want, I could care less. But if you want to say it wrong to my face, then we're gonna have a problem. Which'll most likely end with you in crutches. Unlike most people there is no cool, special back story to my name. Frankly, it wouldn't surprise me if my name was just a jumbled, thoughtless mess my parents through together on the spot when I was born. But hey, a names a name. 'Snot like I can change it. I was born on October 16th to Penelope and Joseph Archer. Don't ask me exactly when or where- I don't know. Nor do I care. The only thing that matters is that I know I'm nineteen years old, but I feel like I'm forty. I had to grow up way too early in my life to feel young. I'm obviously a guy, but if you wanna check, go ahead. Trust me when I say I've learned the hard way not to argue.
Indifference and neglect often do much more damage than
outright dislike. - J. K. Rowling.
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My appearance? Well haven't you heard? I'm a disgusting, ugly disappointment- as per according to my parents. If you can look past that, I'd say I'm an alright-looking dude. I have kind of a bulk build. I'm muscular. Yeah, I work out. Use to lift weights until my arms shook, run until my legs gave out, and do push ups 'till my hands bled. Beside that, I'm pretty lean too. My hair is a goldish-brown color. It's cut short and close to my head. I ain't no quire who goes around with ear piercings and hair down to my shoulders. My eyes are stormy grey-blue, with a strike of green somewhere in there too. I'm a tall guy- about 6'1, 6'2. I weigh, eh, 170 lbs or so- muscle heavy's me down quite a bit. Its been a while since I've checked. For all I know it may be more. I have no piercings or tattoos. Part of me kind of wishes I had a tat, but I don't.
The time that people aren't expecting what's going to happen,
I find that's the best time to really cause the damage that
needs to be done. - Marilyn Manson.
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You want me to describe myself? My personality? Two simple words ought a do it. Strong and silent. I don't have to say a word for my presence to be known. My silence comes with an extra dose of confidence and control, something I've had to recover and fight hard to find within myself. I don't feel the need to put on a show, stand out in a crowd, or be chatty when I'm out and about. Talking is something I hardly do, let alone spill out my heart and talk about my feelings like some wussy girl. Rather, I just sit back and observe. So when I say something you better listen and listen carefully. In consequence, when my mouth opens only negative things come out. Don't you dare confuse my silence as a sign of weakness or disinterest; consider that I feel most comfortable analyzing a situation instead of putting up a big fuss.
I'm naturally intoxicating and able to catch attention without doing much at all- a blessing and a curse. In a warped way, I seemed to be fairly well-respected. But my strong demeanor comes with a price. I always keep a steel wall of defense up. I haven't let it down for years. Fear? I know the feeling. I know it down to the dirt and grime. But I don't express it anymore. I think its been permanently beaten out of me. People seem to be intimidated by me so much that they fear any sort of communication with me at all. And that's just how I like it.
There's something else about me you should probably be aware of. I... have some serious anger issues. Unlike normal people who's anger is limited due to laws, social norms, and common sense, mine isn't. I have no limits when it comes to anger. I have a long reputation of lashing out at nearly every person or object that irritates or annoys me, whether it be verbally or physically. More often than not, its physical. Once I broke a kid's nose because he looked at me funny.
abuse (n.): a corrupt practice or custom; improper or excessive
use or treatment; language that condemns or vilifies usually
unjustly, intemperately, and angrily.
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My past.... *sigh* I promise, you really don't wanna go down this road with me....
If you really have to know though, my childhood sucked. Sucked so hard that I had none. I was a mistake, and my parents made absolutely sure I knew it. All day, every day. My parents... *laughs* were abusive. I can't even remember a time when they weren't. When I was little, like before ten, it was mostly verbal insults. Every once and awhile they'd hit me, but that was a time in my life where we went out a lot. It wouldn't be good for their image if they were walking around with a bruised kid, now would it? *laughs again* That's all they cared about. Appearances. See, back before I was born, they were the top of the town. Always going to and hosting the greatest parties, always having the newest top designer clothes, and so on. I mean I got all those nice things too, but it came with a painful price.
When I was born, their glamorous life completely fell apart. Mom and dad tried to keep up with the times, but having to tug a kid around everywhere they went got old after a while. I mean, carrying a baby into a bar. You can imagine the dirty looks they always got. They blame me for their loss of "fame" and "glory". So naturally, they take it out on me.
Man, I thought I had it rough then... *chuckles* I was ten when the real abuse began. I remember the first time my dad ever hit me. Something had happened at his work and I guess he needed to take it out on something. Rather than yelling at my mom for it, he made his way to the living room, blocked my view of my daily cartoons, and just glared at me. I asked him if he was ok, and he punched me clear across the jaw. I remember the blood... He had knocked a tooth loose, maybe more. Then my mother walked in... She saw me lying there, bloody and crying... And you know what she did? She, she yelled at me. Me! As if I did something wrong! She screamed how awful I was, how big of a mistake I was, how unimportant I was. I was a freaking ten year old boy who had never committed a sin in his life, and she was yelling at me when I had been kicked down! And my my own damn father!
.... *sigh* It wasn't fair. Any of it. From then on, it only got worse. Sometimes... sometimes it was like my mom and dad teamed up against me. I've broken so many bones I'm scared that if I break another, my entire body'll shatter. Aw man, and I haven't even told you about the Box.
The Box is a hollowed out freezer that's insides have been covered in cement. It looks like this but like I said, hollowed out and cemented on the inside. My dad, who was the worse of the two evils, would... lock me in there for hours on end. Lock as in L-O-C-K. Big, heavy, industrial chains wrapped around the thing. There was no way out. When closed, its completely pitch black. You can't even see your own hands in front of you. More often than not, you'd feel something wet, like thick water, on your hands. I'd think it was just water, since this was once a freezer, and forget about it. Only when the Box was opened again would I be able to see how my fingernails had been grind down so low my fingers bled uncontrollably. The inner walls of that thing are just lined and lined with red marks. Blood. My blood. My parents said if I ever told anyone what they did to me they'd slaughter me and throw me in the river. So added to my out of the blue beatings, I was in and out of the Box for six years of my life.
I was sixteen when I fought back for the first time. My parents couldn't believe it, that I'd actually rebelled. That got me locked in the Box for, pfft, three days if I remember right? No food, no light, and the only water I got was my own freakin' blood. After I got out of there I started working out. Some people drown their sorrows in food, I put mine in athletics. It took months, but I finally grew strong. Mentally and physically. The next time my mother tried to hit me, I grabbed her arm mid-air and squeezed it so hard she screamed. Ironically, my dad came home minutes after. He walked in on me fighting back my mother. The next thing I knew I was on the ground. My dad had tackled me and was beating me senseless. My dad, sure he was fit for his age, but I was young and strong. Even after being beaten down all my life. After getting a few nasty hits in, I ran out of the house. I've never been back since. Its also safe to say I quit school just before junior year.
My parents never did press charges or even try to track me down. Personally, I think a serious burden had been lifted off their shoulders when I left. I know I felt like it. I made what money I could competing in underground fight rings. I tried smoking weed once but it didn't work out. Not even cigarettes stuck with me. No matter what I tried, I just couldn't make my body accept drugs. It angered me because I would hear nonstop how the leaves or the rock made all your troubles go away...
*sigh* I guess my troubles are just one of those things that'll never go away...
form belongs to me.
duke archer belongs to me. do not steal him.
face-claim is the gorgeous channing tatum.
image credits go to their respective owners.
