siberian-hearts

[siberian-hearts]

Silence. Ren needed silence. And cleanliness, though his office was never anything but. In front of him, sprawled out on his desk were the book covers he had been agonisingly analysing all night. They were identical to every point, except the font. Both were embossed in a glossy, vermillion, set against a matte black background. One was all caps, Perpetua. It hit the eye like a bullet, straight to the point, the obvious option. But the other called to him. Effloresce Antique; subdued, softer, it went against the very nature of the book, twisting the expectations. It would baffle. “They’re pretty similar, Aneirin.” The voice was like nails on a chalkboard, screaming through his silence. The woman was watching him from her chair, her brow furrowed. He’d been staring at those covers before she’d walked in. That was two hours ago. “One is thinner.” He croaked back, his palms flat on the cold glass. Alice’s words in his ears. Finally, he looked up.

Who was this woman? Jane. Jane who? Your assistant editor. Jane. Fucking useless Jane. Now, come on…

“I know they’re similar. That’s the problem.” Ren ran a hand through his hair. He needed to stretch his legs and pour some hot coffee down his throat. “Can I take a look?” Jane asked, quietly stepping around the desk in her ankle-breaking heels and leaning over. Her opinion was just as useless as expected. “I’d choose the creepy one. It’s a thriller after all. You know,” The brunette swivelled to face him. She had him trapped. “I’ve compiled the magazine layouts for the next three months. That’s one less job for us.” Now he was starting to remember. Jane was a community graduate, ambitious and ruthless when it came to work. She had clawed her way up the ladder and landed on her feet at Rafferty Publishing. Hungry for any approval she could get. Her wife was a gem. He gave her a nod, slowly exhaling. “That’s great.” A smile. ‘Thank you, Jane. I’d appreciate it if you could enlist Alice’s help next time.” Her answering glare was icy, painful, lost on him… But soon disarmed by another warm, Rafferty grin. “Get yourself home, love. It’s late.” She gathered her things. “What about you, Ren? Don’t stay too late…” But Jane knew her boss would spend the night there, drinking cold coffee and smoking silk cuts right up to the break of dawn. She hoped he’d choose a font before then. He’d forgotten her name again before she’d reached the lobby.

[siberian-hearts]

I’m sick to fucking death… of poor people!

[siberian-hearts]

You are music / and rivers, palaces, angels, and skies, / an endless rose, infinite and intimate,

Jorge Luis Borges, tr. by Paul Weinfield, from “The Endless Rose,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[siberian-hearts]

Something, Something, Politics…

At this exact moment his eyelids weighed more than the fat bastard delivering the 11.45 briefing. They hung so low Sam was surprised he could see past them at all. The fat man bored on; Something, something.. Kemp… Something, something… asset. A sharp kick to the shin jolted him awake. Sam’s dagger glare scanned the table for the culprit, quick to fall on the blonde-boy prodigy, Charles Kemp; all sunglasses and ego. Sam could almost smell the Bloody Mary from here. If one looked close enough through the subterfuge of the sunglasses, they would catch the young Kemp mid-power nap. Unfortunately no other man in the room held Sam’s youthful 20/20 vision.

Something, something… Republican agenda… Something, something… My wife is only screwing my fat ass for the money.

Sam reached for his paper cup, swallowing an icy mouthful of stale coffee in the hope it might do something to alert him. His shin stung, triggering another quick look around the boardroom table. To his left, Prince Charles and to his right, Agatha, the Court Jester. Agatha’s outrageously long nails tapped furiously at her computer keys, recording every cough, splutter and bullshit statement in the meeting minutes. Her skin was pulled back from her face, pinned behind her head with the invisible peg of botox. It was rumoured that she had lost the physical ability to smile twenty years ago. This triggered pity in most, but nothing short of utter disgust in Sam. I hope Camille never uses botox.

As if he had sensed Sam’s wandering thoughts, Charles woke with a start. Not a single head turned. If Charles had been bollocks naked, dancing a jig in the middle of the table, a blind eye would still be given. He could do no wrong in the eyes of America.

After ten minutes in his own world, the speaker had changed. The whole table tremored when the fat man sat down. Charles failed to disguise his snigger. A blind eye was turned. Now it was Bob’s turn to talk. The man was as bland as his name suggested. So bland that it became a trademark feature. So bland he stuck out from the masses; the washed-out grey amongst a world of colour.

Bob speaks: Something, something… monotone grumbling… Something, something - Is Charles snoring?

The clock is close to melting. Five sets of eyes staring intensely at its face, begging, pleading it to move faster. Beneath the table, someone’s leg jigs uncontrollably. It’s his. Sam quickly stops himself and straightens up. Another cold swig of coffee.

Something, something… Silence.

It’s over. Finished. Meeting adjourned. Sam scrambles respectably to his feet, giving Charles a quick tap on the shoulder as he passes. No movement. He wastes no more time and slips swiftly out of the boardroom, making a beeline towards his office.

Karen, can you get me a fresh coffee and today’s Post, please?

Past the door, close the door, safety. The second he ceases his fight with exhaustion, it evaporates, leaving him with a gentle thrum of energy, enough to make it all the way through till five. Sam settles in, switches on his computer and falls into the smooth, robotic routine he knew so well. There’s a bitter comfort found only in the mundane.

[siberian-hearts]

Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. ― Donna Tartt, The Secret History

[siberian-hearts]

“But how,” said Charles, who was close to tears, “how can you possibly justify cold-blooded murder?’ Henry lit a cigarette. “I prefer to think of it,” he had said, “as redistribution of matter.” 

[siberian-hearts]

[siberian-hearts]

[siberian-hearts]

abiit nemine salutato.

The sun had not yet risen, Camille sat outside in the dark in silent expectation of it. Silent hope.

And all at once, like a feeling that forms and spirals into thoughts, cascading from there to words to sentences to poetry on pages… the sun rose, wasted no time assaulting the sky with its brightness and snow fell, light and pure, dusting her eyelashes as the looked up (like a kiss to her eyelids.) the magic of seasons’ change.

the reverence of things unexplained and uncontrolled by man.

a quiet remembrance.

“thomas.”

her voice whispered the name like a spell, a dangerous one, as if spoken too loudly it could and would capture her, trap her in the word, gone as soon as spoken.

seasons would always be tommy. perhaps not seasons, but the one moment in which time divides and merges one season into the next. the brief moment in which man is able to feel the earth turning, feel the movement of time.

Spring. Hope of the new. The air, light as the sun on her skin and without threat despite it’s impending damage. Falling asleep on row boats, shoulders burning and Tommy, his careful hands placing aloe along them, his broad smile devastating.

Summer. The haze of laziness, the nights that never end, the weight of humid air forbidding a darkness to come. Tommy, catching fireflies in jaws to show camille the chaotic light of the world.

Fall. The whisper of a chill in the air, the leaves, the first one descending to the earth as a brave general waiting for others to follow. Tommy, his kiss to her neck, his thievery of the book from her fingers, his capture of her attention.

And winter.

Winter. This snow. This soft brush of loveliness. A tear falls. “don’t leave. don’t leave.”

But, it would.

Turn into so much water. Sink into the earth. A reminder of the permanence of nothing. A lesson in the art of losing.

[siberian-hearts]

lex talionis (the law of retaliation)

It was Christmas.

On the second floor of the elegant conneticut house, Camille stood at the window, staring down at Charles. He was drunk with Ren, shooting birds, laughing as they fell. Game playing. Her father, cigar between his lips, glanced up at her from his desk.

“He isn’t like you, Millie.”

This was said with slight derision. “He’s like Platt.” Even more disgust in his tone.

Suddenly, Charles looked up at Camille, smirking. She turned away quickly.

“You’re like me.” The senator continued with a smile. A wolffish one. Camille shivered, unsettled by how much the smile matched her own.

Outside in the blue winter, the perspective varied entirely. Charles watched Millie, plotting, plotting with his father. She thought he was game playing. This was always her mistake.

During his Kent School days, Charles was driven by the greek ideas of war, haunted by latin terminology.

Vivre military set (to live is to fight) was good, but vivre eat sincere (to live is to conquer) was better. Millie, always lost in her battles, was tricked (like a snake sinking fangs into a wolf) by Charles and would ultimately lose the war.

Vellum omnium contra ones. (war of all against all.)

Charles was unconquered. Golden. He aimed his rifle upward, toward the window. Ren watched, curious, quiet, Charles recited. “Be strong, saith my heart. I am a soldier. I have seen worse sights than this.” And a mock pull of the trigger. An imagined suddenness of red overtaking blonde. Ren’s voice. “Stop fucking around, Charles.”

That Kemp grin. Gun dropped. “Aw, i’m just playing.”

[siberian-hearts]

nec pluribus impar.

It was particularly frigid that Saturday morning, and by the time his sister arrived, her nose was already reddening and lips chapping from the elements. Charles’ hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his cashmere and wool burberry coat. Camille stood beside him. He was particularly cheerful, and whistling. “Why on earth are you whistling?” She rolled her eyes. He just grinned. “Because! I’m doing the work of the people.” It was a laughable prospect, one made even more offensive when the current image of the twins was taken into full account. There they were, in cashmere and dark shades, appalled by the audacity of the cold chilling their skin. They stood in front of a large wall, the siding of stores that neither of them would ever shop in (cigarette outlets. pawn shops.) on a street that neither of them would ever drive on (where no one cleaned the gutters.) Charles continued. “The work of the people! It’s the clean up initiative (he never cleaned anything) and i’m offering an easy way for these kids to work off their debt to society (juvenile delinquents who never had a chance and worshiped the ground he walked on.) Camille yawned. "It was a nightmare getting to this side of town.” Charles nodded, “public transport.” then spouted off like a general to the young guys. “Thats right, careful around the edges.” The boys, eager to impress him, ran large paint rollers over the most colorful works of art the streets had ever seen. Purples and blues and greens covered by the cleanest shade of clinical white. Charles had never painted anything in his life. Camille looked on, inconvenienced by the public service aspect of being in political office. “Will you paint over all of it?” Charles smirked, eyes falling to the SAGE emblem scrawled at the bottom of the siding. “I will.” He turned to Camille. “Do you have a cigarette?” As he lit the clean parliament she gave him, one of the boys attempted to wipe away the paint that had dried on his cheek. Camille took in a deep breath. “Fuck. My head hurts.” Charles nodded, leaning in to light her own cigarette. “The fumes. We should probably back away from them.” And so the Kemp twins walked a good distance away from their clean up initiative, monitoring the progress of it from beyond the street, with their unblemished skin and hair as pure as snow and cold noses and light headaches.

[siberian-hearts]

retribution of an apparition

Matilda Courson was nothing until she was dead. A vessel of normalcy to carry along the ideas of a tedious society. Tilly, with her high hopes and her typical desires and how she perfectly fit into the whole wide world, never stirring it, falling right into line.

Until, quite by accident, she found herself stepping over a divider of mist into a world of strangeness.

This mist of division. On one side, Matilda Courson and the entirety of the pop culture world.

On the other, the coterie of chess pieces. The Dark King. (lose him, lose everything.) The Dark Queen. (best in mating and attack.) The Dark Knight. (along with the queen, an end game.)

Matilda could not see this mist, this division (blind little tilly)…but felt it deeply. The chess pieces did not have to see it (it was, after all, their creation.)…and felt nothing, nothing, nothing.

She stepped to the mist. (the mist was a land mine.)

But as Matilda fell, a pawn in their game, her loss of life resulted in her gain of power.

Matilda Courson became the ghost of their guilt. Their weaknesses incarnate. The haunting that would destroy them. The apparition seeking retribution. She’d become a part of them….their bones, their veins, their lungs.

Living Tilly represented temptation for Charles Kemp. The ways he slummed for it. In death, she rushed through his veins, painful as poison. Every thought of her sent a ripping through him, a pounding to his heart, a panic that wouldn’t subside. in his dreams, the blood on his hands. Tilly was in his blood, tainting it. red and violent, obvious as his recklessness and clear as his vanity. She’d steal from his his roman solider war cry of bravery.

Living Tilly represented mild annoyance to the upstanding Aneirin Rafferty. His arrogance, his elitism. In death, she’d settle herself into his bones, making him question his sturdiness with this dull ache, this quiet and constant pain. She’d debilitate him. The core of his strength, overcome by her presence like the coming rain, inescapable and uncontrollable. She’d steal from him his internal structure, ripping the clinic-bone whiteness and exposing the darkness beneath it.

Living Tilly represented the antithesis of Camille Kemp. Her normalcy easier to obtain than it ever was for Camille. In death, she’d fill her lungs with the essence of her until it hurt for Camille to breathe deeply. The crushing weight of water, the hanging of air and things unseen, like an invisible enemy in possession of an immortal’s fatal flaw. A never ending threat of stealing Camille’s air (her intelligence) and leaving her pale as death and without thought. She’d steal from her the attributes that divided them until Camille, too, was a mindless vessel….just like Tilly.

eram quod es, eris quod sum. (i was what you are, you will be what i am.)

[siberian-hearts]

a prologue

Always bad news from the Ouija board.

We spelt out the alphabet, fringed the arena of your coffee table with the letters. Two goals: ‘Yes’ at one end, ‘No’ at the other. Then leaned, our middle fingers lolling on the bottom of the upturned glass. Frivolity darkening to solemn apprehension. Respectfully, we summoned a spirit. It was easy as fishing for eels in the warm summer darkness.

Hardly a minute before the glass began to nose at the letters, then to circle thoughtfully. Finally, ‘Yes’. Something was there. A spirit offered to be named. She nudged out her name. And she was despairing, depressed, pathetic. She concocted macabre, gloomy answers. Every answer was ‘rottenness’ or ‘worms’ or simply ‘bones’.

She left a peculiar guilt- a befouled feeling of jeopardy, a sense that days would be needed now to cleanse us of the pollution. Some occult pickpocket had slit the soul’s silk and fingered us. But we explained it easily: some rejected dream’s drop-out had found its way to the glass where the power had gone to its head.

-ted hughes

[siberian-hearts]

the edge of things

Time.

an abstraction. a concept created for comfort. meant to encapsulate the specifics (work 9-5) and the entirety of things (we had a nice time.)

Charles would call time tricky. As if to say, “well, that’s a tricky problem.” or “what a tricky conundrum.”

Time as a frivolous part of life. “It is what it is.” And a shrug.

Camille would call time scheming. As if to say, “what a scheming deed.” or “what a scheming attempt.”

Time as a cunning antagonist. “sand through my fingertips.” And a sigh.

The vastness and singularity of time is amazing. Sometimes, years pass without incident. Seasons upon seasons of mundane occurrences, forgotten as soon as they occurred. And then sometimes, ten minutes condensed all that was and could ever be. Ten minutes created a story, the only story, the solidification of who you were and who you would become.

It was winter, and frigid in a way that settled in bones. Not crisp, the december english weather alone was enough to make the month lurk within memory for a lifetime. Charles was visiting for a rowing exhibition. He would get a trophy and grin for photographers. Camille was finishing essays on the contrasting elements of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky and was high on amphetamines most of the time.

The estate, party of the year, well dressed youths on their way to holding life within their palms, wealthy as they were beautiful. The party hummed on like an incessant bee, periods of quiet and periods of attack, broken glasses and hallucinogenic drugs and somehow the two blondes floated through it all a part of but above it, like concepts themselves.

Tilly Courson.

Funny how a name can define things, as well.

Camille was endlessly irked by Tilly Courson. Her long red nails. Her smacking gum. Why was she in all of her classes? Why did she think that she and Camille were friends? The loud texan accent. The barging in places where she didn’t belong. That laugh, shrill as it was endless, over the stupidest of things. She begged to be noticed. She waltzed in right as Camille was finishing a long winded and complex sentence in her notebook, crashing from her high. She interrupted and was too stupid to catch on to Camille’s side glances of annoyance.

Charles was endlessly irked by Tilly Courson. Her bouncing breasts, ridiculous as they were obvious. Her too tight clothing, bent over in front of him. She smelled like flowery perfume and he hated it. She danced too close to him, tested his patience. He had always been such a nice guy, good to everyone. But she took it too far, always. Waiting for him after practice. Showing up at all his rowing competitions. Throwing herself at him during parties.

The party. Back to it.

Pass the bowl, ecstasy, please.

Spinning like the world was them and they were it, can you feel the tilt?

Camille let Miles hold her upside down over the side of the house.

Ren voiced with a laugh that this was probably a terrible idea and when Miles looked like he was going to lose his grip came to the rescue (sort of) by helping him pull her back up and spilling camille onto the floor like a glass of wine.

Charles was on another level. How many pills did he take? Fuuuuck. Who was kissing his neck? Who cares. Felt nice. Smug grin, sunglasses on.

Why were the twins never together on that night? Did anyone ever see them together? It seemed like they rolled in and out of the same rooms, one going in the other coming out how confusing those fucking twins were…

Charles and Ren playing beer pong, Charles losing happily as he downed cup after cup. Camille was with Miles, being lifted onto her shoulders.

(all those other people at the party that they knew but didn’t know you know what i mean?)

Camille and Ren on the rooftops. “To be, or not to be?” And Camille drowning like Ophelia, flower crown, spin spin spin spin. Charles was with Miles, bong hit? Yes please.

But then Miles was gone and everyone was gone except Ren was there.

Charles with Ren, dude we just broke this bottle.

Camille with Ren, can you read this essay? don’t laugh! you’re drunk.

who was with charles when camille was with ren who was with camille when charles was with ren?

Sunrise. A morning walk will sober us all right up, won’t it? Camille passed Ren an amphetamine, Charles walked ahead, whistling with his hands in his pockets.

He screamed.

They ran.

In the woods, near the edge of the estate (and it felt like the edge of all things, didn’t it?) there laid Tilly Courson, nails still screaming red, fake tan giving her an odd coloring as if she could be sleeping but it was clear she wasn’t sleeping, her eyes were open wide as if she was terrified, or confused.

Charles and Camille looked at one another. Discussion commenced. Was it an overdose? It’s freezing, perhaps she froze to death? Should we call the police? Probably not. Let’s call father. It wasn’t later until her body was in the yacht that Camille thought she saw bruises on her neck, like thumbprints as if someone had choked her. This was the same time frame that Charles thought he saw a wound on her temple, bleeding from her ear, as if someone had hit her head with a rock from behind.

time. by definition, it was steady and wavering. concrete and fluid.

like a lie, like the truth.

[siberian-hearts]

conquests

Miles Davenport viewed every living and inanimate thing as a conquest or already rightfully his.

Camille, to him, was no exception to this rule. He had taken her virginity at her debutante ball and since then had a silent claim over her.

And to Camille, there was a comfort Miles provided. If one day she found out that all there was to love and life was what her parents had, she knew she already had that in Miles. Camille knew that Miles would always take care of her in the way she had grown accustomed. This gave Camille a narcissistic satisfaction that embarrassed even her. She hated that she needed men so …but she had made it a rule not to lie to herself and pretend that she didn’t. Camille and Miles had an understanding, their worlds were alike, and Miles had this way of treating Camille like a pretty little object…and that…at times…comforted her.

Day had passed into night on the campsite where the youths gathered, two worlds, one of wealth and privilege and one of uncultivated wildness. The heat settled heavily on everyone’s shoulders, and in the air there was something thrilling…intoxicating.

Camille sat pristinely amongst the others, dressed in a lace romper and gladiator sandals that gave her the illusion of elegant ruggedness. She leaned against the chest of Miles, who sat stoically with a brandy in his hand, an arm lazily wrapped around her. He wore the attire of the great white hunters from times passed, khaki trousers with a white linen button down, hunting boots to his knees, more for looks than practicality. Ask him about his clothing and he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that they were his grandfathers, Astor Davenport, who owned coffee colonies back in the days where the “sun never set on the British empire”

Bakari intrigued them all with eerie tales of tribal voodoo. He was wrapping up his story about the animal voodoo queen, who controlled the spirits of all the dangerous wild things in their lands…she could direct them, he said, to do her bidding, and usually had them seek out the souls of the unworthy…

“She sends the wild things to these evil doers in the night. Lions perhaps, to rip out their throats. Or snakes to curl into the beds where they sleep. Elephants to trample them and crush their bones. Ants to eat their flesh. Some say she makes them face the death of all of these creatures, keeping them alive until they face the true suffering.”

Bakari took a long draw from his pipe. Long enough for Miles to shift in his seat and say, quite forcefully….

“Well, that’s the biggest load of shit i’ve ever heard, Bakari.” He laughed in a condescending way….a way that unsettled Camille but had all of the others cackling in the firelight at Bakari’s expense.

Bakari fell silent for a moment, as if considering. When his eyes met Miles’ gaze, Camille could see the challenge in his look, and watched, intrigued.

Bakari let out a low, menacing chuckle, the fire on his skin making him appear other worldly.

“It is bullshit, hm? Unbelievable, yes?”

Miles swirled his brandy glass, fueled by the support of those around him. “Well, yes, Bakari. If you expect me to believe that a bunch of half dressed idiots jumping around and repeating words that no one fucking knows has that kind of power….i’m sorry….but I never will.”

Bakari nodded, not phased, a small smile placed on his lips.

“I see. It’s the silly rituals that make it unbelievable.” He stood now, making his way to Miles. Camille moved from his lap, watching them both closely. “But you have rituals too, Mr. Davenport.” He paced slightly as he spoke…

“You lace up those ridiculous boots, as if they can protect you from briars and snakes and poisonous things. You dress in that costume, hoping the light linen and that silly little hat…” He tapped Miles’ hat, causing Miles to catch his wrist in a challenging move, Bakari laughing in response. “hoping it will protect you from the heat…” He slowly dropped his hand. “But you are the great white hunter, Mr. Davenport. You are unsettled by the voodoo queen because you know that she seeks….people….like….you….” He sprung up now, as if in tribal dance, mimicking the actions of the hunters… “You arrogant hunters with your double barrel rifles…shooting majestic beings behind the shoulders…hunting without respect…without consideration….” He paused, Miles standing now, threatened by Bakari’s actions…

“You are scared, Mr. Davenport. Because as much as you romanticize the idea of the hunt….you are unsure whether you are hunting….”

Bakari stopped mid sentence, Miles fuming…their noses touching…he finished in the most condescending way…a grin and a whisper…

“Or the hunted.”

And in a flash fists were thrown, Bakari and Miles, two worlds competing for the pride that only one could contain.

[siberian-hearts]

NYT: Painting Politics. (the players)

A political dynasty is best considered as one would an impressionist painting, far off and as a single entity. Appreciated for their carefully constructed beauty, never daring to delve into the flaws.

In truth, the family is an enigma best understood when analyzed individually. The members like a mess of brushstrokes unclose, captivating in their chaos. The personas almost too dramatic to accept as reality, a psychiatrists dream.

Charles Alexander Kemp II (Alex)

Birthplace and Parents: Born on September 2nd, 1959 in Montague, North Carolina. His father was a opportunist, a poor farm boy who fancied himself a renaissance man, his hands in anything that would make money whether it be fraudulent stocks or running whiskey illegally during prohibition. His enchanting grey eyes and unrelenting charm (a common factor passed along generationally) as well as his ability to fabricate his own existence aided him well. He won the heart of Willow Bennet, an ancestor of the founding family of North Carolina.  Regarding Willow not much is known. She was a quiet and subservient southern lady who’s first duty was being a mother to her sons, Alex and Platt.

Major Life Events: The mysterious death of his baby brother Platt while out at sea on a yacht that Alex was manning. Two boys went out in a storm, one came back and consequently became the singular heir of the Bennet inheritance.

A commander in the Air Force during America’s operation in Egypt. Whispers of dishonorable behavior amounted during the senator’s first campaign.

The meeting, charming (like his father before him) and marriage to Miss Claire Kensington, the beginning of a dynasty.

Education: Vanderbilt University: Pre Law Harvard University Law School

Mental Disorders: Manic Depressive Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder Insomnia Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Delusions of Grandeur Intermittent Explosive Disorder Claustrophobia Sociopathic Tendencies

Drug of Choice: Bourbon Dabbles in: Amphetamines

Camilla Claire Kensington Kemp (Claire)

Birthplace and Parents: Born on June 13th, 1952 in Greenwich, Connecticut. She was, quite literally, the product of the decline of British nobility. Her mother, Victoria Haven, was the daughter of an oil man. This, in the upper east society, would have been considered “new money”, so Victoria was sent overseas to England to flirt and charm a British noble who, because of the times, was probably experiencing a cash flow issue. Victoria met Asher Kensington, a duke on paper and a gentleman in every sense of the word. His gentle demeanor and graceful etiquette was admired by all that knew him, much the opposite of Victoria’s icy demeanor.

Major Life Events: The discovery of her mother’s affair to Ned Davenport. A heartbreaking, though accidental, unearthing of information that sent Claire directly to boarding schools abroad on the decision of her mother, who was afraid of the consequences of anyone finding out her little secret.

The meeting of a semi-famous painter in Paris who, for the better part of her final year in boarding school, regarded Claire as a muse. Sketches of her delicate frame are found in mueseuem and artistic journal alike.

Her dabbling in foreign film.

Education: Oxford University/Vanderbilt University: Art History

Mental Disorders: Depersonalization Disorder Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Bulimia Nervosa General Anxiety Disorder Passive Agressive Disorder Kleptomania Narcissistic Tendencies

Drug of Choice: Benzos Dabbles in: Barbiturates  

Charles Alexander Kemp III (Charles)

One half of the headline and money making pair of kiddie Kemps, Charles could decidedly be considered the more approachable one.

Disposition: Logical, Charming

Parental Involvement: Mother’s favorite.

Roles for their father:

(Money) Makes it.

(Business approach) Camaraderie, everyones favorite guy, the best friend you never had. Charles is charming without trying and could sell water to a drowning man.

(Predator comparison) Charles would lure his prey in by giving a false sense of comfort, then, like a snake, he would wrap himself around said prey like an embrace and slowly suffocate it.

Education: Harvard University: Political Science

Mental Disorders: Childhood Separation Anxiety Disorder Childhood Pyromania Seasonal Depression Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder Impulse Control Disorder Passive Agressive Disorder Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Claustrophobia Narcissistic Tendencies

Drug of Choice: Whiskey Dabbles in: Marijuana  

Camille Alexandria Kemp (Camille)

Camille possesses all the cryptic and decorous characteristics of her mother and the risk taking carelessness of her father. Possibly the most terrifying yet sensitive of all the Kemps.

Disposition: Creative, Alluring

Parental Involvement: Father’s favorite.

Roles for their father:

(Money) Attracts it.

(Business approach) Machiavellian, calculating in her betrayals and unapologetic in her tactics, Camille doesn’t start an argument she isn’t sure she will win. Uses her bright light appearance to disarm then her intelligence to intimidate.

(Predator comparison) Camille, like a wolf, would attack head on and rip the prey’s throat out with careful viciousness and terrifying ease.

Education: Yale University/Cambridge University: English Literature

Mental Disorders: Childhood Reactive Attachment Disorder Manic Depressive Anorexia Insomnia Claustrophobia Intermittent Explosive Disorder Sociopathic Tendencies

Drug of Choice: Amphetamines Dabbles in: Alcohol