[O] NIGHT, Lorcan Mephisto

[smear:000000]LORCAN MEPHISTO NIGHT[/smear:6b0000]

twenty-seven · male · 6' 1" · 175lbs · bisexual · offense

♦ PERSONALITY ♦

protective · ambitious · deceptive · controlling · callous · unstable · liar

I'm not the good guy nor have I ever planned to be. I don't sugarcoat my words nor have I ever tried to. I'm blunt and to the point, enough so that some call me cold and lacking sensitivity. My abrasive manner of dealing with others never earned me many friends; not that it matters much to me, I'm an independent soul used to doing his own thing and the mere attempt of cooperating, working in a group, is enough to get me irritated. I guess I'm a bit domineering in that way, I like things done how I like them to get done and being made to follow orders sits like a bad taste in the mouth for me. I couldn't care less about other people and, now, with all this shit going on, less than ever.

I lie and I lie a lot. If it gets me what I want, who am I to care about the possible consequences? After being stuck at a desk job for the past five years, loathing every moment of it, I'm done with it. I washed my hands with being considerate and patient when the end came scraping and scratching on our door with its diseased and deadened hands.

It seems like my lack of patience has been replaced by a temper; it doesn't take a lot to coax out. When I lose my calm, don't linger. I'm not exactly nice when I'm tranquil so don't expect anything better when I'm made a fury. I've done things which, admittedly, I'm not proud of, like everyone else. But those moments for me seem to occur when I'm vexed. For that same reason, I don't touch alcohol; my poor self-control, despite being the controlling person I am, is something that makes me cringe.

I'm not completely heartless though, I do have feelings, just tucked away out of reach for most, where they can't be hurt. I've been screwed over enough times to know not to commit the same mistakes again. I probably got it from my mother but I'm fiercely protective of anything bound to me by blood or familial ties, it just surfaces like a second nature so I do have a side that not many will see.  

♦ HISTORY ♦

born december 13th · hospital receptionist · local

My childhood isn't something worth recounting. I was told that my mother - my real mother - died in a car crash back when I was three. Apparently I missed her dearly for the first months or so after she left us, unsurprising since I was still at that age where a mother meant everything to a child, but I got over it eventually. I'd be lieing if I said that I remembered things about her - she's but some distant and hazy memory to me now, and if it weren't for the few photographs my father conserved of her I probably wouldn't even remember her face, like some stranger that I know was once meant to be my world. My father isn't anything special either. A crass excuse of a man who liked his drink as much as he liked women. The older I became and the more aware I grew of my sorry household, I used to kid myself that it was his way of coping with something my young and inexperienced brain couldn't grasp. At least that was what he used to slur to me from his armchair. I was always too young to understand or too stupid.

I think it was around my young teenage years when I started to develop my habit of telling fibs. At first, it'd been small, meaningless lies here and there but, before I knew it, I was excusing my drunk of a father from parent-teacher meetings, inventing stories as to why I wasn't going to go on school excursions, lieing about the things I'd gotten up to over the holidays and creating all manner of stories wherever I went.

Until, of course, some brat eventually called me out on it. He said I was full of shit, that it was impossible that I'd gone on a weekend trip to the seaside for my birthday because he'd seen me meandering around the town library, plus his dad used to be my dad's coworker and, from his experience, my parent wasn't the cool single dad I'd pretended him to be and that he'd been struggling with an alcohol problem when he'd gotten fired three years ago. Instead of admitting my lies that I'd woven into an intricate web, I pointed the finger at the other boy and defiantly declared that he, not I, was the liar and pounced on him in an impulsive rage.

It goes without saying that I was promptly suspended for my aggressive behaviour and made to move schools. Getting away from my old peers and starting new was refreshing, as soon as the bruises from the scolding I'd gotten from my father faded somewhat.

The rest of my teenage years were spent in disinterested solitude. I made no effort to connect with my new classmates because, honestly, I didn't see the point. All I'd do was occasionally tease, poke fun, sneer and smirk from my seat towards the back of the class. Not being popular never bothered me at all; it was a hierarchy that would inevitably cease to exist once I graduated.

Graduate I did - with excellent grades - and straight into a mundane job I went at the local hospital. I could've pursued higher education but, by now, my old man's unemployment benefit was due to be cut and all his savings had been drank away. I didn't even bother bringing the possibility up, I was tired of being surrounded by those spotty morons anyway and University wasn't going to be much different; not all of the dregs are siphoned out because money doesn't buy class, it just pays your tuition fees.

Fast-forward a few years and hallelujah. A miracle that forcibly shook up my life and gave it some much-needed spice. There's nothing quite like being surrounded by death to make you feel so undeniably alive.

I'd been working my usual nine-to-five shift at the hospital's reception desk when everything went down. I didn't work in the main lobby, but in the inpatients block along with another girl - don't ask me what her name was, but she had nice tits - and it didn't take us long to notice something was up when hell itself was building up outside. The emergency wing, A&E, is always a bit of a lively place so it isn't odd to hear noise coming through the large hallway that connects to it but it was starting to get oddly lively. The loud wailing of ambulance sirens was constant, which in itself was unusual enough for my coworker and I to share puzzled expressions from over our desks.

It didn't take long for a sickly-looking medical intern, his scrubs pin-pricked with crimson, to come hurrying into the lobby and hurriedly whisper with urgency that we needed to call the police. In A&E we always have some security guards on hand just in case matters get a bit too out of hand but, according to the young student, they'd been attacked. Bitten had been his exact word. Shaking, he showed me his arm, swathed in a bandage and pin-pricked with more blood, that they'd scratched him too. He started muttering, almost rambling, about how they were probably drug-users because their skin was mottled, reminded him of something leprous, like from that documentary that'd been on the other night but, by then, I'd long since tuned out and had my eyes focused on the main doors instead while my coworker called the police.

Eventually, the feverish student left, slurring that he didn't feel too well and was going to go have a sit down in the break room. Miss Tits left as well, to go pass on the message that the police force was stretched right now but to expect a dispatched unit to arrive in ten minutes or so. And that, sadly, was the last I saw of her. She walked right into whatever had been going on at A&E; she probably hadn't stood a chance, just like that medical intern that, by now, was shuffling around on a bloodied and hungry mission somewhere else in the hospital.

I'll spare you most of the details, since it's clear I got out of that steadily growing hive of infected activity without a single scratch. From the hallway the medical intern from before came from and the same one Miss Tits went down, a small straggle of five people were hurrying my way: two nurses, a female doctor and two guys who definitely didn't work here. It took a moment to notice but one of the nurses was missing a hand, she was cupping a mangled stump that'd been messily severed at her wrist. I blinked, not expecting that. Her arm looked like it'd been mauled by a very large dog of some sort. It looked like she was barely conscious, being half-guided, half-dragged, by her male nurse companion who was as pale as she was.

That was when I saw them for the first time, the infected. A handful of them staggered behind the group at a shambling pace, following them but not exactly hot on their heels. They kind of reminded me of the older patients making their way down to the kitchens for breakfast. I didn't get to ogle at them for long because that girl doctor was barking something at me, telling me to move my arse and that the hospital was under some sort of biological attack. I almost thought she was exaggerating, being a bit dramatic, but then I took another look at the guys stubbornly stumbling after them, clumsily swaying like drunks, and decided to humour the possibility that she was correct.

She sort of filled me in on what was going down as we locked the entrance to the patient rooms behind us and head off down the hallway to the administrative block. I understood enough to know that it wasn't a prank and nor was it a drill. It was dangerous and it was real.

I, unlike the two nurses, managed to escape the hospital along with a useless blond and his coworker who, like me, had been working unaware in the administration wing. By now, I think I can safely assume my old man didn't make it; he might've been too pissed to have even noticed anything happening until it was too late.

♦ OTHER INFORMATION ♦

played by Mysa · two years · pm

- - - - application made by bluu - - - -