Post by megalomania on Aug 20, 2007 13:54:31 GMT -5
There were no words to describe the strut that the notorious Vincent O’Neil paraded so boisterously to as much of the world as he could get his grubby, 16-year-old hands on. His broad shoulders gracefully moved of their own accord, shifting backwards and forwards in a certain beat, giving the impression of a rocking buoy out at sea, convulsing around dangerously before the storm hits. His hands were slumped lazily inside the pockets of dark, designer denim jeans that were baggy at the leg, yet fitting at the waste; adding on his laid-back, mysterious impression. His rhythmically swinging arms moved in time with his perfected light, carefree footsteps, and worked the black fabric of the zippy jacket, unzipped half way down to reveal a red Akai Kuma double v-necked T-shirt, that fitted his figure perfectly.
The topping of the look, however, was the smirk that adorned his face. It was placed under a roman nose made crooked from a scuffle long ago, calm and deadly and perfect, like an adder in the grass, ready to strike, twitching deceivingly in the corners of his thin lips now and again at passers by. These passers by, if caught a glance at his icy, electric blue eyes with tiny, piercing pupils, would notice that something about Vincent was not all there.
Now and again, Vincent would remove his left hand from his pocket, crane his head slightly, and scratch the back his skull, enjoying the feeling of his dark and shaved undercut before tilting his head upright again and raising and bowing an arm, allowing long fingers to caress the spiky, inch long hair on the top of his head, sticky with gel, before retreating back into the depths of his pocket.
Vincent was not the best looking of boys. He was not the smartest. And he was not at all rich with money. However, there was something about the air of this youth that would create a certain mischievous charm that made people want to be friends with him. Perhaps it was his sarcastic sense of humor, or his loyalty towards those he liked. Or maybe it was even the fact that some kids clicked onto his aggressive appearance, and wanted him for a form of protection from bullies. Despite this, Vincent wouldn’t hurt a fly, unless provoked or made to. He only had a tough appearance due to his father betting him into illegal fist fights when they lived back in Toxteth, in Liverpool. As harsh as it sounds, Vincent enjoyed participating, in attempt to please his dad. But it quite quickly the fights got out of hand, and Vincent discovered his “powers”. He and his father had to move far away and now lived on the poorer outskirts of a strange new town. Due to these experiences, Vincent knew his far share of fighting, and if you ever got on his bad side you’d most definitely wish you hadn’t.
Vincent and his father had a rather odd relationship. It was awkward at best, yet it was clear when they were in each other’s presence that there was a strong desire warping inside of Vincent – a kind of wish that he and his father were closer instead of being so distant to each other. Vincent looked up to his father like a God. The boy’s mother lived back in Toxteth, and she and his father had broken up when Vincent was quite young. He would often go visit her when he lived in Liverpool, but now that they lived so far away, he got to see her four times a year at the most; Christmas and birthdays. He didn’t really mind, though.
Now, it was Vincent’s second year at this strange and new school. His suitcase had been delivered to the school the day before, and now all his small possessions where slung over a strong shoulder in a rucksack. He was quite looking forwards to going back to this boarding school. He had a few friends there last year that had left, and gone into the big wide world. But now he had no friends at the school; he was alone. Hopefully he’d be able to make new ones.
These thoughts troubled Vincent slightly as he dawdled to back to school, although from a looker’s glance, it wasn’t at all evident that this less-than-charming, laid back boy had even the smallest care in the world.
He signed in quickly and plodded into the toilets, his footsteps heavy now that he was alone, echoing on the tiles. There was a muddy, watery trail dragged in by some inconsiderate student, and combined with his wet Converse shoes and the slippy tiles, the bathroom floor was hard to walk on. He slowed his pace to attempt to balance more easily, unintentionally making his footsteps sound slow, scary and deliberate.
The topping of the look, however, was the smirk that adorned his face. It was placed under a roman nose made crooked from a scuffle long ago, calm and deadly and perfect, like an adder in the grass, ready to strike, twitching deceivingly in the corners of his thin lips now and again at passers by. These passers by, if caught a glance at his icy, electric blue eyes with tiny, piercing pupils, would notice that something about Vincent was not all there.
Now and again, Vincent would remove his left hand from his pocket, crane his head slightly, and scratch the back his skull, enjoying the feeling of his dark and shaved undercut before tilting his head upright again and raising and bowing an arm, allowing long fingers to caress the spiky, inch long hair on the top of his head, sticky with gel, before retreating back into the depths of his pocket.
Vincent was not the best looking of boys. He was not the smartest. And he was not at all rich with money. However, there was something about the air of this youth that would create a certain mischievous charm that made people want to be friends with him. Perhaps it was his sarcastic sense of humor, or his loyalty towards those he liked. Or maybe it was even the fact that some kids clicked onto his aggressive appearance, and wanted him for a form of protection from bullies. Despite this, Vincent wouldn’t hurt a fly, unless provoked or made to. He only had a tough appearance due to his father betting him into illegal fist fights when they lived back in Toxteth, in Liverpool. As harsh as it sounds, Vincent enjoyed participating, in attempt to please his dad. But it quite quickly the fights got out of hand, and Vincent discovered his “powers”. He and his father had to move far away and now lived on the poorer outskirts of a strange new town. Due to these experiences, Vincent knew his far share of fighting, and if you ever got on his bad side you’d most definitely wish you hadn’t.
Vincent and his father had a rather odd relationship. It was awkward at best, yet it was clear when they were in each other’s presence that there was a strong desire warping inside of Vincent – a kind of wish that he and his father were closer instead of being so distant to each other. Vincent looked up to his father like a God. The boy’s mother lived back in Toxteth, and she and his father had broken up when Vincent was quite young. He would often go visit her when he lived in Liverpool, but now that they lived so far away, he got to see her four times a year at the most; Christmas and birthdays. He didn’t really mind, though.
Now, it was Vincent’s second year at this strange and new school. His suitcase had been delivered to the school the day before, and now all his small possessions where slung over a strong shoulder in a rucksack. He was quite looking forwards to going back to this boarding school. He had a few friends there last year that had left, and gone into the big wide world. But now he had no friends at the school; he was alone. Hopefully he’d be able to make new ones.
These thoughts troubled Vincent slightly as he dawdled to back to school, although from a looker’s glance, it wasn’t at all evident that this less-than-charming, laid back boy had even the smallest care in the world.
He signed in quickly and plodded into the toilets, his footsteps heavy now that he was alone, echoing on the tiles. There was a muddy, watery trail dragged in by some inconsiderate student, and combined with his wet Converse shoes and the slippy tiles, the bathroom floor was hard to walk on. He slowed his pace to attempt to balance more easily, unintentionally making his footsteps sound slow, scary and deliberate.