Tagalong Lowery

Full Name: ::An inkstained hand flies furiously across a piece of paper which looks as if it has words typed on its back. A riot of soot black curls obscure the writer's eyes from view, but his light brown lips mouth the words to himself. Before you can ask again, he puts his left, index finger up as if to say "One moment please," making sure to never slow his steady flow of words. After a few moments, he puts a careful period at the end of his very last sentence, and traces the words with his fingers lightly, admiring his work. Reading over his work, he answers in a distracted sort of way.:: Sorry about that, I- ::He pauses for a second to scratch out a mistake on the yellowed paper, though his distracted state doesn't seem to alter his richly cultured accent.:: -was just finishing up an announcement. ::He gets up, making the bunk under him creak precariously, though it goes unnoticed by the boy. Running his hands along the wall of the bunkroom, he stops suddenly when he feels the abrupt feel of metal on his fingers, and punctures his notice (that you can now see says something along the lines of "Please do not leave dirty underwear on the floor...") through a nail that's sticking out of the wall.:: It's Alexander Jonah Lowery. ::Stops to adjust round little spectacles that tend to slip off his nose.:: My name, that is. ::A faint little frown transforms the boys angelic face into something a bit older and darker:: I'm sometimes called Tagalong.

Age: ::frowns:: Well, I'm not ten, for one thing. ::Straigtening his thin soulders, the boy regards you calmly, though not really rudely.:: I'm sixteen, since March twenty-third, I'll have you know. ::still really doesn't appreciate it when people think he's ten, but learned to deal with it without being too snappish.::

Appearance: ::Straightening the collar of his stuffy, rather new shirt, and brushing off imaginary lint from his black - real black, not faded - trousers he quietly gives you a hollow stare, through feverishly bright greenish gold eyes that are someone blocked from the reflective glare on his glasses.:: That isn't funny. ::Over the past ten years, Tagalong has had the best possible doctors in the country try to cure him from a disease that was discovered when he was two, called diabetes mellitus. Six years ago, a doctor named Minkowsky figured out that by not eating sugar and consuming regular dosages of pig or cow pancreas' he could live a relatively normal life. But despite the temporary "cure" he hasn't been able to gain much weight since then, weighing around 110 pounds, while standing 5'6", his thin frame making him look even shorter. Although his eyes are interesting, his puposely messy, thick black curls would have to be his best feature, making a stark contrast against his pastey, pale skin. After giving you a hard glance, turns away and mutters something about needing a drink, not meaning an alcoholic one.::

Background: ::A wisp of an ironic smile passes across his face though only lasting for a second.:: I lived in the dark for the past ten years. ::He means that quite literally, though will leave you to assume what you will. His pale skin isn't simply genetic, but because he was always the sickly child, he needed to stay indoors, with the curtains drawn and all natural light barricated. He used to ask his older brother if he could come with him to go out and play, because he knew that his brother would be able to sneak him out of the house, but his brother always refused, and he was nicknamed "Tagalong" for his constant insistance of going with his brother. He used to tell himself that he didn't really mind...he'd never really played outside before, so he didn't know what he was missing. He was tutored instead of going to school, so he'd never even gone outside for school, so instead of going out and playing he did his own thing. He cleaned. But when his smart, atheletic and promising older brother was killed in a random accident on the streets, he couldn't take it anymore. The chiding way his mother would speak to him, the dissapointed look his father would give him, and the fact that they simply wouldn't care if it had been him who died. He was a nuisance, and he didn't intend to be anymore - so he had someone find a store that would have his medication, and a place to lodge that was nearby and had all the initiative he needed to run away. It was almost too easy, and when his parents didn't put anything out in the newspapers in attempt to find him, he knew he did the right thing.::

Relationships: ::He tilts his head to the side thoughtfully, as if carefully considering the question and his glasses slip lower on his nose.:: My immediate family consists of my mother and father. I don't have any other relationships, besides those of my family. ::Shugs nonchalantly, though he's always wondered what a friend would be like. But after years of rejection and ridicule, he convinced himself that he didn't need friends, or at least they certainly didn't need him. Before the sympathetic look that he knows is sure to follow, he interrupts.:: It's okay. I don't mind. ::He really hates when people feel sorry for him, so he usually pretends to be indifferent when people make hurtful comments, or when painful subjects come up.::

Other notes: No, I don't believe there is anything else for me to say. ::Tagalong is usually somewhat friendly, or at least civil, but can become depressed easily, though he's normally good at hiding what he feels, which actually helped him quite nicely when he planned to run away from home, though it wasn't as if his parents would have noticed even if he had been obvious about it. His biggest pet peeve is when people are messy, hence the notice on the wall, but he can live with it, albeit irritatedly so. When a person wrongly assumes that he's stupid or younger than he is, he gets rather snappish, and grumpy, and has yet to be seen laughing, or even happy for that matter.::

Full Name:	::An inkstained hand flies furiously across a piece of paper which looks as if it has words typed on its back. A riot of soot black curls obscure the writer's eyes from view, but his light brown lips mouth the words to himself. Before you can ask again, he puts his left, index finger up as if to say "One moment please," making sure to never slow his steady flow of words. After a few moments, he puts a careful period at the end of his very last sentence, and traces the words with his fingers lightly, admiring his work. Reading over his work, he answers in a distracted sort of way.:: Sorry about that, I- ::He pauses for a second to scratch out a mistake on the yellowed paper, though his distracted state doesn't seem to alter his richly cultured accent.:: -was just finishing up an announcement. ::He gets up, making the bunk under him creak precariously, though it goes unnoticed by the boy. Running his hands along the wall of the bunkroom, he stops suddenly when he feels the abrupt feel of metal on his fingers, and punctures his notice (that you can now see says something along the lines of "Please do not leave dirty underwear on the floor...") through a nail that's sticking out of the wall.:: It's Alexander Jonah Lowery. ::Stops to adjust round little spectacles that tend to slip off his nose.:: My name, that is. ::A faint little frown transforms the boys angelic face into something a bit older and darker:: I'm sometimes called Tagalong.
Age:	::frowns:: Well, I'm not ten, for one thing. ::Straigtening his thin soulders, the boy regards you calmly, though not really rudely.:: I'm sixteen, since March twenty-third, I'll have you know. ::still really doesn't appreciate it when people think he's ten, but learned to deal with it without being too snappish.::
Appearance:	::Straightening the collar of his stuffy, rather new shirt, and brushing off imaginary lint from his black - real black, not faded - trousers he quietly gives you a hollow stare, through feverishly bright greenish gold eyes that are someone blocked from the reflective glare on his glasses.:: That isn't funny. ::Over the past ten years, Tagalong has had the best possible doctors in the country try to cure him from a disease that was discovered when he was two, called diabetes mellitus. Six years ago, a doctor named Minkowsky figured out that by not eating sugar and consuming regular dosages of pig or cow pancreas' he could live a relatively normal life. But despite the temporary "cure" he hasn't been able to gain much weight since then, weighing around 110 pounds, while standing 5'6", his thin frame making him look even shorter. Although his eyes are interesting, his puposely messy, thick black curls would have to be his best feature, making a stark contrast against his pastey, pale skin. After giving you a hard glance, turns away and mutters something about needing a drink, not meaning an alcoholic one.::
Background:	::A wisp of an ironic smile passes across his face though only lasting for a second.:: I lived in the dark for the past ten years. ::He means that quite literally, though will leave you to assume what you will. His pale skin isn't simply genetic, but because he was always the sickly child, he needed to stay indoors, with the curtains drawn and all natural light barricated. He used to ask his older brother if he could come with him to go out and play, because he knew that his brother would be able to sneak him out of the house, but his brother always refused, and he was nicknamed "Tagalong" for his constant insistance of going with his brother. He used to tell himself that he didn't really mind...he'd never really played outside before, so he didn't know what he was missing. He was tutored instead of going to school, so he'd never even gone outside for school, so instead of going out and playing he did his own thing. He cleaned. But when his smart, atheletic and promising older brother was killed in a random accident on the streets, he couldn't take it anymore. The chiding way his mother would speak to him, the dissapointed look his father would give him, and the fact that they simply wouldn't care if it had been him who died. He was a nuisance, and he didn't intend to be anymore - so he had someone find a store that would have his medication, and a place to lodge that was nearby and had all the initiative he needed to run away. It was almost too easy, and when his parents didn't put anything out in the newspapers in attempt to find him, he knew he did the right thing.::
Relationships:	::He tilts his head to the side thoughtfully, as if carefully considering the question and his glasses slip lower on his nose.:: My immediate family consists of my mother and father. I don't have any other relationships, besides those of my family. ::Shugs nonchalantly, though he's always wondered what a friend would be like. But after years of rejection and ridicule, he convinced himself that he didn't need friends, or at least they certainly didn't need him. Before the sympathetic look that he knows is sure to follow, he interrupts.:: It's okay. I don't mind. ::He really hates when people feel sorry for him, so he usually pretends to be indifferent when people make hurtful comments, or when painful subjects come up.::
Other notes:	No, I don't believe there is anything else for me to say. ::Tagalong is usually somewhat friendly, or at least civil, but can become depressed easily, though he's normally good at hiding what he feels, which actually helped him quite nicely when he planned to run away from home, though it wasn't as if his parents would have noticed even if he had been obvious about it. His biggest pet peeve is when people are messy, hence the notice on the wall, but he can live with it, albeit irritatedly so. When a person wrongly assumes that he's stupid or younger than he is, he gets rather snappish, and grumpy, and has yet to be seen laughing, or even happy for that matter.::