Hogan Ilica [Finished]

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Name: Anni
Age: Seventeen
Roleplaying Experience: Five, or so
How you found the site: No clue ^_^;; Sixth character.. yeah, two in a row =P Or at the same time, rather, hm? ^_^;;

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Name: Hogan Dmitri Ilica
Gender: Male
Age: Sixteen
Hair Color: Auburn
Eye Color: Purple/Red
Skin Tone: Pale
Height: 5’
Weight: 88 lbs.
Wealth: Below Poverty
Sexual Orientation: Homosexual
Why they are in La Campana: He overheard some people talking about it and thought he might try and apply for a job as a janitor. [/size]

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Likes:

Dislikes:

Turn Ons:

Turn Offs:

Nervous Habits:

Fears:

Goals/Aspirations:

Appearance: Unevenly cut and fashioned a dark auburn, Hogan’s hair is extremely soft and, though very rarely clean, healthy. He loves the idea of placing cute clips in it to hold back his bangs or the like, but, as he’s never had clips himself, he generally just ties a bandana around his head or tucks the hair behind his ears. It annoys him greatly, after all, when it gets in his eyes whilst he’s trying to work. His eyebrows are only slightly thick—neither pencil-thin nor bushy, but somewhere in between, perhaps more thin than thick. His eyes are wide, irises a sort of sky-blue, later in the day, and always seem a bit downcast, though determined, as he’s always thinking, but always cleaning something or another. His lashes are thick, but not very long, nor curled. His nose is small and slightly pointed, lips thin and rosy, and his ears are round. His skin is tanned, for the most part, with a pink taint, especially on his cheekbones, lips, chin, shoulders, elbows, and knees. His build is extremely small, wired. His shoulders are bony, collarbones sharp and defined, protruding. He doesn’t eat very much or very often, so he is extremely frail, though not per-say weak. His arms are, for what it is worth, slightly more toned do to his line of work. His hands are scrawny and bony, fingers slightly long and wrists sharp. His back curves gently and his hips are defined. His legs are straight, knees knobby, and feet small from years of being in shoes that did not allow much growth. His style of dress is very bland, at best. Although Hogan enjoys colors, he was never given any and has never had the money to buy them. Every article of his clothing is worn and frayed and very often dirty, though he does his best to clean them as often as he can, correctly. He is constantly bundled in layers and high-collars, unwilling to show much skin to anyone, and every single piece of his wardrobe is extremely baggy. He doesn’t become often so the chances of him changing his clothing in the hotter weather of Spain or home’s Summer is very slim, to completely none. He bruises very easily, too, and becomes sick often.

Personality: He is very self-conscious. Though not the type to do anything for a compliment, he often goes through hoops and lengths that most others would not even consider. Compliments make him feel worth something, and being worth something is a hope beyond more than most of which, the lift in his heart with the words. However, his own sense of inferiority influences him in things most wouldn’t assume. His OCD, for example, is not the actual disorder, but a sense of perfection that he aims, always, to have. He focuses on the little things, the big things—everything, so that the complete picture is just as perfect as he thinks he’ll never be, but reaches to become. If the boy has anything, after all, it’s hope, though his downcast expressions and disposition may tell otherwise the majority of the time. He tends to appear saddened when he’s focusing on a particular thing, though, technically, his thoughts to take him away to unhappiness, which may clue to such dispositions. His mind is nearly his worst enemy, always plaguing with doubts and spite, telling him ‘secrets’, an enforcement of his learned paranoia. Hogan tries more than anything to fit in. He longs for companionship and not even of the intimate sort. Although he blurs the separation between friend and lover, he knows very well that he wants one, because everyone looks so happy with a friend, and though Hogan aims to be happy with very little, being completely happy with loneliness is positively impossible for him.

He is extremely lonely, easily depressed, and very slow to anger. Although Hogan seems to be a child, both in appearance and in endeavors, he can be quite mature with others regarding arguments or vendettas. He is never one to extract revenge because, after all, he thinks he deserves whatever he receives, the bad especially, though the good not so much. He is quiet and shy, and fears most crowds and especially loud circumstances, though such a nature keys to a fear of people in general. Though he longs for attention and companionship, he fears the hate he always seems to receive from others, children especially, for hate is never what he would ever want from someone. His tendency, however, to not become angry at their actions, however hostile and unruly, however extremely unpleasant and painful, shows others, particularly the more ruthless, that he doesn’t know the line drawn between irrational and rational anger. Being angry at someone for beating you is rational, though Hogan does not see it that way. He is emotionally weak and thoroughly unstable, prone to crying when another may not know why, or to flinch away from someone that seems to want to help. Though trusting, Hogan is at least wary, of someone even if he trusts them more than anything, flinch at every movement and tense at every glance, at the ounce of attention he gains per day, week. Still, when he learns to trust another, he tends to be upset very easily by something they do or say that may seem like nothing, or very little of something, to them, but a world to the boy. He becomes hurt and will close himself off to an internal solitude, though he tries to seem very happy outside, because he loves other being happy, especially if they mean something to him. He would do anything to make someone he loved love him in return, unless he understands the situational hopelessness, in which case, he can give up fairly easily while waiting to sob for weeks.[/font]

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Father: Anthony Porter - unknown
Mother: Helen Davis - unknown
Sibling/s: Unknown
Other important relatives:

Pets: --
History: Hogan wasn’t wanted since consumption, and especially after it. He was the product of a one-night stand, the ejaculation of a business man who had a wife already and a woman too drunk to stand straight. Anthony had taken advantage of her, and she’d been willing to give him anything in her drunken state. He was gone when she woke, and if the snaps of ‘whore’ from her mother weren’t enough, she was told that she had to raise the child that she bore if she wanted to remain in the will, and she did. Her mother was extremely well-off from years of inheritance, though not technically skill, and she would do anything to remain in her mother’s good graces. Although Hogan’s grandmother was particularly nasty to Helen, she was extremely sweet to Hogan. She read him stories while rocking him to sleep, while his mother still finished up school. When he cried, Helen couldn’t console him—Grandma could. She taught him to read when he was two, walk and speak both the same, and read stories with him until the cancer took hold. She died a week after his fourth birthday, and Helen knew this was her opportunity. After all, her grandmother hadn’t had the sense to will the money to take care of Hogan’s schooling or something of the like. She let Helen have it all, and so, the woman didn’t need anything from her son anymore. She went to visit a friend in Romania and explained her problem. Her friend was more than willing, too, to take the boy off of her hands. Without any hesitation, she agreed and left the next morning, back to England. Hogan learned Romanian under different instruction, a slap for every mistake, more chores added to his list. He was treated better than a slave, worse than a maid, and though the thought of school excited him when he began, he was soon regarded by his peers as some sort of freak that was never dressed properly. He was an outcast, the type that hadn’t lost hope yet—always trying desperately to appease to their peers and never making the cut. He was, however, a very good student. If he didn’t understand something at first, he always made sure to study it when he had the time, though he never asked questions in front of the others, preferring to stay behind after class to do such. Within a year of schooling, he started to receive the title of ‘teacher’s pet’, and he immediately worsened himself, just to fit in.

It didn’t work. At home, it was the same. His Keeper married and had a child of his own in time, and Hogan received less and less positive attention. He strived for compliments and got very little—worked his hands to the bone to clean the parlor and only receive a ‘why isn’t the kitchen clean?’ in return. His teachers gave compliments when they good, but his grades had turned, in his effort to fit in, mediocre at best. The more extreme children at school turned violent—leaving bruises and a shot self-esteem, the occasional sprain, but never a break of a bone, not even a fracture. Around the same time, the occasional slaps at home turned to beatings. Perhaps it was the family stress that caused it, but regardless, Hogan was worse at his job than ever before. When he was nine, his family was fed up. They turned to an older man by the name of Eric Heidrich at a not-at-all-local pub, and exchanged Hogan for some very good Italian wine to the very, very drunk German. The man, at least while drunk, seemed to have a strange fetish for younger boys, and as soon as he was exchanged, Hogan’s family left him alone with him. He was taken back to Heidrich’s very lavish home, compliments spewing from the elder’s mouth that made Hogan want to do, and actually do, anything the other wanted him to do. The next morning, however, the older seemed to have forgotten everything and forced the information out of the small boy’s lips as he clenched his throat against the wall. He told him everything they did and, if Heidrich didn’t feel sick before, he did then. He ordered the boy to clean the entire house (which was a difficult task, indeed) whilst he completely avoided him. And even though he avoided him, he didn’t beat him, which, for Hogan, meant he must still like him. He developed a sense of longing for the older man, doing anything he asked—told, rather—him to do, just aiming for those compliments he’d heard before. He didn’t receive them. When he was thirteen, he was traded again—or rather, booted to someone else. Naomi Dodger refused to let her slave be schooled, and so he was taken from it. He tried the hardest to please her, but the woman was a spoiled child, and nothing he did was ever good enough.

He wasn’t traded, however. He was kept for two years until she brought him across Romania, and left him on the corner of the street. He looked for work for two straight weeks before finding some in an inn. He was cleaning again, and though he didn’t get compliments, he did get money, money he saved in a little box in the larger box he slept in. The inn-keeper was very old and very bitter and when he wasn’t in his study, he was away on business just to escape the nagging of his wife and his greedy children, who just wanted him to keel over and die already so they could get his very large amount of funds. He didn’t die, however. If he was anything good, he was strong, and he held off for a good solid three or four months. The first thing his wife did when he died was sell the business and Hogan was out of a job once more. He worked odd-jobs around the country for a few months more, once in a bar where he heard of the strangest sort of school in Spain—a reformation school for homosexuals. Though unwilling to change that particular thing about himself, a boarding school sounded like a very good place to earn some money, to get on his feet and to, maybe, earn some friends, for once. He applied as soon as he could with scratched handwriting and uneasy language. He couldn't remember his last name, nor his middle, but he knew his first--so, he simply made them up, took what he heard around him and scratched it down.

Roleplaying Sample: Gone… Why was she gone? He had left her in the corner, right in the box with his two scarves. It was October, and he knew he shouldn’t lose any amount of clothing. He got sick all too easily, but the broken darling had needed the scarves. She had missed flying South when her wing had snapped in the current of a storm, a horrible storm that had flooded his home in such a way that he could not even sit up inside of it, else he would have drowned. He had sat upon a trashcan that day with another’s lid held above his head. He had felt horribly ill since that day, but the little bird that had crashed in front of him took his care rather than himself. The poor girl had fallen, fallen… but he hadn’t caught her. He hadn’t even seen her. The next morning, the rain had dried up to small or large puddles of dirtied water. He had gotten a box from a higher place, taken his scarves and bundled them in the bottom, then settled the tiny animal inside. She had been so hurt, and so he had fed her what he could from what he had, but he knew he couldn’t feed her all of it. He couldn’t survive on no food at all, but he could survive on smaller amounts, because she needed more than he did. She was broken, after all. She hadn’t wanted to eat at first, though. She had refused the food, but he found her weakness—bread. She could never resist bread, and so he took what money he had, and bought more than he already had. He bought her bread, and she nibbled onto it. She sang to him, you know. She twittered and chirped sweet songs of comfort when he felt faint—when he did faint… His stomach hadn’t been happy about missing what little, few meals he received, what he bought. He had named her Solace. She was beautiful with blue and white and black and her eyes were shiny. She was so nice to him, too. Was it sad that the only soul nice to him was a bird, fallen from the sky? Maybe, but he hadn’t been more happy than he was at that moment, when he had held her in his arms at night, trying to sleep, and she had sang him into a lull before she herself had fallen asleep.

But broken things tend to become minded after time, and so she did. He returned to his job a week or two after she had fallen to him. She left him some time when he left her alone, though. She had flown away and now he was completely alone. Hogan slipped inside his box and took the bird’s bed into his small hands, cradling it to his chest as he settled in the corner, pulled his knees up. “De ce a trebuit să plece…?” He whispered softly, sniffing and sliding his back down. His eyes burned, nose tingled in an all-too familiar sensation, as tears pebbled over lids and slipped over his cheeks. “Credeam că ţi-a plăcut mine, doamna. Am crezut că ai să rămâi. Dar niciodată nu le rămâne. Ei întotdeauna face să vă lăsaţi-le!” He sobbed and shook his head, burying his face into the box as he clutched it against him.. Why did she have to go away? He didn’t want her to go away! She was his friend and she went away, without even saying “good-bye” or anything! He was her friend, wasn’t he? He had been good to her, hadn’t he? Not good enough. He was never good enough it seemed. He tried. He tried so, so, hard, but he never got it right, and he made the birdie fly away. He wanted the birdie to stay and she flew away from him, left him alone, all alone. Hogan sobbed once more, flopping over to curl into a tight ball on the old pillow. He clutched the bird’s bed close to him and tried to think of better things. She wouldn’t be cold anymore, for instance. She would be safer down South, where it was warm. Her wing was much better and he had helped that. Hadn’t he? He hoped he had… He had wanted to help, so he did! He helped her, and she went away, because she had to go back to her family. He shouldn’t expect her to drop her life for him, after all. Hogan sniffed softly, calming himself with the thought. She was better now. She got to see everyone she loved and everyone who loved her.

Maybe he would see her again someday…?