- Invitation Status
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- Speed of Light
- Multiple posts per day
- 1-3 posts per day
- One post per day
- Multiple posts per week
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- Whenever my boss decides to let me go home. (Usually between 5-11 EST)
- Writing Levels
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Douche
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Primarily Prefer Female
- Genres
- Modern, Futuristic, Paranormal, Fantasy, Medieval, Romance, Horror, pretty much everything.
[fieldbox= Cynthia, #367b85, dashed, 10, Georgia] Cynthia wasn't sure that she could become nearly as infatuated with her surrounding the way West was talking about. She didn't pay much attention to anything when she jogged, using the exercise to wake herself up in the morning and keep in shape. Most of her time was spent thinking of a case, or trying to piece together things that might have been missed in her parents' murder investigation, something that she often did in hopes that she could present something to whoever had picked up the ice cold case. The only thing that could truly be as cathartic for her in the way her partner was describing would have been closing a case out with a conviction and the perpetrator locked away behind bars for a decent amount of time. But everyone had their own thing, and she was not the sentimental type, which made Kevin's next question almost impossible to answer.
There wasn't anything in her apartment that she had any type of emotional attachment to. Her parents' things were all put away in a storage unit for safe keeping, and her own personal effects were simply for necessity. She didn't buy things because she truly wanted them, she bought them because she needed them. The only thing in her apartment worth saving was the box containing all the information about her parents' case, and that could easily be destroyed because it wasn't the actual case files. It was just copies of everything in the real file. Her diplomas and certifications could be destroyed; they were only slips of paper that confirmed what her records stated. Cynthia couldn't think of anything at all that she'd be willing to grab in there ever was some sort of fire in her apartment, not one single thing.
"Nothing." She answered with a shrug, letting out a soft sigh of frustration. "Everything there can be replaced easily enough. I don't have any family heirlooms that I keep there. Those are in storage or in a deposit box at the bank." Her mother's jewelry, what had been saved from her grandmother's scavenging was locked away for her by her parents' lawyer years ago. There wasn't much, but what remained was worth more than money to Cynthia. "My parents were buried with their wedding bands, but whatever jewelry my grandmother didn't sell was put in there a few months after I was sent to go live with her. My parents lawyer realized too late what was going on and managed to get whatever was left out of the house before she took it all."
Cynthia actually laughed, grinning broadly as she spoke again. "My mother was a ballerina. Not quite world renowned, but popular enough that she could be considered successful. The costume from her first starring role is in storage, and thankfully hadn't been in the house when my grandmother started selling everything. She sold some of the others. She even tried selling my mother's wedding dress, but luckily no one wanted to buy it." Even with all that was missing from the house, Cynthia still had plenty to hold onto her parents' memory. "When she was killed her troupe sent me a package with every poster and announcement from her shows. Back in college I had some of them framed to decorate my walls with, but I put them back in the unit when I got my apartment. Other than that, everything worth saving is nowhere near my place. Makes it a lot easier if I ever get robbed. Which has happened once since I've lived on my own. They didn't have anything of value that they could take, but they certainly made a mess looking for things."
Cynthia wasn't sure what else to ask. The coffee which had given her something of a second wind was starting to burn down, and she was running out of steam. "I'm getting too old for these all nighters." She remarked, trying not to sound as worn down as she felt. "You ever think of doing something else? Something…..normal. And before you say anything, what we do is not normal. Normal people don't poke around dead bodies and deal with the sickest minds society has to offer." She stretched, hoping to wake herself up enough to make another cup of coffee, but knew that she was in a losing battle. "I thought about becoming a teacher. Maybe not a professor like my dad, but certainly not an elementary school teacher. High school, possibly, or some sort of training class. Nothing that involves prepubescent children though. I have no idea how to deal with them."[/fieldbox]
There wasn't anything in her apartment that she had any type of emotional attachment to. Her parents' things were all put away in a storage unit for safe keeping, and her own personal effects were simply for necessity. She didn't buy things because she truly wanted them, she bought them because she needed them. The only thing in her apartment worth saving was the box containing all the information about her parents' case, and that could easily be destroyed because it wasn't the actual case files. It was just copies of everything in the real file. Her diplomas and certifications could be destroyed; they were only slips of paper that confirmed what her records stated. Cynthia couldn't think of anything at all that she'd be willing to grab in there ever was some sort of fire in her apartment, not one single thing.
"Nothing." She answered with a shrug, letting out a soft sigh of frustration. "Everything there can be replaced easily enough. I don't have any family heirlooms that I keep there. Those are in storage or in a deposit box at the bank." Her mother's jewelry, what had been saved from her grandmother's scavenging was locked away for her by her parents' lawyer years ago. There wasn't much, but what remained was worth more than money to Cynthia. "My parents were buried with their wedding bands, but whatever jewelry my grandmother didn't sell was put in there a few months after I was sent to go live with her. My parents lawyer realized too late what was going on and managed to get whatever was left out of the house before she took it all."
Cynthia actually laughed, grinning broadly as she spoke again. "My mother was a ballerina. Not quite world renowned, but popular enough that she could be considered successful. The costume from her first starring role is in storage, and thankfully hadn't been in the house when my grandmother started selling everything. She sold some of the others. She even tried selling my mother's wedding dress, but luckily no one wanted to buy it." Even with all that was missing from the house, Cynthia still had plenty to hold onto her parents' memory. "When she was killed her troupe sent me a package with every poster and announcement from her shows. Back in college I had some of them framed to decorate my walls with, but I put them back in the unit when I got my apartment. Other than that, everything worth saving is nowhere near my place. Makes it a lot easier if I ever get robbed. Which has happened once since I've lived on my own. They didn't have anything of value that they could take, but they certainly made a mess looking for things."
Cynthia wasn't sure what else to ask. The coffee which had given her something of a second wind was starting to burn down, and she was running out of steam. "I'm getting too old for these all nighters." She remarked, trying not to sound as worn down as she felt. "You ever think of doing something else? Something…..normal. And before you say anything, what we do is not normal. Normal people don't poke around dead bodies and deal with the sickest minds society has to offer." She stretched, hoping to wake herself up enough to make another cup of coffee, but knew that she was in a losing battle. "I thought about becoming a teacher. Maybe not a professor like my dad, but certainly not an elementary school teacher. High school, possibly, or some sort of training class. Nothing that involves prepubescent children though. I have no idea how to deal with them."[/fieldbox]