M
Memoria
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Original poster
ELLIOT VASILYEV
Sleep weighed down Elliot's eyes as he dragged himself out of bed. He checked the crappy alarm clock on his bedside table that only occasionally decided to wake him up; it was eight a.m. Breakfast started in fifteen minutes; classes in an hour.
Fatigue tried to tether him to his bed as he stood up, almost falling over because he was so exhausted. Elliot had not gone to bed until two a.m. the previous evening; he had finished a long, tedious paper for English, completed his long-overdue essay on early 20th century theatre for his drama class and had perfected a new contortionist move which involved twisting one's left leg around one's own neck.
Elliot crossed his tiny, closet-like dorm room to his wardrobe and pulled out the first things he laid hands on; raggedy jeans, scuffed combat boots and a plain black T-shirt. He slid the clothes on, threw his favourite black leather jacket -- which, as a gift from Michelle, was the only nice piece of clothing he owned -- on over his shirt and quickly scrubbed his teeth at the tiny basin in the corner of the room. He felt too crappy to eat breakfast anyway.
Grabbing his backpack, which was crammed to bursting point with various textbooks, his dance practice outfit and three months' worth of crap, Elliot left his dorm room without even looking in the mirror to check if his hair looked half-decent. The halls of Alice Miore were alive with students even at the ungodly hour of eight a.m. Elliot quickly descended the stairs leading to the entrance hall and leaned against the wall beside the dining hall doors, waiting for Michelle.
@DANAsaur
Fatigue tried to tether him to his bed as he stood up, almost falling over because he was so exhausted. Elliot had not gone to bed until two a.m. the previous evening; he had finished a long, tedious paper for English, completed his long-overdue essay on early 20th century theatre for his drama class and had perfected a new contortionist move which involved twisting one's left leg around one's own neck.
Elliot crossed his tiny, closet-like dorm room to his wardrobe and pulled out the first things he laid hands on; raggedy jeans, scuffed combat boots and a plain black T-shirt. He slid the clothes on, threw his favourite black leather jacket -- which, as a gift from Michelle, was the only nice piece of clothing he owned -- on over his shirt and quickly scrubbed his teeth at the tiny basin in the corner of the room. He felt too crappy to eat breakfast anyway.
Grabbing his backpack, which was crammed to bursting point with various textbooks, his dance practice outfit and three months' worth of crap, Elliot left his dorm room without even looking in the mirror to check if his hair looked half-decent. The halls of Alice Miore were alive with students even at the ungodly hour of eight a.m. Elliot quickly descended the stairs leading to the entrance hall and leaned against the wall beside the dining hall doors, waiting for Michelle.
@DANAsaur
JONATHAN CERINI
Singers should get their own fucking dorm, thought Jonathan bitterly. He had been unable to practice his solo singing assignment the previous evening in fear of angering the other boys sharing his floor. That way, we can practice during the night in peace.
Jonathan grabbed his phone from his bedside table and shot a text to Maji, his girlfriend: HEY, MEET YOU AT OUR USUAL TABLE FOR BREAKFAST? XXX. He then texted his best friend, Siobhan: HOLY FUCKING SHIT I AM TIRED. DID YOU FINISH THE MATH PROJECT? I DIDN'T.
Five minutes later, with freshly combed hair and sporting his usual 'bad boy' outfit -- leather and denim dripping in tacky chains, completed with blue Jordans -- Jonathan left his dorm room (which was simply a clone of everyone else's, to his dismay). He wasted no time arriving at the dining hall, nodding to Elliot Vasilyev as he passed. Jonathan retreated to the table he normally shared with Maji and their friends, and dragged his math work from his bag.
"Well, I guess I'd better finish this shit," he sighed under his breath.
@Psycho_Proxy
Jonathan grabbed his phone from his bedside table and shot a text to Maji, his girlfriend: HEY, MEET YOU AT OUR USUAL TABLE FOR BREAKFAST? XXX. He then texted his best friend, Siobhan: HOLY FUCKING SHIT I AM TIRED. DID YOU FINISH THE MATH PROJECT? I DIDN'T.
Five minutes later, with freshly combed hair and sporting his usual 'bad boy' outfit -- leather and denim dripping in tacky chains, completed with blue Jordans -- Jonathan left his dorm room (which was simply a clone of everyone else's, to his dismay). He wasted no time arriving at the dining hall, nodding to Elliot Vasilyev as he passed. Jonathan retreated to the table he normally shared with Maji and their friends, and dragged his math work from his bag.
"Well, I guess I'd better finish this shit," he sighed under his breath.
@Psycho_Proxy
SIOBHAN ANDOVERS
BITCH, WE ALL KNEW YOU'D LEAVE IT TO THE LAST MINUTE. EVEN MAJI KNEW, JUST FUCKING ASK HER. BUT, JONATHAN, WE BOTH KNOW YOU'LL GET AN A REGARDLESS OF WHEN YOU DO THE SHIT, SO STOP COMPLAINING AND MAKING THE REST OF US FEEL STUPID. Siobhan snickered and slid her phone into her pocket. Silly Jonathan, always complaining and needing others to tell him he was smart.
Siobhan, who had actually completed all of her homework and had gotten the recommended hours of sleep a person her age needed to function correctly, happily skipped to her wardrobe and dressed in a warm outfit consisting of bottle-green skinny jeans, a fleecy cream sweater that hung to her midthigh and a pair of light gray ugboots. She just managed to drag her hairbrush through her messy chocolate-brown mane, though the locks simply bounced back into their natural ringlet curls. Feeling adventurous, Siobhan, who rarely bothered with make-up, brushed a simple cat-eye design onto her eyelids and even slopped a pale coat of lip gloss over her pout.
Is it possible to contract arthritis at age eighteen? Siobhan thought as she walked to the dining hall. She twisted her wrists around, hearing the satisfactory crack of her joints even over the ruckus the student body created. Too many hours of non-stop typing had caused the bones in Siobhan's fingers and wrists to stiffen, sometimes trapping whatever she was holding in unbreakable vices.
Siobhan stepped into the dining hall and immediately sighted Jonathan, his head bent over a book, sitting, alone, at their usual table. Loner, Siobhan thought. Siobhan threaded her way through the tables to Jonathan. Her best friend looked so focused on what she assumed was his math project that she refrained from speaking to him for that moment. Instead, she took her phone out of her pocket once more and shot a text to Jayden, her boyfriend: HEY SLEEPYHEAD, WAKE UP. XOXOXO.
@Kitsune
Siobhan, who had actually completed all of her homework and had gotten the recommended hours of sleep a person her age needed to function correctly, happily skipped to her wardrobe and dressed in a warm outfit consisting of bottle-green skinny jeans, a fleecy cream sweater that hung to her midthigh and a pair of light gray ugboots. She just managed to drag her hairbrush through her messy chocolate-brown mane, though the locks simply bounced back into their natural ringlet curls. Feeling adventurous, Siobhan, who rarely bothered with make-up, brushed a simple cat-eye design onto her eyelids and even slopped a pale coat of lip gloss over her pout.
Is it possible to contract arthritis at age eighteen? Siobhan thought as she walked to the dining hall. She twisted her wrists around, hearing the satisfactory crack of her joints even over the ruckus the student body created. Too many hours of non-stop typing had caused the bones in Siobhan's fingers and wrists to stiffen, sometimes trapping whatever she was holding in unbreakable vices.
Siobhan stepped into the dining hall and immediately sighted Jonathan, his head bent over a book, sitting, alone, at their usual table. Loner, Siobhan thought. Siobhan threaded her way through the tables to Jonathan. Her best friend looked so focused on what she assumed was his math project that she refrained from speaking to him for that moment. Instead, she took her phone out of her pocket once more and shot a text to Jayden, her boyfriend: HEY SLEEPYHEAD, WAKE UP. XOXOXO.
@Kitsune
MONIQUE DELEVIANTE
Monique pretended to listen as her mother droned on over the phone about god-knows-what. "Yes, Mom," said Monique in a neutral tone, careful to not lace any attitude into her voice while she spoke to one of the two people who could recharge her credit card. Monique pretended to listen about her older cousin's cotillion and so-and-so's wedding at the country club as she laid two outfits on her bed, and debated with herself over which to wear. The pale yellow sundress, or the pink blouse with the white skirt?
Deciding on the sundress, Monique tossed her phone onto her bed, knowing her mother wouldn't notice if Monique was absent for a minute, and shed her pajamas. She donned the sundress and twirled in front of the mirror, admiring how the dress hugged her waist and made her look even curvier than she already was. Tempted to simply hang up on Hillary, Monique picked her phone up again and sweet-talked her way out of further conversation. "Look, Mom, I'd really like to chat, but I have to get down to breakfast now ... yes, I'll be sure to do that ... give Auntie Mandy my best ... okay Mom ... love you too ... bye bye."
Monique hung up in disgust. She crossed to the plain, square mirror nailed to the wall over the basin in the corner and set to styling her hair into a simple bun on the top of her head. She coated her face expertly with her usual school make-up -- which was much more dressy than most girls would wear to school. She rifled through her wardrobe until she found a large leather purse, the same colour as her sundress. She slid the contents of yesterday's bag into the new purse, stepped outside her dorm room and stood at the top of the stairwell separating the boys' building from the girls', waiting for Kyo to collect her for breakfast.
@Psycho_Proxy
Deciding on the sundress, Monique tossed her phone onto her bed, knowing her mother wouldn't notice if Monique was absent for a minute, and shed her pajamas. She donned the sundress and twirled in front of the mirror, admiring how the dress hugged her waist and made her look even curvier than she already was. Tempted to simply hang up on Hillary, Monique picked her phone up again and sweet-talked her way out of further conversation. "Look, Mom, I'd really like to chat, but I have to get down to breakfast now ... yes, I'll be sure to do that ... give Auntie Mandy my best ... okay Mom ... love you too ... bye bye."
Monique hung up in disgust. She crossed to the plain, square mirror nailed to the wall over the basin in the corner and set to styling her hair into a simple bun on the top of her head. She coated her face expertly with her usual school make-up -- which was much more dressy than most girls would wear to school. She rifled through her wardrobe until she found a large leather purse, the same colour as her sundress. She slid the contents of yesterday's bag into the new purse, stepped outside her dorm room and stood at the top of the stairwell separating the boys' building from the girls', waiting for Kyo to collect her for breakfast.
@Psycho_Proxy
SAMANTHA ZALI ANNE REID
"Lewis, did you take my math textbook?" Samantha snapped into her phone as she rifled through her backpack.
"No, I didn't -- oh, wait," said Lewis fretfully. "I did. Sorry."
"You're a fucking idiot," said Samantha heatedly.
"I deserve that."
"Yes. You do. Bring it to breakfast, okay?"
"Okay."
Samantha hung up on her brother and scowled at her phone for a moment. Retard, she thought.
Samantha repacked her backpack with the contents it had contained before she had upturned it all over her bed. She checked her mirror to see whether her outfit was disheveled -- thankfully, her rose red skinny jeans, gray-and-red argyle sweater and ankle-high black platform boots remained in the pristine condition they had been in when she had put them on. Not a hair on her head had slipped out of place; her brown-and-gold ombre remained in its high ponytail. With her appearance in check, Samantha grabbed her backpack and went to the dining hall. She met Lewis just outside the door there, and help her hand out wordlessly.
Lewis passed her the math textbook, and all bad moods fizzled from the air. "Come on," said Samantha, leading her brother into the dining hall. They took seats at their usual table, the one beside the one Jonathan and Siobhan sat at, and waited for their friends.
"No, I didn't -- oh, wait," said Lewis fretfully. "I did. Sorry."
"You're a fucking idiot," said Samantha heatedly.
"I deserve that."
"Yes. You do. Bring it to breakfast, okay?"
"Okay."
Samantha hung up on her brother and scowled at her phone for a moment. Retard, she thought.
Samantha repacked her backpack with the contents it had contained before she had upturned it all over her bed. She checked her mirror to see whether her outfit was disheveled -- thankfully, her rose red skinny jeans, gray-and-red argyle sweater and ankle-high black platform boots remained in the pristine condition they had been in when she had put them on. Not a hair on her head had slipped out of place; her brown-and-gold ombre remained in its high ponytail. With her appearance in check, Samantha grabbed her backpack and went to the dining hall. She met Lewis just outside the door there, and help her hand out wordlessly.
Lewis passed her the math textbook, and all bad moods fizzled from the air. "Come on," said Samantha, leading her brother into the dining hall. They took seats at their usual table, the one beside the one Jonathan and Siobhan sat at, and waited for their friends.
LEWIS REID
Lewis sat beside his sister, laughing at an inside joke she had just cracked. Or maybe he had cracked it. He could never be sure; they were so attuned to one another, that they may as well be the same person.
Samantha whipped her phone out. Lewis read over her shoulder as she shot a text to Otani: HEY, WHERE ARE YOU? IT'S PANCAKE DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"Wait, it's Pancake Day?" asked Lewis. "Why the fuck has no one told me?"
"Because you're supposed to know this shit, Lewis," said Samantha, sliding her phone back into her pocket. "Seriously, how are we even related?"
Lewis leaned around and tapped Siobhan on the shoulder. "Shevy, did you know it was Pancake Day?"
"Um, yes, Lewis," said Siobhan.
"What the fuck?" said Lewis to no one in particular. He pulled his own phone from his pocket and shot a text to Kestrel, his girlfriend: DID YOU KNOW IT WAS PANCAKE DAY? APPARENTLY IT'S PANCAKE DAY. NO ONE FUCKING TELLS ME ANYTHING.
@Psycho_Proxy
Samantha whipped her phone out. Lewis read over her shoulder as she shot a text to Otani: HEY, WHERE ARE YOU? IT'S PANCAKE DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"Wait, it's Pancake Day?" asked Lewis. "Why the fuck has no one told me?"
"Because you're supposed to know this shit, Lewis," said Samantha, sliding her phone back into her pocket. "Seriously, how are we even related?"
Lewis leaned around and tapped Siobhan on the shoulder. "Shevy, did you know it was Pancake Day?"
"Um, yes, Lewis," said Siobhan.
"What the fuck?" said Lewis to no one in particular. He pulled his own phone from his pocket and shot a text to Kestrel, his girlfriend: DID YOU KNOW IT WAS PANCAKE DAY? APPARENTLY IT'S PANCAKE DAY. NO ONE FUCKING TELLS ME ANYTHING.
@Psycho_Proxy