Post by HEATHCLIFF SILIVASI on Mar 2, 2013 18:45:38 GMT -5
Heathcliff 'Heath' Silivasi
" + [tainted] LoVe +"
OOC: Shock, Heeeey guys returning member Shock at your service. Been Rping for over nine years now
Canon: Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
Face-claim: Ville Valo
Social Status: Low class
Occupation: A musician
Age: 24
Appearance:
Haughty and unkempt, his dark, brooding aura tainting everything around him, Heathcliff, through seemingly endless eyes, can stare at you so forcefully that it is like he is peering right into your very soul. Large, heavy lidded and icy blue in colour, Heathcliff’s eyes can ensnare your senses and just as easily dismiss them with a mere glance. Behind them, a wild light seems to glint, like they are keeping a vicious animal at bay and in some cases, perhaps this assessment of him is correct.
Dark hair falling widely around his face in a wavy tangle, Heathcliff, though a Yorkshire man by birth has all the pale skinned, almost ethereal appearance of the historic Romani people. He appears to be all that is considered as pure and yet is tainted and starkly contrasted by his dark nature. Standing tall, around about 6’1, Heathcliff has a lithe frame and slender, if not a little muscled limbs, his tall somewhat intimidating stature a compliment to his dark, passionate yet incredibly vindictive nature. He is like a dark shadow, figuratively consuming everything within 3 feet of him in a dark, pulsating aura before tuning around and decimating it all like a hurricane, the wildness of his character reflected not only in his looks but in his sense of style, preferring darker shades to anything else.
His style is that of a casual, scruffy yet somehow neat young man opting for t-shirts overlaid by open shirts and jeans. Waistcoats and blazers may come into play every now and then and Most of the time he will accessorize with a scarf. He is both frightening and beautiful to those who naively look at him before knowing his character well enough so as not to get involved with him. With handsome features Heathcliff can act like a magnate for those who find him attractive despite his cold and brooding manner.
Overall Personality:
Unpredictability and an utter rejection for those who dare close in on him are common acquaintances of this young man and his haughty, stone cold nature. He is cruel, dismissive and cold to those he does not think worthy of his attention and if you should cross him, though he may not react instantly he will fool you by brushing off your affront like dust from his jacket, allowing you to think you have won before striking back at you like an adder when you are not expecting it. He will sink into a reverie, lying wait as he plans on how to bring you crashing down without a second thought. Revenge is a dish best served cold and in Heaths cookery book, cold is exactly how it will be served. He has a sharp, penetrating mind, never missing a trick. If you lie to him, that mere flinch you gave, that tiny aversion of you eyes for a mere second, the hesitation in your defence are all things he will notice, observing and assessing you as he stares through you with those ice cold eyes.
It would be wise to say Heathcliff is not a pleasant nor approachable fellow, he is a loner, hot-tempered and wallows in his own thoughts, allowing them to consume him, often loosing track of the real world. He is indeed a flawed character; twisted and somewhat burned by rejection however he is not wholly evil, no matter how hard he will try to have you believe he is. Inside he is lonely and his once warm heart has since cooled, freezing out the hurt that life has thrown at him. He is afraid of opening upto anyone again, terrified of the judgment thrown at him by those who think him less of a man then they and his pain has curdled into a harsh shield of despair .
Hatred is his only defence, he uses it as the catalyst which fuels his dark nature, making sure no one can get through to the true Heathcliff sealed inside. He is like a butterfly, sealed in a cocoon of safety, a brooding defence mechanism of hate, retribution and a rejection of anyone who dares get close to him. He is quick to snap and dose not take kindly to a challenge, he will shout, insult and abuse if pushed far enough by someone brave enough to get under his skin and can sometimes get violent, holding a grudge and letting it fester inside him until he can act his revenge.
He is obsessive, Passionate, never giving up on anything he wants until he gets it and mark my words he will get it. He is calculating, intellectual and in the opinion of some, utterly without a conscience, feeling no guilt for the pain he can inflict on those he sees as doing him a wrong, however one look from Cathy with those burning eyes of hers, those burning eyes that sear his flesh and bone, can bring him crashing to the ground with ease. Love is his weakness, Catherine is his weakness, her ability to disarm him, strip him of his shield and see clearly through to his soul frightens him. He loathes her for it and yet loves her deeply, no matter how monstrously he acts to her. She is the only one who can tame the beast within him and if it is Cathy who holds the shackles, he will gladly allow her to slip the chain around his neck.
Likes, dislikes:
Likes:
- Cathy
- The Cure, Bauhaus, Alice in Chains, The Sisters of Mercy, Siouxie and the Banshees, David Bowie
- His Guitar
- Artwork by H.R Geiger, Edvard Munch, Salvador Dali, M C Escher
- True-life stories of dark, historical serial killers like Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and The Zodiac Killer, intrigued by what drove them to do the things they did.
- Experimental films
- The scent of Freesias
- Roses
- Cigarettes
Dislikes:
- Cathy
- Almost everyone around him, weather he knows them or not
- Ridiculous Petty women who crave his attention
- Simpering Men who allow their women to rule them
- The Rich and High Class
- His cheating Father
Goals: Short term wise it's to make a success of himself as a musical artist so he can finally stand on the same levee as "Catherine" now as for long rem well he's damn well determined to get "Catherine" to admit her feelings for him. It's an obsession
Overall History:
If you were to ask Heathcliff about his life before NYC, you would be met with a stony glare and an expression just daring you to probe further. Those of good sense would know then, that to turn around and walk away would be the best thing to do. However those of us who are less skilled in the particular area of knowing when someone wants you to get out of their face may make the mistake of thinking Heathcliff a troubled man who just needs someone to talk to and in which case, you would be promptly met with a threat and if you care to push even further, violence. The son of a Romanian immigrant named Viviana Sillivasi, Heathcliff’s father was well out of the picture 8 months before his birth. He left Viviana homeless, without a penny to her name and pregnant with his child. The man in question a flighty, somewhat arrogant man named Heath Kennedy, from which Heathcliff’s own name was derived, came form a high class background and in his arrogance, saw a fling with an exotic woman as mere sport, never seriously considering settling down with her.
With all the dark, piercing features of her Romani ancestors, the Gypsies, as perhaps they are known nowadays, Viviana was a beautiful, fiery and spiritual young woman with a love for travel. Having come form an impoverished home back in Romania, she’d seen fit to study abroad choosing Yorkshire, a county to the north of England as her base. Unluckily it also threw her into the path of the Kennedy family and their son, well known around the locale as a cad. A whirlwind romance later and Viviana found herself out of money and unable to return home and pregnant with his child. Naming the child Heathcliff, after his father whom she still loved dearly despite the horrendous way he had treated her, Viviana moved into a small bed-sit in the town of Howarth.
Though Viviana was present throughout his childhood, Heathcliff grew up wild, insolent and figuratively alone, teaching himself everything he knew whilst his mother willed away her days pining after the man who’d near enough destroyed her. He was never close to his mother and it would probably be safe to say she felt no bond with him either. He was practically an orphan. The other children at the schools he attended made fun of him, calling him names, moulding him into a cold, distant personality, looking down upon him and contemptuously sneering at him for his mere existence. He got into fights constantly, earning himself the reputation of a wild uncontrollable animal. His mother was a simpering fool, his father a bastard who deserved to suffer and those around him pawns in his internal, solitary game of chess.
Finding solstice in dark music, which reflected his moody nature and growing accustomed to roaming the wild Yorkshire Moors just outside of Howarth in order to calm himself down and allow him the quite contemplation he desired, Heathcliff took up guitar playing as an escape, sparing him from the cold contempt he received simply for walking down the street. Needless to say he never made it though High School, pulling out aged 15 and concentrating on the dark melodies he’d become adept at weaving on the guitar he had named Thrushcross. With nothing to keep him in Yorkshire and no future ahead for a poor, under-educated boy, Heathcliff turned to his music for inspiration and taking influences from the classic Gothic bands which plagued the small stereo he had in his small bedroom, he composed a number of songs each as dark and as passionate as the last. With a little help from some of the more compassionate neighbours, i.e. the ones who pitied the poor unfortunate boy with the absent father and negligent mother, the ones for whom he did small jobs, he managed to scrape together enough money for a flight out of England and over to America, the place they all called ‘land of opportunity’. With nothing but the clothes he wore, the remaining money he’d earned in his pocket and Thrushcross strapped to his back Heathcliff, aged eighteen left Howarth without so much as a word to those who knew him, including his mother, planning only to return once he had proven he was above everyone who’d looked down on him.
Arriving in New York, He spent the first few months busking on the streets to earn money, something he despised doing yet knew it was his only chance given he didn’t want to take orders form anyone who dared say they were above him. Sleeping in a $25 a night YMCA on the west side of Central Park, he continued writing his songs and It wasn’t until one fated meeting with a man named "Earnshaw" that Heathcliff’s life would change forever. For better or for worse however is yet to be determined. Having seen Heathcliff on the streets for a few weeks now, "Mr Earnshaw", a well-known businessman had taken pity on the poor, English boy with no prospects and offered him a place in his luxurious home, making it clear that it wouldn’t be a free living, he would be a lodger, required to pay a small amount of rent as everyone had to pay the dues but it was to become his home non the less. Having since become rather disappointed with his own son as "Earnshaw" had confided casually to Heathcliff, he was looking for an assistant to work as part of his head office and knowing "Earnshaw" to be incredibly rich man thanks to articles in the New York Times Heathcliff gratefully agreed to the proposition. "Earnshaw" advised him it would be a trial basis at first, but if he could pull a promising young man from the streets and help him take that next step forwards, he would be happy.
Heathcliff was promptly brought into the "Earnshaw" household and upon arrival, it became clear immediately that the son "Earnshaw" had spoke of, “Hindley” by name did not welcome the dark young man into his home. Affronted by his father’s rash decision, “Hindley” dually protested against Heathcliff’s presence and made it clear from the beginning that Heathcliff would never be worthy of the "Earnshaws". Welcoming "Hindley’s" spite, having endured much worse back in Yorkshire Heathcliff made it clear right back that one day it would be "Hindle"y who wasn’t worthy of him. Though their disagreements were kept well out of the way of "Mr Earnshaw", they would lock horns many a time over the next few years, “Hindley” treating Heathcliff as a slave and Heathcliff, having grown fond of "Mr Earnshaw" allowing him to get away with it for the moment so as not to cause the old man any trouble. Though the brother was an abominable young man, it was in "Hindley’s" younger sister, "Catherine" that Heathcliff found his true and only friend and his true and only love.
She was a spoiled, arrogant and self-assured bitch, the kind that Heathcliff despised and although at first she tried to command him as much as she did everyone else, he stood against her, faced her down and they developed a complicated, love and hate relationship. Being close in age, opposite in status and yet matched in temper they grew friendly, fighting like cat and dog yet falling together like raindrops at the same time. Everyone, particularly “Hindley”, looked down on their friendship. Heathcliff wasn’t worthy of "Cathy’s" attention; he was below her, an unworthy match according to all in the house but "Mr Earnshaw" who seemed oblivious to the twos relationship, seeing it as simple folly and friendliness, however Heathcliff couldn’t allow "Cathy" to be anyone else’s. She was beautiful, full of life, fiery, mischievous and his equal however she was also spiteful, vindictive, everything he despised about women and on some level he knew she looked down upon him as much as the others. It would degrade her to love someone like Heathcliff and though angry it made him, infuriated him, it could not over power the heated, unyielding love he felt for her.
It seemed they would be locked into a vicious circle of love and hate forever. Her incessant flirting infuriated him, her utter denial of the feelings he knew she truly felt for him wounded him like arrows, she was monstrous to him and he was monstrous back yet he would bend for her, he would relent on certain things for her and then she began to drift from him, realising just how much money could by her, how much the media could spin things, how much her status could do for her and Heathcliff became a mere shadow of her past, constant in his affection and betrayed by her rejection. He couldn’t stand living beside her any longer, the job he had with "Earnshaw" had proved useful to him and taking out what he’d managed to save, he told "Earnshaw" he wanted to leave the house and find his own place, having trespassed on "Earnshaw’s" kindness for long enough.
Now twenty-one years old, Heathcliff removed himself from the "Earnshaw" residence much to the delight of "Hindley" and without a word to Cathy, now ridiculously going by her middle name. Agreeing to keep working for "Earnshaw" part-time, Heathcliff settled into an old attic apartment in St Marks and relinquished all contact with Cathy, dealing directly with "Earnshaw" only. Unwilling to let Cathy escape him, he began work on his compositions again, if the only way to get her, was to bring himself up to her level, up to her celebrity like status he would do everything in his power to reach it, she would not leave him again.
So now, as the year begins to kick off twenty-five-year old Heathcliff is due to release his first album, titled Wuthering Heights and he’s planning to bring Cathy crashing down to him once more.
Most Influential Event: The abandonment of him and his mother by his worthless Father.
Sample Writing:
Dark hair, as wild and as tangled as the brambles in the distance, fluttered around his pale face like strands of seaweed caught in the riptide.The frock coat he wore was dark, and beneath it he wore naught but a thin linen shirt through which the freezing winds cut like knives. He was cold but he refused to shiver. The clouds above were a stormy Grey, the prelude to a gigantic storm and the winds curled around him, caressing and yet chafing his rough, sullied skin with their bitter edge.
A faint, yet somehow dense fog hung in the air around him, thick enough to shroud the wild beauty of the moors before him with it’s pallor yet not opaque so as to blind him to them. He could see the stretching hills beyond, the wispy fog simply distorting them slightly in his vision. He wasn’t looking at the countryside however, no his eyes were focused intensely on the fleeing figure of a dark haired siren, her simple, wasted form cloaked in a dress of pure white, the darkness of her hair intensified by the light the garment seemed to emit.
She was running, running further and further away from him however it was a sluggish one, neither fast nor slow but somewhere in between, like a film playing in slow-motion. He remained rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed. He knew her figure well, he knew how she felt against him, how her breath felt on his neck and how her slight frame fitted so perfectly to his own, and as quickly as the thoughts crossed his mind, she turned to look back at him, still running, her features obscured by a dark shadow, the only thing illuminated both by the glow of her dress and a radiance even he could not explain the source of, was her wicked, teasing smile.
Seeming to unfreeze, he yelled out to her, his voice a rough, Yorkshire tenor even he couldn’t recall ever having.
“Cathy!” He shouted it as she retreated, her mocking smile taunting him.
“CATHY!” He cried again, his eyes narrowing now as a slight anger rose inside him, how dare she mock him like this, tease him so. The wail of the wind grew in volume as the fog began to thicken swallow her, only then did he give chase. Beneath him, brittle grass and twigs fractured, loose stones scattered in all directions by means of his heavy foot falls and the wind now tore at his wild hair, longer then he remembered it yet just as tangled as always. Only then did he realize that he wore a dark, dirty pair of Knickerbockers and on his feet were a pair of worn riding boots, the kind seen only on portraits completed nearly 200 years ago.
The cold wind cut through him again but he focused only on Catherine as an icy rain began to fall form the stormy sky.
“CATHY!” Again he shouted and again she mocked him, still smiling, still running until the fog swallowed her whole and a dangerous panic erupted in Heathcliff's chest.
“Come back ‘ere Cathy! What righ’ ave yeh to run from ME!?” That strange twang again yet he knew it to be his voice. However she had long since disappeared and he found himself surrounded in the thick, freezing fog, the bare boughs of trees poking through the shroud like skeletal limbs.
“CATHY!” He screamed, turning on the spot.
“CATHY!” Her tinkling laughter erupted around him and he shot up, soaked in a cool sweat, the last remnants of her name fading form his lips as he stared wildly around the dark room. It was a few moments before his senses awoke and shuddering slightly, he ran a pale hand though his dark hair, matted with sweat. Breathing heavily, he threw the bed covers off and swung his long, somewhat hairy legs over the lip of the bed and onto the cold wooden floor. She would drive him mad.
His face in his hands, as he tried to wipe the lingering fog from his eyes, Heath got to his feet and crossed the room, hitting the light switch hard as he exited through the open door into the now dimly illuminated living room. A strange anxiety burned in his chest and he strode over to the television, reaching for the open packet of cigarettes on the coffee table, only to find it empty. Crushing the packet angrily in one hand he pitched it over to the wastepaper basket, full to the brim with unfinished, screwed up lyrics and stormed to the kitchenette, ripping open cupboards in his hurry to find a fresh packet. His hunt was to be unsuccessful though as he remembered with a great agitation, that the packet on the coffee table had been the last of his current stock.
Slamming the cupboard shut, he crossed the room once more and pulled on the jeans and t-shirt he’d been wearing earlier, jamming his feet into a pair of soiled trainers. Checking the alarm clock on his bedside table, he swiped his keys from its polished surface, headed back out into the living room and over to the apartment door. Patting at his pockets for his wallet, he flicked off the lock and pulled the door open, stepping out into the cool, dark and yet noisy hallway. Someone downstairs was having a party and the pulsating beats were already drilling relentlessly into his skull. In a towering temper due to his rude awakening, Heath stomped down the stairs, pausing briefly to kick loudly at the party door, leaving a dark, somewhat scuffed footprint behind on its white visage before continuing down into the lobby and out into the lamp lit streets.
The orange tinged glow stung at his eyes for a moment after the darkness of the hallway but he merely blinked it away and started down the block towards the nearest Duane Reade. It didn’t take long, the joys of living so close to everything meant that it took very little time to reach places, and with the NY rule of never sleeping, even 1am wasn’t too late for the shopkeepers.
The drugstore was empty when he got there, its surgical light glaring uncomfortably out of the wide windows as one miserable, harassed looking guy sat glaring at Heath from behind the counter, as if daring him to buy anything. Strolling in like he owned the place, he walked straight over to meet the man’s gaze and in a measured, yet commanding voice, purchased a new packet of cigarettes before returning to the street.
The strange anxiety inside him seemed t have intensified during the past few minutes and no sooner had he reached the corner, did he pull out a lighter from the pocket of his jeans and tearing open the packet, pulled out a cigarette and lit it up, taking a deep pull as the anxiety knot loosened slightly. Standing under a streetlight, he lent cockily against the cold metal casing and stared at the passing Cars, so many for such a late hour. As far as he was aware he was alone on the street, perhaps a good thing given his rather angry mood, however you were rarely alone on the streets in this City and it was a theory backed up by the sound approaching footsteps as he took another deep pull on the cigarette.
[/size]
