Post by Jessimine Reeds on Jan 14, 2009 19:57:39 GMT -8
Jessimine
Jessimine Reeds (do NOT mention her last name…
Nickname/s ;Jessi, if your feeling brave
Age ; 17, four months, and counting, counting…
Gender ; female
Birth Date ; June 17th
Issue ;if you ask her, she’ll say she’s too damn nice. But she got into her mother’s medicine cabinet at six, and it was a downhill spiral from there. She stays away from narcotics now, but get her anywhere near a liquor store and she’ll drink it dry. Unfortunately, she inherited her father’s fiery temper, made even worse by the drinking. She’s spent more nights in jail for brawling than for DWI’s, and that’s saying something.
Height ; 5’ 1”
Eye Color ; clear green
Hair Color ; natural blond, dyed punk red
Hair Style ; short and flips out around the ears
Detailed Appearance ; Jessimine may look at first to be a thin, wiry, short female, easy pickings and a way-to easy score. Her eyes, pure green are cold, though, and often make people think twice about approaching her. She dresses in cut-off jeans, boots, and a wife beater, showing off her arms, though not to look pretty. They’re full of scars, none of them self-inflicted, and give her the same edge as a fighting pit bull.
Summed up Appearance ;short, red-haired, and punk. She gives off the aura of bad news from a mile away.
Detailed Personality ; Spunk has finally got a vassal. Her fiery persona and attitude give her that little ‘something’ that just ticks off drunk men. Her brawling, even though she’s less than half the size of her opponents, usually ends up with her on the ground. Twice, she’s woken in the hospital and not remembered how she showed up, and went home with broken bones.
Summed up Personality ;Spunky…
Detailed History ; Her mother was a whore, need I say more? The man she happened to be impregnated by wasn’t bad on the eyes, and he’s down paying child support form his hotel in Reno. Her mother has no idea where she is most of the time, mush less where Jessimine is. The mother worked a steady job down at a supermarket, and Jessimine waited tables to feed her addiction, and her mothers. But Jessimine had another addiction, one she knew would kill her if anyone found out.
If she wasn’t at a bar on the weekends, she was down at the local stables, head sitting on her arms, staring out into the pasture at the horses, one boot propped lazily on the bottom rail. The boarders had sort of taken her in, no questions asked, and had taught her the way around a horse. A very old woman by the name of Molly had a ten-year-old Arabian whom she grew attached to, and, when none would miss her, and noone would suspect she wasn’t loaded somewhere, she would take the little one-horse trailer and the Arab, and head for the races.
The races that ate so much of her addiction money. The races that threatened her reputation. The endurance races, just her and the hot-blooded Arab, over fifty miles of wooded trail. The gelding was fiery, just like her, and the feeling of crossing that finish line, not nessisarily first, but just looking back to see all that trail they conquered, made her feel as if she was on ecstasy.
Relationships ; nothing serious, yet.
It was in the early evening, near the presence of the moon, when Jessimine flew out from Vegas. Her small duffel bag was the only thing she’d brought with her; in it was small enough to travel with her, to that place. “that place” was the only name she would allow it for now. And she still hated being sent her, forced here, really. I mean, what kind of choice had they given her? Admission into a Catholic Rehab center, or “that place”. The silver pentagram hung just above her cleavage as her walked through the terminals. She did not have to fight through the crowd, unusual for this time of night. People naturally avoided her, the one good thing about this trip.
Her belly clenched has she remembered the counselor’s bored voice, his face as expressionless as a dead man’s when he told her she had to leave. Leave her friends, (if you could call them that) her mother, (f you could call her that) and her streets behind. But most of all, leave her shadow life behind, the one no one knew about, the one that was just Legend, her, and the wooded trail. The break-in to the liquor store had been her idea, she knew, but she did not remember the goings-on. Sure, she remembered the sweaty people in jail, and the cop’s red faced-scream, but little else. Mostly, she just blocked it out, thinking of the silver-faced Arab’s head hanging out of his stall in the moonlight. Catholics or horses. She’d take the horses.
The people escorting her onto that plane had given her a brochure about the place she was going, but she hadn’t opened it. It would be a dude ranch meets group therapy session deal, and if she trotted right, they’d give her a ribbon and let her go home. They would sit her on little sorrel quarter horses, who’s hoof was already half in the grave, that couldn’t gallop like Legend if it tried, and tell her everything was going to be alright.
Already, the plane was landing, out on a little strip of nothing out on a little strip of nowhere. She knew she might be able to make it if she ran, but living in hiding would run the risk of being caught. And jail was not on her to-do list in this lifetime. The rattling voice no one ever listened to told them they had landed. Well, obviously.
The terminal in this airport was deserted, and desolate. Jessimine had never felt more homesick. Maybe, just maybe, Legend would be waiting for her after she got out of this hellhole.
