Glee~ We can get to starting now. And I admit, I am deeply curious as to what everyone came up with.
Name: Chelsea Ravensdale
Age: 17 (Highschool senior)
Appearance: A little on the short side, with dark hair she sometimes keeps dyed or partially dyed. She has a fair complexion and a svelte figure, and usually described as more cute than anything else. She smiles a lot, but never broadly, her appearance as quiet as she is much of the time. (Also see under the fold.)
Personality: Chelsea gets along with people. Quiet and dreamy but not overly shy, she's reflexively nice to everyone she knows. She's aware it leaves her easy to take advantage of, but doesn't mind too much, more often happy to be of help where she can anyhow. She's quick to embarrass and fluster, and her pale skin shows off her blushes very well. Despite her easy manner, however, she's prone to melancholy, even if her fits of depression mostly end up inwardly directed.
Background: When Chelsea was seven her house burned to the ground. Neither she nor her family were home at the time but the building itself was a total loss and later in life she would always remember driving home by bus and seeing the pall of thick, dark smoke rolling towards her.
She was the second youngest of four children and always the odd one out. She had dark hair and a slender figure in a family of stocky blond Swedes and Britons. Not quite the baby of the family, she was never spoiled. It was hard enough managing four children on the salary of a single mother, even a successful professional one, and indulging a quiet middle child was entirely out of the question.
They were painfully middle class. Before she was out of elementary school she was told how important it was for her to get good grades so she could get into the best college and graduate with a law degree like her mother, or something equally respectable. Friends could come over, but only if they were the right sort and didn't listen to music too loud, and only after all the homework was done. None of them had liked it, and all had rebelled in their own ways. But while Chelsea's older brother may still listen to rap music, he was doing so as a second year resident at Boston General, and her older sister was dating a black man she had met while they were both at Princeton.
Chelsea started listening to the Dresden Dolls at age twelve, and she dated a girl briefly, but no one seemed to notice. She did it quietly, and mostly in her own room or out of the house. When she turned fifteen she cut her hair short and dyed it red. Two days later her older sister said it made her look cute. After it had grown out again she considered getting her nipples pierced, but in the end couldn't figure out a way to do it without getting permission from her mother. She tried marijuana once and found it disappointing next to the vicodin she had had after breaking her leg a year before. A summer as an assistant clerk for her mother saw her closet filled up with corsets and lace and, far in the back where she's sure no one will look, handcuffs and a gag, but she's never had cause to use any of it.
At school she was never bullied, no more than anyone else at any rate. A few casual taunts, but she was friendly and gregarious enough that she never stood out as a target, even if she only ever had a few real friends. She was hit only once, shortly after her breakup unintentionally outed her, but even that was halted quick enough. She joked afterwards that the concerned talk with the principal afterwards had been more awkward and painful than either the scuffle or the breakup had been, and while that was an exaggeration it wasn't much of one.
There are days when Chelsea wonders if she shouldn't try to get her hand caught in a door, or drop something extremely heavy on her foot to see if she can't break something again. She feels guilty whenever the thoughts come, knowing it would cost the family money and stress and time. It isn't even as though she has the excuse of being an addict, having taken all of four vicodin pills in her life, and never having once had a craving since she stopped.
And despite that somedays she almost works up the nerve to try. Listening to Pink Floyd on her iPod, staring at the ceiling and trying to rationalise the knot of empty despair in her stomach that she can never manage to get rid of for long. She felt special when she was high, a giddy euphoria that wrapped her up in a drowsy certainty that everything was okay and would work out just fine, in spite of the pain she was in. Everything, for a brief few days, was about her.
Even the pain isn't so bad. She's pretty sure there was a BtVS song about that that probably had all sorts of deep meaning and significance. Or maybe Nine Inch Nails. The pain reminds her she's still alive, that at least to herself she still means something.
She knows that the mary sues she writes about are a juvenile fantasy, each one a princess, or a wizard, or a space pirate, but she only feels a little guilty about it. No one will ever know it's her behind the pen name, and sometimes they feel more real than she does. Her world building is better, she knows, if only because she steals most of that, borrowing liberally from a dozen sources, from the new age shop to copies of old genuine medieval manuscripts painfully translated from the original Latin until she's pretty sure she's actually better with the language than her high school teacher is. All the best bits stripped out and mixed up till it feels like it could actually be real.
Some days she pretends it actually is.