001: Years and Years
Years and Years
Fandom: Dogs
Notes: Complete speculation on Giovanni's background. Most of this was used for an RP board, since it's pretty hard to play someone with absolutely no background. Apparently it's AU now. Well, half-AU. Yes.
At three years old, he realized that he didn't like being at home. Mother was always away, wearing flimsy dresses and bringing a different man home every week. Mother was always looking out the window, or watching a show on the television, or in the small kitchen drinking from an orange-brown beer bottle. She never has the time to look at him, nor to comb his hair, or kiss him goodnight. But to him, she was the prettiest woman in the world, the one who deserves everything that would make her more beautiful than the simpering females on the television.
At five years old he learned to ignore his mother's coldness towards him. He learned to clean up after himself, to make his bed and make it one less chore his mother had to do. He'd always wait by the door, wait for it to swing open, and look up expectantly to her tired face, hoping to be greeted with a wave or a smile.
At seven years old he realized he didn't have a name. A boy two years his senior threw a rock at him and called him a whore child, and while he didn't understand the word 'whore' he knew it was an insult, and thus got into a fight. He lost a tooth, and bruised his ego, and when he got home and asked his mother about it he was shoved against the wall and left alone.
At ten he decided to call himself Giovanni. He found out that his mother was indeed a prostitute, and that he, her son, wasn't expected to be anything better. He learned to steal, and he learned to work at ill-reputed bars, working the nights sweeping floors and wiping tables, doing his best to keep stray hands away from his person. Sleep was a four hour affair, five to seven was a lucky break or a rather painful pay cut.
At eleven he decided he'd had enough. He could never bring himself to shout at his mother, because he loved her more than anything in the world, but he couldn't stand her coldness, couldn't stand talking to her back. He learned how sad depression can be, and at his age learned that life is never fair. He decided to teach himself how to read.
At fifteen he lost his virginity to a girl much older than he was. She had too much to drink, he had too much on his mind, and they were coworkers with an amiable relationship. He left before she was awake, and she pretended nothing happened between them later that day.
At sixteen his mother was shot dead. He refused to accept the fact that he will never get the chance to make her smile.
At nineteen he got involved with something he shouldn't have survived, and his life took the strangest turn it could ever have.
At twenty-five, Haine Rammsteiner took his eyes away.
The young boy of many years before has grown, and his mind has changed either for the best or worst. He wouldn't be the one to judge. He smiles for the joy of not being happy, and he laughs at the pain of possibly dying once more.
His age has stopped, his time detached from the rest of the moving world.
As he stands above the warehouse, looking down on the leatherbound dog, he finds it amusing that after years of trying to forget, the only thing he can do is remember.
Fandom: Dogs
Notes: Complete speculation on Giovanni's background. Most of this was used for an RP board, since it's pretty hard to play someone with absolutely no background. Apparently it's AU now. Well, half-AU. Yes.
At three years old, he realized that he didn't like being at home. Mother was always away, wearing flimsy dresses and bringing a different man home every week. Mother was always looking out the window, or watching a show on the television, or in the small kitchen drinking from an orange-brown beer bottle. She never has the time to look at him, nor to comb his hair, or kiss him goodnight. But to him, she was the prettiest woman in the world, the one who deserves everything that would make her more beautiful than the simpering females on the television.
At five years old he learned to ignore his mother's coldness towards him. He learned to clean up after himself, to make his bed and make it one less chore his mother had to do. He'd always wait by the door, wait for it to swing open, and look up expectantly to her tired face, hoping to be greeted with a wave or a smile.
At seven years old he realized he didn't have a name. A boy two years his senior threw a rock at him and called him a whore child, and while he didn't understand the word 'whore' he knew it was an insult, and thus got into a fight. He lost a tooth, and bruised his ego, and when he got home and asked his mother about it he was shoved against the wall and left alone.
At ten he decided to call himself Giovanni. He found out that his mother was indeed a prostitute, and that he, her son, wasn't expected to be anything better. He learned to steal, and he learned to work at ill-reputed bars, working the nights sweeping floors and wiping tables, doing his best to keep stray hands away from his person. Sleep was a four hour affair, five to seven was a lucky break or a rather painful pay cut.
At eleven he decided he'd had enough. He could never bring himself to shout at his mother, because he loved her more than anything in the world, but he couldn't stand her coldness, couldn't stand talking to her back. He learned how sad depression can be, and at his age learned that life is never fair. He decided to teach himself how to read.
At fifteen he lost his virginity to a girl much older than he was. She had too much to drink, he had too much on his mind, and they were coworkers with an amiable relationship. He left before she was awake, and she pretended nothing happened between them later that day.
At sixteen his mother was shot dead. He refused to accept the fact that he will never get the chance to make her smile.
At nineteen he got involved with something he shouldn't have survived, and his life took the strangest turn it could ever have.
At twenty-five, Haine Rammsteiner took his eyes away.
The young boy of many years before has grown, and his mind has changed either for the best or worst. He wouldn't be the one to judge. He smiles for the joy of not being happy, and he laughs at the pain of possibly dying once more.
His age has stopped, his time detached from the rest of the moving world.
As he stands above the warehouse, looking down on the leatherbound dog, he finds it amusing that after years of trying to forget, the only thing he can do is remember.