Kylie Vynell| Nineteen | Diagnosis; PTSD, Dependent Personality Disorder, Hypersexuality
Kylie grew up in South London, the youngest in a family full of boys, and in an emotionally split, but outwardly solid household. Her father was a bottomless pit of criticisms, and more often than not she watched as that negativity and incessant picking was aimed towards her mother or her. As her father got older, and as her brothers grew up and moved out, the picking turned violent, and her father expressed his dissatisfaction with his wife with occasional physical violence.
So Kylie grew up a rebel; desperate to leave home, deliberately reckless, deliberately obstinate and disobedient, full of gritty sarcastic, but also brilliant. She skated by in school on sheer brains and nonchalance, absorbing herself in the music courses at her school. She had a talent for piano, and she learned to lose herself in the simplicity of coaxing pieces out of the white and black keys.
But that was until she met Alex. At the time, he’d seemed like the perfect fill for the specific gap she was missing in her life: a boy who would love her exactly as herself. For a year, that’s exactly what he was. He worshipped the very ground she walked on, and in turn, she worshipped him for it. But as their relationship progressed, he wasn’t satisfied with the lack of physicality in their relationship, and so he began to manipulate her into pleasing him. Compliments and manipulation went a long way, and so did holding her down and raping her while she screamed.
Eventually the screams died away, because slowly, but surely, he warped the way she thought about sex. Sex was about making other people happy, submission was confused with an expression of love, and it was a cycle she had no hope of breaking. He continued the pattern of alternatively cajoling, threatening, and physically forcing her into sex until his best friend cottoned on and caught them together in his pool-house, her torso bruised, a protest dying in her throat, her wrists tangled above her head, and Alex with his pants around his ankles.
Their subsequent forced separation only helped her dissociate from the memories, burying them in an attempt to be able to cope. And in the years that followed that fiasco she turned to alcohol. Liquor gave her a freedom she’d never had before; it gave her a way to forget, and a tool to dull the sharp and caustic reminder of what she was. She was worthless, undeserving or sympathy or compassion unless it was a direct compensation for something she’d done. On top of that, alcohol gave her a perfect outlet to give up control. She had learned that the only way to make somebody love her was to fuck them, to let them dominate her. And so that’s what she did. On the nights when she didn’t black out from over consumption, she sought the nearest warm and willing body she could find, and allowed them to have their way with her.
The thing about Kylie is, show her a bit of kindness and she’s easy to manipulate. She’s stuck in the mentalities that have been ingrained in her, taught to her by Alex, and she’ll get close to people only to push them away because she doesn’t believe she deserves any reprieve from loneliness. Her closest friends at her Uni urged her to get help, but it wasn’t until she was charged with her second DUI in as many months that she chose the option of Bedlam rather than facing years behind bars.
FC: Shay Mitchell/OPEN
The Bedlam Royal Hospital was founded as the priory of St Mary of Bethlehem; an institutes that focused on the mentally unstable. Built in 1247, the actual building was not used for treating much, not until the fourteenth century. Medical treatment for insanity was largely ineffective throughout this time, though patients did, in fact, recover. The violent and dangerous were restrained with iron manacles and chains. Due to this affect, the hospital was shut down, and blocked off for the public. It is said the hospital is haunted by the lonelypatients that died under the stress and treatment of it’s most diabolical tests and procedures against them.
Now, in 1995, new technologies are being borne, a revolution for science and the works, the hospital was bought and opened for the use of psychiatric intelligence and required support and care for it’s incoming patients. Staff are being pulled under tight weights, tests, and strict training, the income, some of the most vehement patients around the world. However, it’s been held to secretive conferment of the actual intent of the hospital. Unspeakable tests and overwhelming theories that interest the staff of Bethlehem are kept under wraps of the government, and the new founder Leroy Connard.
Leroy has a warped sense of right and wrong, the less moral, the better. His staff is one of the morally flawed. With no investigation, Dr. Connard is a well known genius, intelligent beyond belief, but also one of the few men that would be questions on which side of the desk he belonged. Craved and long lived, what is it with this mad genius? His staff is nothing less than the finest at what they do. Some with cruel intent, anything of the solaceness of compliance. As they say, Dr. Connard just wants to see all his patients fly away with a smile upon their face.
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Very active. We’re just starting out so we have a few people. Ave is going to be starting to post bios and such. But everyone is on everyday and continuously talking and paraing.
WHAT HOTNESS AM I SEEING ON MY DASH?
I’m posting some here soon. I’m just going over bios and such! Have any fc’s anon?
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Julia Spaeder | Nineteen | Diagnosis; Pyromania
Julia grew up in a one parent household. From ages 0-3 she lived in a homeless shelter until her mother had the ability to get back up on her feet. And she did, putting herself through college, and maintaining a job. Julia was never alone, she had daycare, and people who cared for her. Her father wasn’t really an existent figure until she turned eight. He had come to his senses and took Julia under his wing every weekend. They bonded, the thing she likes the most about her father is he smokes. It wasn’t the smoke, or the smell. No. She watched the fire, how it flourished with instance. It danced for her, and sung in low pitched tones. She always got excited when the flame hit different surfaces. The crinkle of his cigarettes, the burner to the pots and pans within the house. The way a match smelt after ignition. It wasn’t until she was eleven that she lit her first lighter, claiming it to her own.
As Julia grew, she kept a lighter with her at all times. When her mother had her, she’d light things; candles, paper, wood. Just to see the lick of the flame. The delicately beautiful colors that erose from the small plastic shell. She loved it, soon she wanted to burn more and more things. To see the world burn under the flame.
One night Julia was out with her friends, at a movie theater she watched a horror film. Her lighter began speaking to her in her mind, telling her this was the perfect place. The need filled her, it ached in her bones, crawling in such ways. She started to tremble, her addiction seizing her, she sat there. And sat there. An empty feeling swam, she finally got up. She exited to the bathroom. She lit all the toilet paper wholes on fire. Taking one at a time, sneaking out and throwing them into the theaters closer to the bathroom. Within three hours the theater was burnt to the ground. Julia was found outside, smiling as the flames ate the building.
Soon, Julia was taken to Bedlam. She stays on the third floor.
FC: Dianna Agron/OPEN