Duran Mercer

[duran]

Duran Mercer

"Masked Boy"

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Player Name:Rennasan
Years Roleplaying: Around a year and a half?
Gender: Female!
Contact me: Uh.... ModShelby on Chatengo or Rennasan... and my email is [e-mail]
How you found us?: The great Silence introduced me. (that actually sounds cool....)
Anything else?: Obviously, Phantom of the Opera rules.

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Basic Information

[/b][/color] Duran Pax Mercer
Age: Sixteen
Canon or OC?: OC
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Appearance

[/b][/color] 5 ft 11 in
Body type: Tall and slender(not slender man slender however) Walking with a withdrawn and smooth gait.
Eye color: A foggy mist blue that can catch the light and look like clear pools of icy water.
Wardrobe: He enjoys lots of t-shits and jeans. He never removes the black half mask that covers the left portion of his face. (like Erik's but black not white.)
General Appearance: The left side of his face is horribly burned due to an incident caused by his father. Twisted and left the red angry raw color from the flames, having eaten away a good portion of his cheek. Some places the skin is smooth and shiny, almost as one would imagine the flat of a muscle to look like.
Played By: Logan Lerman
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Personality

[/b][/color] Duran is a very quite and reserved boy. He thinks about everything before acting and is a very rational child. Though he is only a teen, he has the common sense of a well rounded adult. From his life experiences, he is wise beyond his years and is quite reserved on who he will call a friend.
Dreams and Goals: Duran wishes to be student to the Phantom...and to preform in an opera with a main role.
Strengths:His caution, his mind, and his will to learn.
Weaknesses: The need to feel love. The want of a family. His reluctance to make friends.
Fears: He is terrified of fire, and death.
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The Past

[/b][/color]He has no friends. His mother (he does not remember her name) who is deceased, (courtesy of his father). His father whom is no longer in his life as he ran after burning the house down...
History: It was a dark shadowy night. Not a soul was about. No giddy laughter filled the back alleys, which were always full of children in the day. But tonight, there was not even a mouse scurrying on nearly silent feet.
The moon rested overhead, bright and full, and the haunting coo of an old owl could be heard somewhere far in the distance. The sky was dark otherwise, not a single star twinkling in the black blanket of the night.
A boy stood, silently on the roof of his house. His black hair fell softly into his face, over intense ice blue eyes. There was the faintest of frowns on his lips, his eyes studying the pitch black night. The beams of the moon shone softly in his eyes, a sad, sullen look in the sharp icy color.
Below, a shriek of a woman could be heard, causing the boy to look away from the night. A wince showed on his face as another cry came from the woman. He knew it was his mother, and more than likely her cries were caused by his abusive father.
His suspicions were proven correct as he heard the angry shouts of his father follow a wail that came from the mouth of his mother. I must do something... He thought as he slowly picked his way across the red shingled roof of his home.
The bellowing fight continued as he slipped back in through his bedroom window. The entire house reeked of smoke, ash, and death. But, sadly, it was a smell the young boy was used to. His father smoked about five packs of cigarettes a day, and that was when he was in a good mood. Which, the fact of the matter is, he was rarely in a good mood.
The torn gray sheets of his bed puffed up a small billowing cloud of dust as he sat down. The sheets were coarse and rough to the touch, but again, something the boy was used to. A small stuffed animal, a timber wolf in the position of howling, sat by the flat and near rock hard pillow.
The wolf had been a gift from his mother on the day of his birth, though his father had attempted to throw it out, on several occasions. Each time, the boy had gone after it, diving deep into dumpsters if he had needed to. Eventually, the father had just stopped trying.
Another scream came from down below and the boy flinched, as it was not like the other screams he had heard. He knew his mother only screamed like that when the pain was horrid. The boy flinched, shaking his head sadly as he thought of what his father may be doing to his mother.
A scream came from his father, one of anger and rage, again, something the boy was used to. He flinched and pulled the stuffed wolf into his lap. The dark gray fur was rough and not soft as it had once been.
There was a tear in it’s ear from when it had been thrown into a metal recycle dumpster, one of the times the boy had jumped in for it. He had a long pale scar down his back from it, pale and white. The piece of metal that had cut him was deep into his back, at one point it had scraped along the bones of his back.
He shivered at the memories of all of this, for a moment feeling the pain of the incident again. Sadly, that was another thing the boy was used to. Tragically, he was used to all of the things a boy, especially one of his age, should never have to experience.
Another scream was heard from below, it sounded slightly like his name. There was a pounding of footsteps on the stairs, and he knew immediately someone was coming up. Based on the scream, which had been his mothers, he knew it was his father.
The pounding of more feet alerted him that his mother had followed his father up. His hands tightened around the stuffed toy clasped in his arms. His fingers trembled as the pounding grew louder, his heart matching the beat of the feet. The intense pain that filled his mind as he worried about if his father’s hand would be turned on him this dark, starless night.
With a bang, his door flew open and slammed into the wall, the hinges squeaking terribly as his father smashed his way into the room, his rage pure on his face. One eye fogged over from an incident with paint guns. His thick brown hair shaggy and tousled, his chin covered in the coarse hair of his beard. Rage burned in his eye, near black. His lips were set in an evil sneer.
“Cuddling with that toy again?!” he roared.
The boy flinched but said nothing as his father advanced upon him. He heard his mother coming up the stairs and as she appeared in the doorway the whitewash door was slammed in her angled face. He hadn’t even a chance to see her properly.
His father turned on him again, more rage, if that was possible, displayed on his face. He was a big burly man, and had not a single shred of kindness in his icy heart. He advanced towards his son again, lifting a hand to strike him.
The boy flinched away, his dark hair fell into his eyes, slightly blocking his view of the hand descending towards his face. He bit down on his lip as he knew his father’s hand was approaching. There was the faint brush of the rush of air on his cheek, as if it was apologising from what was about to happen to him.
SMACK!
His father’s hand slammed into his face. It sent a stinging wave of pain through him as he heard, as well as felt, his jaw crack. He had never been hit that hard before, especially to his face. Stars danced across his vision, as if the reason there were no stars in the sky was so they could dance around his head.
He couldn’t see, and what he could see, it was duplicates. Two of everything, and none of it would stop moving. Stars of every color danced before his eyes still and he didn’t see that his father’s hand was descending for another blow.
He felt it smack into the side of his hand and found himself toppling forward off the bed, the old rusty springs groaning as his weight suddenly left them. He felt his face hit the ice cold concrete floor of his room, the slight softness under his chest of the wolf plush still clasped tightly in his arms.
A small groan slipped past his lips as he tried to get up off the floor. He felt a faint amount of blood dribbling down off his lip, as the impact had forced his teeth nearly through his bottom lip. He tasted the metalic taste of his warm blood slowly seeping into his mouth.
He managed to get an arm under himself, pushing up and lifting himself slightly up off the cold floor, hearing the faint drips of his blood dropping to the floor. He was getting his other arm shakily beneath him when he felt the steel toe of his father’s boot slamming into his stomach.
He coughed and fell back onto his face, a crack had been heard as his father’s foot had made contact, and drawing a breath had immediately become the most painful thing for him to do. He felt a cry of pain rising in his throat but swallowed it down as he knew his cries of anguish only brought forth more of a beating. His father would call him foul names, as well as a weak fool, and several other choice words.
He heard his mother pounding on the door, and saw the light flood into the room from the dimly lit hall as his mother forced the door open. Her raven black hair cascaded around her face. Her piercing blue eyes filled with panic as she looked at her son, bleeding from the mouth and curled into a ball on the floor.
“You monster!” her agonized voice was filled with rage.
The boy shifted on the floor, spitting out some blood, but not calling out to his mother for protection. He knew better than to do that. He knew any form of an attempt to help himself would result in only more pain. More violence. More torture.
His mother had clear crystal tears rolling down her face as she begged her husband not to hurt her boy. Because he was her boy, not the father’s. There was no confirmation that the boy was biologically the son of that father.
The boy had often times wondered if this was the reason for his beating. He often times wondered if he should save his father the trouble and just kill himself. He had found himself standing on a high bridge looking down. But he had never let himself fall. He would brace himself to jump, but he would never push off. He was too much of a coward to end himself.
He looked over as he heard a screech. His eyes were still fuzzy, so he was not sure what he saw. He could see the faint outline of his mother, his father advancing towards him, something back clasped in his hand. It was pointed at his mother. He knew not what he saw, but he knew what he heard.
BANG!
There was a scream, and the shape of his mother falling down onto the floor. A dark fuzzy pool spreading out around her. A scream tore itself from the boy’s lips as he was watching his mother die. The scream tore from his lungs, from the boy who almost never made a sound. He felt his heart being torn from his chest as he felt the warm, sticky liquid of what he knew was his mother’s blood soaking into the fabrics of his thin pants.
“D-Don’t y-y-you d-dare h-h-hurt h-h-him...” his mother stuttered.
A laugh tore itself from his father’s throat as he looked down at the woman, whom he had supposedly once loved. He aimed his gun at the woman’s chest. The blood had soaked into her pale white nightgown and ran freely from the wound in her stomach. There was panic in her eyes, her mouth gaping to draw in air.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
He watched the three bullets fly into her chest, more crimson spots appearing in her white cotton gown. Another wail of agony tore itself from his mouth. The sound was like no other the boy had ever made as it tore out from his throat, from his very center. It was the scream of a boy who had the pleasure of watching his mother die. But it was no pleasure. There was no pride. There was only pain.
He knew his father was looking at the boy. His harsh gaze boring into the boy’s very soul. He watched his mother die. No boy should ever feel that. Not even the cruelest of men should force their child to watch that. But this boy was forced to watch.
He felt his father grab him around the collar of his shirt, once a pale green, was now drenched in the dark maroon blood of his mother. He shook him around, but the boy refused to cry out. He refused to give his murderous father the pleasure of his agony.
“Scream boy!” the father growled.
The boy said nothing. He remained in his usual wordless stasis, but now he didn’t even whimper in the grip of his father. This enraged the man, causing him to slap his face again, blood flew from the boy’s nose as he was hit again.
SMACK!
SMACK!
SMACK!
The hits continued, a never ending onslaught. Pain. Again and again as he was hit, repeatedly. The pain of his father’s hand was more than it had ever been before. His father, filling his head with the idea that it was his fault his mother lay dead on the floor.
“It was your fault boy! Your fault!” he screamed in his son’s face.
The boy had a tear rolling down his face, but the rest were trapped behind the lid of his swollen icy eyes. He felt himself thrown down onto the floor, hearing the crack of something again as his face landed in a puddle of hot, sticky blood.
He didn’t attempt to get up. He didn’t attempt to cover his face as he saw his father’s shadow coming towards him, to deliver the deathblow no doubt. He saw the shadow of his father’s boot descending towards his face.
There was a loud sound of the boot hitting his head and his head slamming against the floor. Then nothing. There was Silence. Complete and utter Silence. Not many creatures could achieve complete silence, but this boy was lost in the gentle caressing grip of silence. Not a sound, not a feeling, no sense. Everything. Silent.
The father ran from the house, knocking over an open candle, which landed on the soft cotton gown the mother was wearing. It caught the smooth material ablaze and soon the garment was gone, the flame encasing the body of his dead mother.
But this did not affect the boy, because he was unconscious. The flame spread over to his bed, and soon that was engulfed in a blaze too. Yet, the boy still lay unconscious on the floor. The roaring torrent of the blaze spreading to the walls, the whole house soon engulfed with the blaze.
The smoke eventually woke the boy, choking him with it’s poison. He looked, to see his mother’s body mostly burned away, but it seemed to have protected him from the fire. A mother’s love until the end. The boy felt a new wave of tears coming to his eyes, the left one still solidly swelled shut.
A crack could be heard overhead as the wood rafters started to splinter. The boy swallowed, a panic rising into his chest. He moved to look at his mother, still not able to see from his left eye, completely blind in that side at the moment.
He crawled to her, burning his hand in the fire, the flames licked the backs of his knuckles, turning his flesh a red color as it was burned. He jumped back with a yelp, waving his hand around in an attempt to shake it off.
He patted his hand on his shirt, managing to douse the flame in that manner. The boy found himself not caring if his father made it out alive or not. But deep down inside he knew his father had made it out. And he hated himself for the fact that he hated it.
He managed to get to his feet, shakily, but he was standing. He felt the horrible pain in his ribs from where his father had kicked him. He started to hobble towards the door, wiping at the crusted blood around his nose.
A thought slipped into his head. He whipped around suddenly, in search of his stuffed wolf. He needed to keep one thing more than his mother, more than a memory, because her death was a memory as well. He didn’t want to remember that.
His eyes found the coarse gray fur. The boy was glad he had found it and slowly hobbled over to it, choking on the smoke. He was almost to it, the flame hadn’t touched the precious toy yet. The boy was so close, almost able to grab it but his fingers brushed over it, it was beneath the flaming bed.
CRACK!
The beam above him had split and started to fall. The boy looked up, yelping as he had no time to move, and nowhere to go. The beam dropped down, the flames brushing along his left cheek and burning his skin. He screamed in pain and fell back, hitting the ground hard and knocking the wind from his lungs.
The flames licked up and down the left side of his face with no remorse. He swatted at it, clawing at the burning flesh to rid himself of the agony it caused, but he couldn’t put the flames out as they ate into the once soft skin of his cheek.
He kept ripping at the inferno that was engulfing his face. He had managed to get a hand on the wolf, and it was clasped firmly between his legs as he tore at his face with both hands. The pain was enough as it burned the sensitive areas of the pads of his fingers. He lifted the wolf to his face and tried to put out the flame by smacking the wolf against his face. But it did not work. It did not quell the burn.
The boy shoved the singed toy down his shirt and managed to get to his feet, the left side of his face still a raging inferno. He stumbled through the burning house, coughing violently as his body tried to rid himself of the poison filling his lungs.
He continued to trip along, walking into walls that he could not see, his hands still attempting to put out the fire that was wreaking havoc upon his face. The fit of hacking coughs did not cease as he was bent over, hacking like an old man.
He vomited. His body still attempting to rid the poison from him. But as he retched, the house only filled more and more with smoke as the bedroom he had just been in collapsed upon itself as the structure weakened.
He jumped, nearly falling forward into the pile that had come forth from his stomach. Another wave of nausea bent him over as he emptied whatever small amount was left in his stomach.
He kept walking, hearing the sickening squish as his foot sank into the pile. He felt it soak into his sock, and would have vomited again if it weren't for the fact that he had nothing left to bring back. He flinched ever so slightly as he heard the crackling sound of the blaze around him. He knew he must get out, but in this situation, he wasn’t sure which way to turn. He was still on the second floor, and he wouldn’t jump from a window at that height.
The boy screamed as there was no ground beneath his foot. He was falling. He had found the stairs. He cried out in pain as he tumbled down the hard, wood stairs. The stars swam before his eyes again as his head slammed into the corner of step after step.
His downward tumble came to a stop at the bottom of the staircase. Blood dripped slowly from his nose, the fall having doused the flame in his left cheek, but he could hardly feel that side any longer. The boy was glad that he could no longer feel it, but he was also worried, because he knew it wasn’t a good thing.
The pain was centered in his shins now as he used the burning banister to pull himself to his feet. Pain exploded across him as he looked around, the house itself had been quickly engulfed in flames. And the choking heat was compressing his lungs, forcing any clean air, if there was any, out of his tortured body.
He walked a few paces forward. His knees began to wobble as the blazing heat of the fire came closer. The boy managed to hobble a few steps farther. There was a lurching crash as the boy fell forward, onto his knees, and his world went back...

Shortly after, Duran woke in a hospital his face wrapped in bandages. A nurse told him that it was a miracle he had survived. They said they had found a body. That boy was his mother's. The wolf had been singed in the flames and had been thrown away. He was a seven year old orphan with a burned face.
Shortly after that, he ran. Out onto the streets. Where he grew. Surviving on wit and skills alone. He lived out there, until now when his is sixteen. Nine years on the streets had hardened him. And in this time. He had hardly spoken at all.

RP Sample

His foggy eyes scanned over the streets. He hated stealing - a moral pounded into his head by his father's beatings. However, the growl that irrupted in the pit of his stomach reminded him how hungry he was. He could not remember how long it had been since he had had more than a rock hard slice of stale bread. It lasted a long time, considering he could not chew it, it was understandable.

Just the thought of the bread made his mouth water. Something as unappetizing as that enough to make his mouth water. Food that would be considered to go to a rat was enough. It made him feel pathetic in every way. Rat food was enough to make him steal. Even if it was from rubbish bins. He still stole. It still felt like a burning hole in his conscious. The guilt he felt for stealing was enough to make him never wish to do it again. The hate of it was almost enough for him to let himself starve. But his mother had made sure he knew when she would allow him to take. He would remember her teachings...

His eyes followed a cart as it passed. The smell of fresh bread wafted off of it. Duran's stomach knotted painfully in response to the wonderful smell. The smell of it seemed to fill his longs, taunting his stomach with it's fresh warm desires. It was almost too much for the boy to bare. "Dear God...Forgive me." He whispered in a deathly quite and calm voice as he moved towards the cart.

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Credits

Template & Graphics © Admin Leffie
Song Lyrics Used: "Old Souls" from The Phantom of the Paradise. Music & Lyrics by Paul Williams.