[Gavin Fox]

GAVIN RAWDON FOX
eerie whispers trapped beneath my pillow
won't let me sleep
your memories
and i know you're in this room
i'm sure i heard you sigh
floating in between where our worlds collide.




S E E R S . WANDERER

My name is Gavin Rawdon Fox but you can call me Gav, unless I don’t trust and/or like you, I’ll prefer Gavin if that's got too many syllables for you to handle. If you're looking for me, you might find me cooped up in my house where I'm a currently unemployed, I know I’m such a bum.

I might look like I'm in my mid twenties but I'm actually twenty eight ; hard to believe, right? Roughly, I'm six foot one tall, last I checked, and I'd be the first to admit I'm a little on the relatively fit side, but don't hold that against me. Loads have people have told me how much I resemble Heath Ledger but personally, I don't see it.

F I R S T . I M P R E S S I O N S

Whether it is that terribly uncomfortable look on his face, or simply the impassive stare he’ll give you if you seem to speak behind his back, Gavin is never one for making new acquaintances. He’s normally awkward if not belligerent at times feeling forced if he has to associate let alone talk with the random stranger striking up friendly conversation. He finds the whole idea of meeting new faces pointless and wasted moments of his time. Reason being could be that he’s never really sure who to trust. He can’t freely tell people what he has seen or experienced without them looking at him like some sort of madman. In a way he cannot seem to get pass the fear of judgment from people who simply don’t understand and don’t care to.

F A S H I O N . P A S S I O N

Hm, how would one describe Gavin’s style? Well, it all depends on what kind of day you catch him on. If it’s a bad day—you’ll probably think he clothed himself with a blindfold. Now should it be a good day—you’ll probably still think he clothed himself blindfolded, but there is a difference. The difference being is that good day is rather a funky style appealing to the eyes. He catches your eye in a pleasant way on these types of days. His eccentric clothing choices are possibly an outlet of his inner turmoil. The swirls of colors, patterns, or just plain shoddy looking attire he can put together are a way for one to know what mood he might be in.

Cool and relaxing colors say, “Hey, there just your supposed nut chilling out.” Warm and energetic shades shout, “’Ello there! Guess what crazy’s doing bloody good today for once in his life?” Dark and moody hues groan, “What the bloody hell do you want from me now?” So always keep an extra eye out when you plan on visiting him, it might help one to know just how true it is to say that clothes certainly do display the person wearing them.

All in all he almost looks like that mental patient who has found himself wandering the streets whistling a cheery tune or decided to just plop himself on the front stoop looking gloomy as can be muttering random curses under his breath. Oh, come could one forget the old vintage camera he lugs around with him. It’s normally seen strapped across his chest.

D I M P L E S . A N D . T H I N G S

Due to...”accidents”, it seems Gavin has gather quite a few scars along his journey in life. Whether he had whacked the back of his head on the kitchen counter or some other oddly sharp object, a nice permanent dent has formed on the backside of his head. Moving down from his head to his lower back region, there is a pretty good sized wonky cross shape scar. How he got that one he is not quite sure seeing as how he was more concerned by the warm, metallic smelling liquid gushing from it at the time. He also has some scattered about miniscule ghosts of old cuts and such about his body. Some you barely notice; others due to an odd pale tone color you obviously can.

Now, don’t you dare judge him by those razor marks along his wrists! He was going through a terrible time and for a minute there— there seemed to be no sane solution. Although you got to give him credit for driving himself to the hospital, he knew it was coward’s way out of the lot he been cast.

W H Y . D I D . Y O U . D O . I T

Wrapping round his left wrist is a bracelet-tattoo. Black lines wrap about three times before the lines intersect crossing and between the intersection is a small empty circle. If one were to turn his wrist to the underside the letters C, H, A, O, S are inked into his skin acting as the clasp of the bracelet-tattoo.

Two tattoos are on both his shoulders. The right shoulder is a large black circle followed by a medium sized circle which is empty except for the black dot in its center, and lastly it ends with a small black circle. This tattoo represents the sun, earth, and moon. The left shoulder is off oval shaped target and its center is a circular headed dart and the solid rings of the target are black. This tattoo symbolizes the center of the universe.

On the underside of his left forearm in the dead center is a black bird with wings outspread pointed downward. Now moving down his left arm to his hand; stamped right on the lower left region of his hand is a leaf. Roaming once again up his left arm rather n the same area of the bird but on the opposite is a dragonfly. On to his right arm on the underside is a black rectangle with three balloons breaking through the black.

Finally, he does have one piercing in his left ear. Normally wears a tiny silver loop when he isn’t worried about seizing and having it tugged out somehow.

M A N . W I T H O U T . S K I N

His doctors tell him is a schizophrenic. Tell him that his “gift” is nothing more than auditory hallucinations, paranoid or bizarre delusions, or disorganized speech and thinking with significant social or occupational dysfunction caused by his supposed mental illness. Oh, apparently his perception of reality is abnormal, too.

They say the disorder is thought to mainly affect cognition, but it also usually contributes to chronic problems with behavior and emotion. People with schizophrenia are likely to have additional conditions, including major depression (he had that way before some quack told him) and anxiety disorders (last he checked he had that way before too); the lifetime occurrence of substance abuse is around 40% (sorry but he has to disagree with that seeing as how he detests the taste of alcohol and is not idiotic enough to do drugs). Social problems, such as long-term unemployment, poverty and homelessness, are common (no, wrong, the only reason he is unemployed is because he might have an “accident” at work and God knows what those consequences would be and he is not homeless or poverty stricken; he can thank incapacity benefits for that). Furthermore, the average life expectancy of people with the disorder is 10 to 12 years less than those without, due to increased physical health problems and a higher suicide rate (now that is just a downright lie! He’s healthy as a horse and...Um... well the suicide thing was caused by something totally unrelated to his supposed illness).

Gavin being diagnosed as a crazy may demonstrate auditory hallucinations, delusions, and disorganized and unusual thinking and speech; this may range from loss of train of thought and subject flow, with sentences only loosely connected in meaning, to incoherence, but that is what the “normal” people believed they have witnessed. When really they held witness to something totally different, his “accidents” was what they saw. How the hell would you act if you suddenly saw the future car crash about to occur in the next five minutes?

Also the apparent social isolation he has occurs due to a variety of reasons according to his doctors; his social isolation only occurs for one reason in Gavin’s case and on reason only. That reason is he can’t rely on people thinking he’s not crazy when he goes talking about things that haven’t even happened yet. He can’t trust anyone without feeling that anxiety about people judging him for his “gift”. The impairments in his social cognition are paranoia (because he has on occasion foreseen his own death) from delusions and hallucinations (ah, correction, they’re called visions and dead people), and the negative symptoms of apathy or lack of motivation (hm, that is somewhat true, but he isn’t like all the time though).

God, let’s just look away from what his doctors think, okay? Gavin is who he is because of the things and persons who he has encountered that have made him like that. Sure, it seems irrational to blame others when you should be apparently blaming yourself, but in some cases, folks—it is the fault of others that you seem nuttier than a squirrel. Yet really one still is contradicting themselves by blaming others for their problems. Gavin knows this, but still he can’t break that urge to point the finger. He knows he could have helped himself, however, he only wished there were more people in his life who could have given him more encouragement.

Watching your father blow out his brains from a crack in the closet after hearing him off the rest of your family, deserves more then a pitiful apology and some ridiculous reassurance that everything is going to be alright; especially when those words were spoken by people you don’t even know. The people for the most that haven’t even experienced what you just had to sit through—what you had to stare at for what seemed like days before a nosy neighbor called the police. Yeah, one would think you deserved more, but Gavin never got that comfort from the trauma. He never became the bright little ball of energy he used to be before the incident ever again. Sure, there be those moments where the kid would crack a smile, but they were weak and fleeting.

The child would seem more disturbed when he would begin seeing and hearing things no other person could see or hear. Terrible night terrors would begin to plague him almost every night in the beginning before slowly dwindling down to random and frightful occurrences. Then there be the seizures—oh, God, they were excruciating! And they could never be predicted beforehand!

He’d be scared hoping for someone to explain what was happening to him. For someone to say they did see that man with the bullet hole through his head in the corner of his room. For someone to say they did know that couple was going to be murder days before their faces even hit the news. But no one did. Instead they decided to drag him to doctors. The doctors would then supply the pills that would make everything worse.

Soon that child became the angry teenager who spat in the world’s face in return for forsaking him; the teenager would never believe in the supposed kindness of mankind. He gained few and strange friends he’d barely remain in a friendship with. The family he be sent to live with all those years ago would only make things worse. They saw him as the black sheep of the family. The kid’s whose father killed himself before the rest of his family that fateful night. Thus the kid wasn’t normal, he wasn’t even apart of the family as far they realized. He was just another freak like his grandmother...

Yes, it seemed the only person able to be any type of support system had been his mother’s mother. His grandmother was everything to him. She cared for him when the others recoiled from him. She had even been the first person to even believe him and, as she had put it, his “gift”. His grandmother actually believed him! It felt like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders—partially.

Soon he was a young man. His feelings of pessimism never went away, but he was able to give the world and man a chance because of his grandmother. He’d still have his moments where he wished the earth a good “go to hell”, but he’d be able to cancel times those out with the better times. The times where seeing a good deed brightened his day a bit, hearing the wind through the trees, gave him comfort, and the words of wisdom he would receive from his grandmother would be nurtured in his heart.

So despite whatever snide remark he may give, or the glass-is-half-empty attitude, Gavin is quite capable of warmer emotions. He has his grandmother to thank for that.

S H O W . O F F

Has quite a flair for deciphering tarot cards, and other forms of divination, this is a skill he gained under the tutelage of his grandmother. Another little thing he’s rather good at is the guitar. A talent most have rarely seen him do, but one can be sure to hear him playing it before tucking it away hearing your approach. He is also quite intelligent despite the hindrance his “gift” might have had on his studies in school; it is responsible for him not going to college though.

His strengths for the most part are that he seems to have this determination—a determination to get people to believe and not just in him, but maybe even the better side of humanity. Funny, right? He is also incredibly loyal to people who have been able to get close to him in the past and present—and hopefully the future. Now whether this is a good or bad thing and after that all he has gone through in life, he still retains the ability to trust people. Even after his bad experiences with trusting people, it never seems to die; no matter he thinks its been long since buried.

E P I C . F A I L

Hm, the only time someone might see him become like a kid in the candy store or remotely excited is when there are canines about. Yes, Gavin is quite fond of dogs and really all kinds. Although he’s favorite is an English Bull Terrier, he’s reason for liking the breed so well is he thinks their egg shaped heads and clownish smiles are funny.

He surprisingly likes the smaller versions of adults—uh, kids, yeah, he likes kids. He’ll be more sociable with a five year old than with their parent who’s most likely around his age and maturity. He secretly would like to be a father someday. Gavin feels like he can connect more with children and that’s probably what would make him a good dad. There is also the innocence and happy-go-lucky nature little ones have that reminds him of when he was once like that. And they are more accepting.

Gavin hates—and I mean loathes when he sees any type of prejudice. It really gets to him to the point he wants to break something over the ignorant SOB’s head. He cannot stand to see people put down for being simply different. A society that scorns those that break the mold will see no mercy, no cooperation, and certainly no sympathy for their plague of outcasts from him.

On the matter of women, he is completely clueless, yet he is perfectly capable of flirting! But in all honesty, he might not even be aware of it even when it is directed to him. He is hazy on the whole idea of relationships, yet he has times where there is someone he thinks about a lot. It just damn near confuses him.

T R I C K S . F O R . T R E A T S

His “gift”; Gavin possesses precognition, the second sight, or foresight, or whatever the hell you know it as. His ability to have premonitions is for the most part related to death. Whether it has to do with the fact he was witnessed or faced near death himself, is quite possibly the reason for this ominous connection to it. He is more likely to tell you your end then the generic prosperous future you want to hear. The fact that his visions are related to death is the major explanation he has for why people do not believe him. He knew they were frightened of him...especially if they were the one predicted to die.

These visions are manifested through violent seizures. Their time length has been once recorded (by him out of some attempt to understand his “gift”) going on for about a half hour as the shortest and nearly eight hours for the longest. He unfortunately has precognitive dreams also (or nightmares in his opinion). They take the shape of sweaty, out of breath, horrified night terrors. He’s been known to injure himself during his terrors as well as his seizures.

Seeing the dead; God, why is Death so enamored of him? Yes, Gavin can see the dead too, but it is not as strong as his precognition. He will have moments where he will see the decease although they’re normally residuals. Spirits forced to play back an event of the past—normally their death to his good luck. He has only encountered one spirit capable of acting as though they were still among the living; they were just highly confused and terrified asking what was happening to them. He’s never quite unforgotten that experience seeing as how the spirit had been his mother.

L I K E S

●His grandmother and all that she has done for him
●Cotton, his care worker; he just feels very close to her
●Enjoys a good book when he isn’t seizing
●To get the hell out of the house whenever he can
●Dogs, they are after all man’s best friend, right?
●Kids, they were more fun and open than adults so the reason is obvious
●Movies, they’re quite a past time of his when he can get to go see something at the local theater
●Photography, his camera is always by his side no matter what
●Playing his guitar in privacy.
●Stoelo, possibly?
●Also prefers small enclosed spaces

D I S L I K E S

● His “gift”, more like curse really
●People, excluding those he loves or remotely likes
●Does not care at all for when people treat him like some fragile minded nutcase
●Unjust judgment
●Racism, Sexism, etc.
●Ignorance and arrogance
●Sleep, for with that comes glorious night terrors!
●His medication and those damn SOBs that are so persistent to give him it
●Being cooped up his house after an episode from his beloved “gift”

D O W N L O W

●Really wants to go out and travel all over the world.
●Wishes he was just—normal
●Tends to talk to himself unconsciously
●Has times where he gets so frustrated he’ll start blurting out whatever words pop into his head
●Photography is a enjoy whenever he can get out and walk around
●Has never told anyone about seeing his mother’s spirit

I M M E D I A T E

● David Fox; father, 35, deceased
● Catherine Fox; mother, 30, deceased
● Helen Fox; sister, 13, deceased
● Alistair Fox; brother, 8, twin brother is Oliver, deceased
● Oliver Fox; brother, 8, twin brother is Alistair, deceased
● Cassandra Davies; grandmother, 83, Catherine’s mother, living, seems to know more than she’ll let on about Gavin’s “gift” and others who may possibly be like him

S I G N I F I C A N T

●Cotton, care worker/ potentially close friend, likes to think he can talk and trust her even though she doesn’t believe him about his “gift”
● Stoelo, not quite sure what she is to him, met her once and declared her a liar; funny, enough, he still thinks about her from time to time

T H I N G S . I V E . S E E N

BAM! It all started that echoing threat from the kitchen. His mother’s voice filled with fear while his father’s was burning with some strange deep rage. He’ll always remember the shuffling and curses being slung at her as she flew into his and his brothers’ room. Her lovely face was beat red and wet with tears. There was the usual swollen black and blue bruise with the broken skin bleeding a bit on the side of her face. It was fresh, but the abuse was old.

She had carried him and with his twin brother’s trailing behind; she led them frantically to his sister’s room. He was the first to be tucked away into the hall closet when his father stood at the end of the hall eyes blazing with a hellfire. His wide eyes recalled the feeling of fear and loneliness as the light disappeared out of the closet.

He could still hear the way their bare feet pounded on the floor as they raced away from father to his sister’s room at night when he slept. He could still feel that gut wrenching feeling in his stomach when he heard the second shot and his brother’s screams mingling with their mother’s. There was then a door that slammed.

His ears listened to the tug of war with the door that would certainly be his sister’s bedroom door. His mother and siblings fought against the monster that he thought had been his father trying to keep that damn door closed. But they weren’t strong enough.

The last scream had been his sister’s. His traumatized state as he lay curled in the ball on the closet floor was broken by the now huge eyes staring at the door. His father was moving down the hallway. Was he looking for him? Probably, and yet that man ended up walking pass into the bedroom he had once shared with the woman he once loved.

For whatever reason he cracked open that door, he would soon regret it sometime after. His eyes did not blink seeing the glistening fluid spray and splatter. He’ll never forget the red soaking the bed sheets when his father’s body had lain motionless for as long as it did on that bed. And he was sure that the policemen that had found him would never forget him; the six year old boy of the murderous bastard who killed his entire except for him then ghosting himself afterwards.

That same six year old boy would be changed forever. He would be forced to live his home of Melbourne, Australia and be sent to England to live with family who would have no idea of what was to happen to him due to his tragedy. Something had been triggered that night; something unnatural. He became inflicted by terrible seizures as deathly visions flashed pass his horrified eyes. These visions would even torment him in his sleep. Soon the child would at times see what he had believed been an alive individual— that was until they shot a bullet through their head or met some other sort of grisly end.

And when he thought he had no one to turn to. His grandmother, his mother’s mother, would prove him wrong. She would be his savior from those who saw him as deranged and disturbed for the sinister things he claimed to hold witness to. His grandmother believed him when no one else did. It was strange to see her acceptance in the beginning and he felt she was lying to him about her belief in him. But yet again and like so many times after she would prove him oh so wrong; his grandmother seemed to know then she let on about everything he told her. Her liking for things of the otherworldly persuasion seemed certainly more than a liking. He would always ask her why she knew so much about the “gift” he possessed and just everything connected to that supernatural realm. His answer would always be a sweet smile and some sort of answer that left him annoyed and wanting more.

That woman helped him through the most trying years of his life. Somehow she had almost accomplished having him accept his gift, yet in his last year of secondary school he lost the will to accept his supposed “gift”—he lost the will to endure.

Gavin had attempted to commit suicide when he was only seventeen years old. But as he lay on the tiled flooring of his bathroom, he realized this wasn’t the way. He couldn’t let himself die that way. He wouldn’t be his father. Gathering whatever strength he had, Gavin would miraculously get himself to the ER at the nearest hospital. When his grandmother with such fearful eyes—eyes that brought back that night—arrived at the hospital, Gavin told her the truth of what he tried to do it. That was the first time she ever struck him. It was the very literal slap of reality to the face.

After that night Gavin knew he had to continue on no matter what. He accepted his powers that night and he finally accepted that he could never led a truly normal life.

H E R E . A N D . N O W

Bournemouth; it was the town he had chosen to led his new life as an independent. Too bad one foul up at a job sent that independence flying right out the window. Gavin would found himself accused of having schizophrenia, taking these God awful pills (which he needs a new hiding place for quick disposal later on), being checked in on by a care worker, while living on incapacity benefits.

The only thing he liked about this new arrangement was his care worker, Cotton. He feels that he is very close to her; that he can trust her. Yet the time he attempted to reveal to her his ability, he was a bit hurt to learn she did not believe him at all. But he likes to hope with time maybe she will—or maybe she still won’t to his dismay.

On one outing of his (more like escape), Gavin came across a certain woman named Stoelo. Now why she happened to bug him was she was—well, she pretty much was a con artist leading people to believe she was a bono fide psychic. As he watched her perform her act, he couldn’t help but heckle her to the point he bluntly declared her liar. Yet strange enough after that incident, he can’t seem to help himself from thinking about her from time to time.

You can call me Alex and I'm in the Eastern Standard time zone. You guys suckered me in with your awesome graphics and storyline and I guess I'll be sticking around to post hopefully twice or more per week. Tell you something though, hmmm, nothing comes to mind...yet

R.I.G.H.T. as rain~

R P . SA M P L E

There was a voice. It was crisp and clear for anyone to hear well enough. Yet that is if they wanted to pay attention to such an infuriating monotone sound. It was the same word followed by the same bloody phrase—over and over again. It would be capable of driving the man who this voice was direct to mad…if he wasn’t mad already. He focused deeper and deeper into what lay before him. The newspaper clippings flew but were quickly placed down with a sharp thud on to the steel table he worked his ‘project’ on. The plastic scissors fumbled in his hands for their diminutive size was hindrance in their proper handling. They were simply comical looking in his large hands. A grown man using a child’s pair of Kelly green plastic scissors was a sight to see in a normal setting. But this was not a normal place. This was a cell in Arkham Asylum.

This is where the man named Edward Nygma had been spending his last few weeks. After he had slain those miserably moronic workers at the Circus, he had been punished to endure this madhouse. In all honesty, he was a sanest madman in that wretched smear on the city of Gotham’s face. He knew it as did his doctors.

“…Edward…”

A brisk working tune whistled passed his lips. He continued to ignore the vexation that loomed over his shoulder; the same vexation that would simply not give up this attempt to collect his undivided attention. Well, all Edward could say, that is if he did decided to speak to this wretch, was that—try and try again. Although it would be futile to even continue this little game of theirs, for it would be soon that Edward’s turn would come round and he would broach some bit of information thus bringing this to an end.

“…Are you listening to me...Edward…if you do not answer me—“

“You’ll what?” Snapped the harsh tone of Nygma’s accent, he paused in his ‘work’ and peered out of the corner of his eye at the annoyance. This annoyance became bewildered by his sudden joining into whatever conversation the annoyance was obviously having with itself. This annoyance was one of Arkham’s doctors who had been assigned to ‘help’ Edward in his ‘recovery’. The doctor was a smug little man with a square jaw, droopy eyes, and a balding patch of mousy hair. His sausage like fingers clutched at their clipboard briefly to give away his shock. The ceased forehead and wide eyes gave away his hesitation more so when he gaped like a fish. “Well? I’m waiting…”

The little wanker stared for a tad longer before his lips snapped back and forth and that tongue rolled round in that vulgar mouth. Edward's nostril flared in disgust as his facial features refrained from contorting in displeasure at the grating sound rumbling from that gullet. "I-I do grow tired of these sessions with you, Edward. Truly, I do. They beginning to have their toll on me. And-and frankly, I don't think you'll be seeing much of me after this day--"

"What?! You're leaving me?!" Edward's face became the perfect visage of utter shock and distraught; it was hard to see it as the false mask that it was. The mask however fell when a great fit of laughter reverberated through that skull white cell. It bounced off the uncleanly walls and the pitiful cot that was his supposed place for rest. "Do forget me for my joy, but I say good riddance. You're not a very skilled psychiatrist that much is certain from the way you present yourself to your patients. You take no force!" At this mention of power he shot out of his chair and clutched the air forming a tight fist. This series of actions had the good doctor retreating back into the door of Edward's cell.

At this show of fear, Edward's demeanor shifted to calmness. He eyed the doctor with a superior sense of petty concern. His query spoke as he thought it,"Do you fear me, doctor? Hm? Me? Out of all the murderous lunatics in this blasted hole, you choose to cower in my shadow." Edward raised an eyebrow and waggled a finger at the little man. "Tsk, tsk, tsk, honestly, how could you think me capable of such things?"

The little man stammered in his speech and whatever he was trying to say sparked Edward to scold him for its inaudibility and inconsistency. He slapped his hand at the air,"Speak up! And clearly! For God's sakes, man! Get a hold of yourself! You're looking more like a buffoon than you already do!"

Suddenly, the little doctor took his ground--feebly but nonetheless he gathered the bits of courage he held within that dwarfish frame. This new persona left Edward completely expressionless. He stood there silently and blank in the face. "I will not stand for your rude behavior, Mr Nygma! I simply will not! Do you hear me?! I will not--" Putting a stopper on his tirade, the little doctor watched with bulging eyes Edward bow. "Wha-What are you doing? If this is anymore of your moc--"

"No, my dear doctor, it tis not my mischievous nature that is before you humbly gesturing. It is the gentleman who is desiring that you accept his deepest apologizes--and this..." The mad gentleman returned to his perfect posture stepping forward. And in his outstretched hand was a scrap of paper. "Think of it as a parting gift, or better yet a reason to keep our chats. It is but a mere riddle. A riddle that once you solve will prove very informative."

This was how the game ended. The doctor left nonplussed with the bit of glued together parchment. The patient returned to his 'project'; the eminent victor.

This post has been edited by Gavin Fox on Feb 7 2009, 12:58 AM

[lexxibeth]

. C O N G R A T U L A T I O N S .
guess that means they like you

You've made the ranks as a S E E R, love, very well done indeed.
So what're you waiting for? Get to the good stuff already and go rip
some throats out!

.. or post your plot page if you're into that kind of thing.