Moon_Boy
Bull in a china shop
Turner should have been happy when his father died, but he wasn’t. He should have been happy that his little sister wasn’t at risk anymore and that he wasn’t under the constant fear of being used by his father under the pretence that if he didn’t let him he would do it to Turner’s sister instead. But he wasn’t. Since the death of his father he had only spiralled further into his addictions. The shed where Turner now lived was cold and full of spiders and bugs, the scent of rotting wood potent even to a nose that had been there for hours. He hardly left, and if he did it was to find money or alcohol. Every single drop dragged him further and further into his sadness. Turner sighed as he took another swig of the vodka he was drinking. He set it down after that, the burning sensation traveling down his throat as a tear rolled down his face. He hadn’t been allowed to see his sister yet.
Cigarette smoke only made the sensation of burning stronger, the smoke engulfing his lungs in an endeavour to escape the pain of breathing. There was a knock on the shed door, probably from his friend who had let him stay there in the first place. He would have gotten up if it wasn’t for the dizzy and frantic feeling in his head. Instead he reached over and pushed the door open, the light burning his eyes almost as much as the vodka had burnt his throat. Turner squinted and turned away quickly. The words from his friend fell on deaf ears, vodka and PTSD flooding through his mind, blocking any help that would offer itself to him. He left as quickly as he came, leaving another bottle of vodka on the floor as a misguided gift. The next day, Turner ran out of alcohol and had regained his strength. He stood up, all his work from exercise wasted. He didn’t have to be strong now. The monster was dead.
Finding another thing to steal was his next mission. Maybe a phone, or a bag. It was evening so outside was almost as dark as his shed. He walked down the street slowly, looking for a victim before coming across a run down park he often went to to steal from people. The teenagers there were easy targets, often leaving their things by the gate completely away from them. As always, there was somebody who had left his things by the gate and was now sat on the swing looking the opposite way. With no regard for how the man would feel, Turner pulled up his hood. As sly as a fox, he grabbed the bag and ran back to the shed he now called home.
When Turner got back to the shed, he scrunched his nose up at the smell of the rotting wood and sat on the floor. He turned on the dim light bulb that he hardly ever used and opened the backpack. Twenty dollars caught his eye first, then a phone that looked to be in good shape and lastly a note book. He would see what that offered later. Turner left again to buy some Vodka, before drinking himself to oblivion once again. Morning came and went and Turner awoke early evening, lighting a cigarette and drinking some vodka before he remembered the notebook. Curiosity overtook him and he opened the notebook up only to discover that it was a journal. Abuse filled each page, a book about how this boy had been sexually abused just as Turner had and had been battling depression. This boy had a plan to kill himself at the bridge on Melbourne lane. Turner used to walk over that bridge everyday to go to school and used to dream about jumping of it. If it wasn't for his sister, he probably would have. In red pen was a date; the fifteenth of may. That was in three days. Turner froze, his eyes fixed to the journal in front of him. He had a new purpose.
He was going to save this boys life.
✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･*✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･*
Rules
• I prefer someone who is litarate to advanced literate.
• I only do bxb roleplays.
• I do NOT do smut/NSFW content.
• Dont make your character too overpowering or unlikeable
• I am 18 years old and prefer roleplaying with people 18 years or older.
My triggers
I do not like graphic mentions of selfharm or any mention of anorexia/bulimia/ednos.
Cigarette smoke only made the sensation of burning stronger, the smoke engulfing his lungs in an endeavour to escape the pain of breathing. There was a knock on the shed door, probably from his friend who had let him stay there in the first place. He would have gotten up if it wasn’t for the dizzy and frantic feeling in his head. Instead he reached over and pushed the door open, the light burning his eyes almost as much as the vodka had burnt his throat. Turner squinted and turned away quickly. The words from his friend fell on deaf ears, vodka and PTSD flooding through his mind, blocking any help that would offer itself to him. He left as quickly as he came, leaving another bottle of vodka on the floor as a misguided gift. The next day, Turner ran out of alcohol and had regained his strength. He stood up, all his work from exercise wasted. He didn’t have to be strong now. The monster was dead.
Finding another thing to steal was his next mission. Maybe a phone, or a bag. It was evening so outside was almost as dark as his shed. He walked down the street slowly, looking for a victim before coming across a run down park he often went to to steal from people. The teenagers there were easy targets, often leaving their things by the gate completely away from them. As always, there was somebody who had left his things by the gate and was now sat on the swing looking the opposite way. With no regard for how the man would feel, Turner pulled up his hood. As sly as a fox, he grabbed the bag and ran back to the shed he now called home.
When Turner got back to the shed, he scrunched his nose up at the smell of the rotting wood and sat on the floor. He turned on the dim light bulb that he hardly ever used and opened the backpack. Twenty dollars caught his eye first, then a phone that looked to be in good shape and lastly a note book. He would see what that offered later. Turner left again to buy some Vodka, before drinking himself to oblivion once again. Morning came and went and Turner awoke early evening, lighting a cigarette and drinking some vodka before he remembered the notebook. Curiosity overtook him and he opened the notebook up only to discover that it was a journal. Abuse filled each page, a book about how this boy had been sexually abused just as Turner had and had been battling depression. This boy had a plan to kill himself at the bridge on Melbourne lane. Turner used to walk over that bridge everyday to go to school and used to dream about jumping of it. If it wasn't for his sister, he probably would have. In red pen was a date; the fifteenth of may. That was in three days. Turner froze, his eyes fixed to the journal in front of him. He had a new purpose.
He was going to save this boys life.
✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･*✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･*
Rules
• I prefer someone who is litarate to advanced literate.
• I only do bxb roleplays.
• I do NOT do smut/NSFW content.
• Dont make your character too overpowering or unlikeable
• I am 18 years old and prefer roleplaying with people 18 years or older.
My triggers
I do not like graphic mentions of selfharm or any mention of anorexia/bulimia/ednos.
