hey look, it’s damien skylar! he’s twenty-four years old, he’s lived in shrike heights for two weeks, and he’s currently working at a new chapter. i heard he’s pretty standoffish, but i think he’s so smart at the same time. can he make it out alive?
name: damien skylar age: 24 star sign: scorpio
(( tw: foster system, implied neglect/abuse ))
damien skylar was forgotten from the start.
most of what he claims to know about his early life is made up: he was born to a hollywood starlet, but there was scandal, and he was given up to avoid the press hounding him his whole life. or he was born to poor coal miners in pennsylvania who couldn't care for him properly. the details are hazy, and he's been through too many social workers, wandered from state to state, so that his file in the system got fucked up before he had even turned ten.
too many foster homes to count — or perhaps he cares too little to count.
a boyhood filled with misbehaving, with acting out to get attention, with learning the worst things he could do, always toeing the line, always pushing people away. never getting — never accepting — what he wanted, which was love.
his moods blew with the wind as he turned towards teenagehood, and then adulthood. it was no surprise to anyone that he aged out of the system, never having known stability and telling himself he didn't care for it. at 18 he left his final foster home for the local community college. he finished a degree but never spent more than three semesters in any one place, transferring schools until he got a degree in the only thing he'd ever cared about: books. a bachelor's in literature wouldn't serve him well, he knew, but he had never been one for practicality.
romantic flings came and went but his favorite characters were always within the cracked spine of a book, there to return to. he found echoes of his own passions and rages within heathcliff, his desire for grandiosity within gatsby, his sense of living outside of time within orlando. the classics called to him more than anything else, and he'd gladly agree that he's a literary snob, though there are some contemporary writers he admires — Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Don Delillo. if he's honest with himself, he'll admit that he wants to be like them someday, publishing books. but his own inability to focus on any one project stands in the way of that.
after graduating college, he moved around. he hated florida so he tried new york. hated that even more and made his way to texas. texas, he didn't mind so much, and it was there that he first heard about shrike heights and particularly the string of strange murders happening at the local mall. following a shitty breakup (which he does not want to talk about), he followed the news to colorado.
hey, maybe if he's lucky, he'll meet an untimely end — just like all of his favorite characters.
hey look, it’s avalon rivera! she’s thirty-five years old, she’s lived in shrike heights for thirty-five years, and she’s currently working at karaoke dokie. i heard she’s pretty pessimistic, but i think she’s resourceful at the same time. can she make it out alive?
name: avalon rivera age: 35 star sign: virgo
(( tw: death ))
"avalon's always been a bit strange" — words used by her mother to explain away her fascinations with the dead, dark spaces, horror movies. "all things creepy crawly," her big sister would say, prom queen of 1972 and won't let anyone forget it. rachel had no dreams beyond that crown being placed on her head, and that was her big problem. for avalon, her dreams were always her favorite part of the night.
never much of a people-person and not desiring to become one, avalon's father always understood her best. angel was not a popular man in town, not like avalon's mother and sister. he was a misfit just like ava herself, and when there's a pair of misfits, well, they're hardly misfits at all, are they? the two of them had a fascination with last words, with the things people said as they were dying, often poetic, sometimes funny, sometimes just sad. avalon couldn't tell which type she liked the best.
it was a freak accident. a sudden one. an icy patch of road. dark — past midnight. the motorcycle had no hope of making it, and angel had no chance of survival. dead on impact. this was what the coroner said in an attempt to console the family, though these words have been rattling around in ava's head ever since she heard them.
"dead on impact."
"dead on impact."
what a way to go. no time to think, no time to do anything. no final thoughts at all, and perhaps worst of all: no last words, at least not that anyone would ever know of.
this was two years ago, and while before that, she had held a steady job, climbing up to management at the movie theater, a job she actually enjoyed — she'd lost it in the aftermath of angel's death, and she hasn't been able to hold down a job since. whatever it is, she makes it only about 3 months before saying something she shouldn't to a customer, a coworker, sassing the wrong person at the wrong time, showing up late, not showing up at all. she's thirty-fucking-five and while she went from a steady job and a girlfriend she loved, she's now lost all of that.
this job at the karaoke place — fucking gag her — is a last resort. if this one doesn't last, she's not sure what she'll do. it's not much of a life, but hey, at least she hasn't yet been killed.