Post by The Czarina on Sept 20, 2015 16:12:27 GMT -8
Full name: Vivian (di Marco) Kearny
Goes by: Viv, Vivvy, Vivs, Hey Dead Girl
DOB, current age: March 31, 1934 -- age 82 ... or perhaps 21, depending on how you want to look at it.
Occupation: Student, heiress, full-time high-maintenance girlfriend, Death's bitch
Immediate family: Oh, you've never heard of the di Marcos before? That's probably for the best. They're all long-dead anyway.
( Trigger Warnings: IV drug use, abortion )
YOLO -- You know, I've never liked that phrase. Despite the fact that it's ridiculously stupid, it's not necessarily true. At least it's not true for me. My story starts in the heart of downtown Manhattan, New York in the spring of 1934. You probably weren't expecting that, were you? Just stay with me, I'll explain. I was born in the late afternoon. There was still snow on the ground, but it didn't matter. Mother and Father were proud to have little Vivvy di Marco, the latest in a long line of Italian New Yorkers who ran the scene. You know... The crime scene. My father was a banker, though he most certainly did not work in a bank. A business man. We were one of the few who had no financial problems during the Great Depression. The di Marcos always had it easy. I always had it easy.
Now, I don't know if you grew up rich, but let me tell you, it's not all it's cracked up to be. Sure the parties are amazing, and you don't have to worry about going over budget or wanting something you can't have. That was never an issue at all. There were never any consequences to my actions, and that's the way I liked it. Shortly after I graduated high school (private, of course), I found some amazing people who introduced me to my very best friend. My lover. My confidant. Heroin. It was love at first sight.
You know what they say. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. That's not exactly the case for junkies like me. I fell in too deep. Started hanging out with the crowd my family would never approve of. But I really didn't care. Mother and Father were off doing their thing, and I had access to the bank account. It was a win/win situation for everybody involved. Well, except for the fact that I got really skinny. Like. Really skinny. And my face wasn't quite as lovely. But you know? I still didn't care because nothing felt wrong at all. Everything felt like Heaven.
Somewhere in my smack haze, I managed to find a boyfriend of sorts. Samuel. We were close. As close as two junkies could be, I suppose. We'd get together, do heroin, and fuck. Until one day? ... There was finally a small consequence to my actions. A... multi-cellular consequence to my actions. A consequence with precisely half of my genetic material growing in my uterus.
Fuck.
Let me remind you that this was in 1955. Abortions were not legal then. I could have done it myself or paid some shady fellow in a back alley with a hanger, but I'm a classy fucking lady. I'm a di Marco, and di Marcos don't get back-alley abortions. We get illegal, doctor-assisted abortions, even if it means having to travel to Pennsylvania to do so. That baby was gone so fast. No thank you. I'd be a horrible mother.
Now, I don't know if you grew up rich, but let me tell you, it's not all it's cracked up to be. Sure the parties are amazing, and you don't have to worry about going over budget or wanting something you can't have. That was never an issue at all. There were never any consequences to my actions, and that's the way I liked it. Shortly after I graduated high school (private, of course), I found some amazing people who introduced me to my very best friend. My lover. My confidant. Heroin. It was love at first sight.
Somewhere in my smack haze, I managed to find a boyfriend of sorts. Samuel. We were close. As close as two junkies could be, I suppose. We'd get together, do heroin, and fuck. Until one day? ... There was finally a small consequence to my actions. A... multi-cellular consequence to my actions. A consequence with precisely half of my genetic material growing in my uterus.
Fuck.
Let me remind you that this was in 1955. Abortions were not legal then. I could have done it myself or paid some shady fellow in a back alley with a hanger, but I'm a classy fucking lady. I'm a di Marco, and di Marcos don't get back-alley abortions. We get illegal, doctor-assisted abortions, even if it means having to travel to Pennsylvania to do so. That baby was gone so fast. No thank you. I'd be a horrible mother.
Anyway, moving on. This ended up being one of the biggest mistakes of my life. Not because I regretted the actual abortion (no, god no), but because it fucked up my baseline. You know when you have a medical procedure and you lose some blood and you need some time to rest? Yeah, that wasn't going to happen. I was already high on morphine from the "severe pain" of the procedure (ha), and when I returned to Samuel's apartment, I was ready to fly even higher. Let's celebrate the fact that I took care of our problem!
Only it was too much this time. The blood loss. The morphine. Everything combined together with the heroin was too much for my heart to take. It stopped sometime during the night. Samuel woke up, found me, and left me. He didn't want to be held responsible. It was three days before anyone found me in the hot Brooklyn apartment without air conditioning. The only reason they did was because a neighbor complained about the smell.
You won't find a death certificate on file for me, though. Nor will you find a birth certificate. My death disgraced the di Marco name. The combination of heroin plus abortion didn't sit well with my father, and he did what he does best: he made me disappear. All record of me. The di Marcos were childless, didn't you know? How sad for the poor couple who could bear no children.
Only it was too much this time. The blood loss. The morphine. Everything combined together with the heroin was too much for my heart to take. It stopped sometime during the night. Samuel woke up, found me, and left me. He didn't want to be held responsible. It was three days before anyone found me in the hot Brooklyn apartment without air conditioning. The only reason they did was because a neighbor complained about the smell.
You won't find a death certificate on file for me, though. Nor will you find a birth certificate. My death disgraced the di Marco name. The combination of heroin plus abortion didn't sit well with my father, and he did what he does best: he made me disappear. All record of me. The di Marcos were childless, didn't you know? How sad for the poor couple who could bear no children.
Whatever.
You might think that's where my story ends, but you'd be wrong. Very wrong. I wasn't ready to go yet, so I didn't. I hung around, but not as anything all that corporeal. You might call it a ghost, but I prefer the term spectre. It's got less Halloweeny connotations. I found out quickly that if I just siphoned off of the life force of the living, I could stick around. ... I also found that if I siphoned off of the life force of a junkie, that I could get high too. Score one for Vivian. I spent a good sixty years doing this. Going around New York, siphoning life force off of bums and models who wanted to stay skinny. Okay, so maybe I took a little too much from a handful of people, but did anybody really miss them? I vote not.
In March of 2015, I decided to venture outside of the country. I had found a man that I enjoyed. He was quite the junkie as well, and he was always willing to share with me. He lived in New York part time, and the other part of his time he lived in London. I followed. Unfortunately... I took a little too much from him one night. I think I was the only one who missed him, though. He wasn't very nice to the ladies.
I needed a fix, and the best way to do that was to find a college campus. By now, heroin was a designer drug. It wasn't necessarily the seedy underbelly drug that it had been when I was experimenting. Rich kids at a private university? Bingo. Hello, Shepherd University! Little did I know that this decision would change my entire life. ... Or rather, my entire after-life.
You might think that's where my story ends, but you'd be wrong. Very wrong. I wasn't ready to go yet, so I didn't. I hung around, but not as anything all that corporeal. You might call it a ghost, but I prefer the term spectre. It's got less Halloweeny connotations. I found out quickly that if I just siphoned off of the life force of the living, I could stick around. ... I also found that if I siphoned off of the life force of a junkie, that I could get high too. Score one for Vivian. I spent a good sixty years doing this. Going around New York, siphoning life force off of bums and models who wanted to stay skinny. Okay, so maybe I took a little too much from a handful of people, but did anybody really miss them? I vote not.
In March of 2015, I decided to venture outside of the country. I had found a man that I enjoyed. He was quite the junkie as well, and he was always willing to share with me. He lived in New York part time, and the other part of his time he lived in London. I followed. Unfortunately... I took a little too much from him one night. I think I was the only one who missed him, though. He wasn't very nice to the ladies.
I needed a fix, and the best way to do that was to find a college campus. By now, heroin was a designer drug. It wasn't necessarily the seedy underbelly drug that it had been when I was experimenting. Rich kids at a private university? Bingo. Hello, Shepherd University! Little did I know that this decision would change my entire life. ... Or rather, my entire after-life.
Three cheers to Alex Kearny who I suckered into taking some Oxy Contin so that I could siphon off of him. A boy who has a crush on you will do a lot of things if you just look cute enough. The only problem was... We fell in love. That stupid, taboo love, you know? How was a dead girl supposed to make a good girlfriend? I just knew that I'd be horrible at it. But... Little by little, he kept me going, until one day, he cashed in a favor. A favor from Death.
You see, this ridiculous drummer with the stupid grin and the delicious arms is a psychopomp. He works for Death. And Death owed him a favor. Depite my initial protests, he used his favor on me. To bring me back to the world of the living. It was on a whim, however, and neither of us were thinking straight. Symantics and diction got us in some big trouble, though, because he asked Death to restore me to how I was the day before I died.
That meant that his fresh, newly-living girlfriend was now pregnant with a sixty-year-old fetus. Once again, I took care of that problem, and once I started on my path to sobriety, everything was coming up Vivian.
You see, this ridiculous drummer with the stupid grin and the delicious arms is a psychopomp. He works for Death. And Death owed him a favor. Depite my initial protests, he used his favor on me. To bring me back to the world of the living. It was on a whim, however, and neither of us were thinking straight. Symantics and diction got us in some big trouble, though, because he asked Death to restore me to how I was the day before I died.
That meant that his fresh, newly-living girlfriend was now pregnant with a sixty-year-old fetus. Once again, I took care of that problem, and once I started on my path to sobriety, everything was coming up Vivian.
The only problem is... The favor was for one life, not two. Death brought back two lives, and I chose to destroy one of them immediately. Now, I'm in Death's debt. Unlike Alex, I don't ferry souls to the afterlife. No, no. Instead, those souls find him now by using my body as a channel. I suppose you could call me a medium of sorts. I don't know. I'm still getting used to it. I guess we'll see where this new venture leads us, won't we?
( Face: Krysten Ritter
Screen name: spectre of iife )