With Doll Like Charm {Ying-ying}

[Ying-ying "Layla" Song]

C H A R A C T E R

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Name: Ying-ying “Layla” Song
Gender: Female
Age&&Year: 17, Sophomore
Desired Clique: Nerds
Family: {Father} James Willis Forster, 47
{Mother} An-mei Song, deceased

Personality: First impressions are often the strongest, and the impression Ying-ying leaves is unshakable. There’s a certain, almost unexplainable coldness to her. Growing up as an unwanted child in China, she was never showered in affection the way most children are, and to this day, her very essence reflects that. She detests casual physical contact, and even when she become intimate with someone she remains very closed off. She has very few friends and is quick to write people off; especially if she sees them as beneath her. No, she doesn't know about how hard their lives have been, how much they've struggles, or any of that. Nor does she care. What is all that pain and suffering worth if you don't have anything to show for it in the end? People often (mistakenly) consider her to be stuck up, but in reality, she's more self-righetous. She's wont to flaunting what she's got because she hasn't always had it, although the manner in which she does it almost makes her more of a bitch than the actual preppy girls who rule things around school. They parade their brand name purses and shoes while Ying-ying makes no spectacle of it. Yeah, she has it, but it's like it's worth nothing to her. She doesn't care about the value of her possessions because she knows her own self-worth. Though, don't be fooled. She isn't one to waste words, but that doesn't mean she doesn't speak. She's rather out spoken, but not in an obnoxious way. Her voice is as strange as she is; soft with a mildly heavy Chinese accent, although there is a certain harshness to her words and wit that is impossible to deny. She speaks as if she were playing chess, manipulating the English language to the best of her ability to keep people in check. She is always very put together, poised and seemingly filled with endless amounts of confidence, though it comes across as conceit. The worst part of this? This is what she's like on a good day. She didn't wind up at the school for no reason, and most of her problems are set deep within her personality. As a severe sufferer of bipolar disorder, she's extremely manic depressive. More depressive than manic, the unique thing about her case is that she is actually more functional when she's in a depressive state. She is entirely able to care for herself, displays only negative symptoms of her possible schizophrenia (as oppose to the crippling positive ones) and is less prone to harming either herself or others. So what's the problem? She is entirely detached from herself and the people around her. At the flip of a switch, though, she is on the other end of the spectrum and is a manic nightmare. She becomes everything she isn't--out going, friendly, even affectionate. She is able to actually connect with other people and understand her own emotions--it is in this state, however, in which she neglects her body. Her hair is allowed to tangle and curl until it becomes and matted mess, she'll put off or forget to do things like shower, or change her clothes. Her mind, a normally quiet and quaint place explodes with mania, delusions and most frightening of all, voices. When she displays the positive symptoms of her schizophrenia, it is nearly impossible for her to distinguish her hallucinations from reality. And drugs don't exactly help. Is it her use of illicit substances that causes her positive symptoms, or is it the symptoms that drive her to use? No one can say for sure, and she refuses to speak on the matter. One would think that the violent outburst of a 5'0" , 90 lbs girl aren't anything to worry too much about, but they could find them selves dead wrong. She of course, isn't with out her charms. She has a sarcastic sense of humor and is rather quick witted when in the right state of mind. When her mood stabilizes, she can even be good company. She's extremely passionate about the things that entice her and pours herself into art as an escape. Could she ever turn that passion towards another person? Who knows? The problem with Ying-ying is that there is some good and some bad to her... it's just that the good is TOO good and the bad is TOO bad and there is no middle ground. If she could be as composed as she was when depressive, yet able to connect with people the way she is when she is manic, she could be an ideal person.

History: Seventeen years can pass in the blink of an eye. They can also drag on for what feels like an eternity, fragment into the simple time periods of 'then' and 'now,' be forgotten completely, or leave one scarred for life. Ying-ying's life has done all five and then some. No matter how much she tries not to dwell on it, she can't change the way her life began: as an act of violence carried out sexually. China, her home land, as a county, had a general rule of isolationism, yet outsiders always lusted and coveted her most prized possessions. When the desire grew to be too much, they took what they wanted by force and planted their vile seeds of destruction deep within its very structure and womb. Her mother, An-mei was taken much the same way. When the outsiders came to her small, rural village to build factories, the hallow buildings weren't the only thing left behind. Rural, contrary to the belief of many Westerners, doesn't mean poor. An-mei's village was agriculturally based, and every one made a good enough living. When the Europeans built their factory, they took the most fertile farm land and the economy of the small village dwindled and nearly collapsed. Now, An-mei certainly wasn't the only woman to be taken to bed against her will; but she was the only one who conceived, or rather, kept the child growing within her womb. She immediately set to wed, and succeeded; she was easily one of the most desirable woman in the village. When she began to show, she prayed relentlessly that the child would resemble her so that her husband wouldn't know of the horror and shame she carried with her. Some how, the elaborate lie seemed like a good idea and even made sense to An-mei. She would preserve her family's honor (as well as her own), provide her husband with a child, and carry on with her life peacefully. However, it's the lie that made the entire situation worse.

In the following February, after surviving the worst flu season in the village's recorded history, An-mei prematurely gave birth to her child, Ying-ying, a full two months early. Even as a newborn, it was obvious that the father of Ying-ying wasn't the man An-mei was married to, and even if the infant didn't survive, the damage to An-mei's reputation had been dealt. Because she had covered up her rape rater than reporting it, kept the child, married and tried to pass the child off as another man's rumors began to fly that it wasn't really rape at all. The European who had donated his DNA to Ying-ying's was her secret lover. Divorced and disowned, An-mei found herself’ struggling to raise her daughter on her own. The little help her family gave was meaningless; she was their servant now, not their daughter, and Ying-ying would likely be the same. An-mei fell into a staggering depression and never emerged. She seldom spoke or played with Ying-ying as a child, and didn't shower her in affection or dote on her daughter the way new mothers are wont to doing. Ying-ying, how ever flourished, if only physically. She was never quite as big as the other children her age, but that was expected. She excelled at the pathetic excuse for a school the village had and her talent in the arts was hard to deny. Of course, growing up wasn’t easy. Ying-ying’s European blood was a constant reminder of the way they had all been robbed. At the age of seven, in a twisted attempt to show some sort of aggression or assertiveness, Ying-ying began smoking. It worked. People didn’t mess with her quite the same after that, but she still wasn’t accepted. Time passed in an incredibly fluid manner. Months ran into years, Ying-ying grew stronger ss her mother withered, and eventually, An-mei died. Rumors followed her to her grave (whispers of suicide were passed from ear to ear.)

Not wanting to be left the burden of another mouth to feed (the economy never recovery) An-mei’s family began to write letters and make contact with the outside world, searching for the proclaimed rapist that was Ying-ying’s father. Ying-ying felt no great pain over the loss of her mother; she was like a ghost as the living, at least now she was one. She felt only anxiety towards the prospect of being sent to live with her father. Her mother must have been lying then, right? No matter how much people said they didn’t like her, they wouldn’t just send her off to live in a strange place with a rapist, would they? Her memories become blurred at this point; the air plane ride, customs, how dingy her clothes looked compared to every one else’s, how beautifully cold the city was, the people, and finally, him. The one who had given her green eyes and brown hair to match his own was looking right down at her, and she felt nothing. An-mei had taken the secret of Ying-ying’s conception to her grave, and now the only one who knew was this man; James Willis Forster. She never did ask. She never intends to. James set right away to giving his daughter a proper education. She was and has always been (although he didn’t know it) an eager learner and took any lessons he threw her way. He personally taught her English and French, as well as countless other lessons that can only be learned through experience. It’s one thing to stare at the Mona Lisa in a text book and an entirely different one to stare at the actual panting face to face. Ying-ying’s unconventional education came at a price, though. Her lack of formal schooling would set her fact in whatever she did, be it starting a career, family, anything. So, James took her state side. Over the years, and on countless papers, he had given another name, changing her full name from Ying-ying Song to Ying-ying “Layla” Song. (It was almost his idea of a joke. That was, her name in English would be Layla, as in the Song.) He is really the only one who calls her Layla, which she learned meant “beauty of the night.”Ying-ying, on the other hand (her ‘ethnic’ name as he calls it) translates into “clear reflection.” She refused to accept his last name, but he still has legal custody over her. Names took on a significant meaning to her.

But some where, something went wrong. Had something changed in her mind? Was psychosis simply her reaction to the stressors in her life? Or had she always been this way? The precursors for problems were clearly there, but James knows nothing, and Ying-ying doesn’t care to remember. Ying-ying’s often erratic behavior certainly didn’t go unnoticed by James, but there wasn’t anything he could do. Looking to ‘kill two birds with one stone’ as the saying goes, in the United States, James began to look at schools for Ying-ying that were prestigious as well as accepting of her unique condition(s).

Picture&&Celebrity: Jingna Zhang

Appearance: If the eyes are the window to the soul, then Ying-ying's soul is a deceptive and exotic one. Her eyes are easily the most striking thing about her apperance; the twin orbs making constant and almost threatening eye contact with anyone who dares to look her way. Almond shaped and slightly slanted upwards, her eyes are clearly Chinese. They appear to be lidless when she has them wide open, although that is a rather rare occurrence. More often than not, she has them half shut, as if she is trying to hide a part of herself behind her thick black lashes. The whites of her eyes are pure, though occasionally, tinted red with sleep deprivation or brightened by a drug induced sheen, and the irises that surround the black holes of her pupils are a vibrant green. That green can range from a deep emerald colour, luminous and hard as the jewel itself, or it can be the colour of sunlight filtering through the canopy of a lush forest in the summer, tinged with browns and yellows that make her eyes seem to have a life of their own. The strange pairing of the Asian shape of her eyes with the usually Caucasian colour of green is attributed to her gene pool.

As the bastard child of a Chinese woman and a European businessman, Ying-ying is a clash of cultures and class that was simply never meant to be. As the product of her mother’s rape, a certain stigma has always been placed upon her looks; when she first emerged from the womb and opened those enchanting eyes of hers, the differences from her and the omni-present “them” were made clear. Like her eyes, many of her other features are like pieces of two different puzzles that still some how fit together. Thick, unruly brown hair (rather than black) frames her heart shaped face, the locks falling over her shoulders and stopping a few inches below her prominent collar bones. When well cared for, her hair is bone straight; well cared for of course translates into the obsessive combing, straightening, blow drying and god-knows-what-else-she does to it. When left to its own accord, her hair easily tangles into curls. The rest of her facial features are rather sharp. Her cheek bones are high, her chin ends in a bit of a point, and paired with her slanted eyes, the only feature that is out of place in that is her nose. It would be considered a “button nose” and it gives her face an almost child-like softness. Her pale pink lips are set in a perpetual pout, though very rarely will they break into a smile, which brightens her entire being and essence.

At 5'0" and a mere 90 lbs, Ying-ying’s waif stature gives the impression that she is fragile; as if she could be easily broken if handled too roughly, though in reality, she’s tougher than she seems. She has to be. Her skin is like porcelain, unblemished, flawless, and even slightly cool to the tough; although if she were a porcelain doll, the lead paint would be layered on thick enough to protect her. Yes, she even looks thick-skinned. She always sits and stands as straight and tall as possible, trying to make the most of what little height she has. Her body would be considered “pear shaped;” though she is rather slender, she does have curves. Her hips are rather broad, the bones clearly visible and her waist narrow. From that point up, the curves give way to her rib cage, each bone nearly visible where it dwells just beneath the surface of her skin. Her breasts are pert, well shaped, though small; they sit high atop her ribs and are unbelievably soft in comparison nearly all of the rest of her body.

Unfortunately, Ying-ying is one of those people who “will wear whatever they want to and not care what people say about it,” but being who she is, it’s not that simple. It’s not like she’s extraordinarly confident–she actually just doesn’t care, and not one person has ever said anything about her clothing choices. No matter what she wears, her sophistication shows through. Her taste normally lie in what would be considered prepy clothes; collared shirts under sweaters, snug jeans, designer shoes and hand bags, short skirts; though she always adds her own twist, pairing things like a garter belt and thigh high stockings with a short skirt. Normally was the key word in that last statement. When her personality shifts towards mania, she stops dressing as nicely and looks put together in a completely messed up way. Her hair, often straightened is allowed to tangle. She wears her clothes how ever she pulls them from the closest. If they’re wrinkled, she wears them wrinkled. She always smells of perfume and enjoys wearing it because she knows quite a bit about it. The scents she enjoy the most have strong top notes (the initial scent) with a weaker middle notes that almost draws people closer to keep enjoying the smell. The base chord is the most important to her; the scent that lingers behind after she’s gone leaves a lasting impression. All of the perfumes and lotions she wears compliment her natural scent, as well as the ever-present scent of her cloves.


N O W Y O U[/u]

Name: Kellz
Age: 18
Gender: Neutral
Chase is: Confused.
RP Sample: She had been wandering through the maze-like halls of the school almost aimlessly when she found it, and stood now, staring awe-stuck and wide-eyed from the door way at the great and terrible power contained within the room before her.

Knowledge. Uncut, uncensored, raw, bloody knowledge. She trembled when she saw it–no, she began trembling when her manic mind realized just what it meant. She had, after all, seen a computer lab before. She had simply never seen its true potential.

She was dressed as if she were going to go out, in a simple pair of dark wash ‘skinny’ jeans with high heeled boots and grey ‘screen’ t-shirt with a rock and roll motif (gituars, skulls, roses, and of course, the lyrics of classic songs.) A black leather jacket hung off of her shoulders and a black prada bag was clutched at her side.

Cautiously, she looked down the hall in both directions, making sure no one was around just in case she wasn’t allowed to be in the computer lab unsupervised. What was she going to do? Everything she couldn’t before. She shut the door behind her and took a seat at one of the many computers, moving the mouse to awaken the sleeping screen. Her small fingers moved over the keyboard as she logged in–every student at the school had an account.

User Name: songyingying
Password: **********

To her surprise, the screen changed, logging her into the system. Well, of course the screen would change. Of course. She was on the edge on her seat as she opened the internet browser–internet from the American point of view.

She stared at google for a moment, wondering what she should look up first. Then, it was obvious. “The June 4th Incident.” A.k.a. the Tiananmen Square Massacre. Very rarely was it referred too–she had heard but one reference to the ‘incident’ in all her time spent in China–while reading the translated lyrics of Rancid’s “Arrested in Shanghai.”

So I protest the massacre at the Tiananmen Square.

Protests? Massacre? Tiananmen Square? You mean, in Beijing?

Her questioning had resulted in a slap across the face from her teacher. June 4th 1989 is NEVER meant to be spoken of.

And now she was beginning to understand why. It was insane. It was sickening. Her mind screeched to a halt before it’s manic pace picked up.

“Ho-ly f**k-king shit,” she breathed. She shook. Her heart pounded, awakening from it’s slow arrhythmia.[/blockquote][/size]

[admin && kaelie [2]]

&&accepted!