Name: Whitney Dukitores

Name meaning: White-hot blaze of anger

Place of birth: Elizabeth, New Jersey

Age: 19

Race: Half-breed angel (black wings)

Height: 5'5" (5'8" normally, in her trademark boots)

Hair: Pale blonde, dyed black

Eyes: Blue, always rimmed with black eyeliner

Body-type: Slim

Sex: Female

Clothes: Fairly typically gothic. Apparently, there's no better way to illustrate that people should leave you alone than to drape yourself in black and adorn yourself with various spikes. On the other hand, before arriving at home, she strips off the elaborate makeup and heavy jewelry to change into simple oversized T-shirts and sweats, because her outside wear frightens her mother.

Bday: June 30

Zodiac sign: Cancer

Blood-type: B-

Motivation: To eventually be as normal as she can, but failing that, to live without anyone bothering her-- and to make those who do bother her regret it severely.

Religion: Nominally Roman Catholic, but mostly contemptuous of the whole mess. She recently found the proof of her father's angelic status-- her wings-- and can't understand why the system allows so-called good angels to take advantage (as she sees it) of people like her mother.

Hobbies: Whitney writes constantly and, to her credit, tries hard to keep it all from falling in the angsty gothic hole (occasionally succeeding). She's recently started reading up on a lot of philosophers such as St. Augustine and Thomas Aquinas, trying to find a definition of good and evil that she can believe in, though she hasn't had much luck yet. She also waitresses at MoF Coffeehouse to provide extra money. Unfortunately, there still isn't enough to give Ruth any sort of medication, so Whitney is currently searching for another job.

Likes: Writing, reading, music, coffee (a perk of her job), her mother, being alone.

Dislikes: Animals, crying, her wings, liquor (just doesn't taste very good to her) the rest of her family, most people, especially people who try to interfere with her life or her mother. She hates the term 'bastard,' and refuses to let it be spoken in her presence.

Personality:

Misanthropic to the extreme, Whitney fully intends to drive away anyone who approaches her with a formidable bad temper, stubbornness, and heavy sarcasm. Most people have only ever sparked hurt and anger in her, so she refuses to form attachments such as friends or even acquaintances. She knows, of course, that these would help her life become more bearable, and she does desperately wish she and her mother could be more normal than they are, but it seems to be beyond her grasp so she'll content herself with solitude. Were someone to ever gain her trust, though, she'd be surprisingly considerate, if absolutely clueless as to any of the intricacies of friendship.

Though she's lost faith, the problem lies not in disbelief in God but in a complete and utter confusion as to whether he and his angels are good, whether the demons are bad... and what on earth good and bad are supposed to be defined as, anyway.

Sarai - Since Whitney has chosen to make not a single friend, she keeps a diary/writing notebook/all-purpose outlet dubbed Sarai. It is a fairly large book, and she splurged to get a lock and some good quality paper and binding. Its cover is coated in any number of random words and pictures clipped from magazines.

David Firmin - Not much of a friend, but after she lost her last job, Whitney reluctantly conceded that she'd have to be just a tad more amiable in the future. Thus, she treats him with respect and some slight warmth, even if she never forgets to keep her distance. David owns MoF Coffeehouse (what the initials stand for is a secret he'll take to his grave), known for its open mic nights, flavored coffees that take a full chalkboard to list, and its truly evilly delicious 'cappuccino brownie'-- a rip-off of Starbucks, he admits, but done better.

Love interest: A boy she knows only as Colin often comes to play his guitar on open mic night at MoF Coffeehouse. He's tall, lanky, a pretty good guitarist, and wears emo glasses-- what self-respecting goth girl could resist? On the other hand, her ever-present misanthropy means that she's never spoken a word to him.

Ruth Dukitores - 43 years old. A firm catholic since her childhood, Ruth was visited at age 23 by the angel Saraqael. Being a little less connected to the corporeal world than most people, she accepted his coming easily and even fell in love with him. After his departure, it was discovered that she was pregnant, and her family insisted on learning the name of her child's father, so that she could marry and absolve herself of the shame. She firmly claimed that her baby was the product of a divine conception, and clung to this belief no matter how hard her family badgered for the 'real' father's name. Her mind, already somewhat fragile, caved under the pressure, and she was institutionalized for several years. She was only brought back out when her sister had had enough of caring for the then six-year-old Whitney, and since then Ruth has been 'raising' her own child. In actuality, Whitney has been the one guiding her mother since she was old enough to heat up a meal or go shopping. Their relationship is pretty much reversed: Ruth, addled though she is, loves and depends on her daughter, while Whitney feels very protective of her mother. She has given up, though, on ever learning her father's name-- Ruth has routinely declared Whitney to be the child of Moses, Solomon, all seven of the Archangels, Luke, and many other Biblical figures-- and thinks her mother more insane and incapacitated than she really is.

Faith Rydell - 37 years old. Ruth's younger sister, who cared for Whitney for the first six years of her life. Faith was only 18 when she was given responsibility of her older sister's child, and what with the circumstances (since no one ever discovered the baby's father, it was suspected she was the product of rape), could never bring herself to love Whitney. Moreover, her father has all but disowned Ruth for bearing an illegitimate child, and Faith can't help but feel, to some extent, the same way. When Whitney was six, Faith became engaged and declared it was impossible to keep caring for the girl. She persuaded her father to arrange Ruth's release, then promptly returned the child to Ruth. Whitney was only too happy to go; the first six years of her life were filled with rigid rules, a keen sense of unwantedness and, whenever her grandfather caught sight of her (often, since she was living in his house), constant use of the epithet 'bastard.' Now with her husband and young children of her own, Faith busies herself with her own life and stays out of Whitney's way as much as possible, to their mutual contentment.

Frank Dukitores - 74 years old. A widower and extreme Roman Catholic, Frank is deeply disgusted and ashamed of his eldest daughter and her bastard child. However, as chance would have it, his wife was sympathetic to Ruth's plight, and extracted a promise from him that he would assume responsibility for his unbalanced daughter and for Whitney. She, Rose, died soon after Faith was institutionalized, but Frank feels the weight of that promise to this day. He, Faith, and Faith's husband Thomas jointly pool their money for a modest monthly check sent to Whitney, and otherwise keep contact to a minimum. Remembering Frank's behavior when she was living under Faith's care, Whitney holds her grandfather in nearly as much contempt as he holds her.

Saraqael - Though Whitney doesn't know her father, she has begun to take her mother's claims of an angelic visitation seriously since the recent discovery of her wings. The idea of her father, though, is no stranger to her-- her status as a bastard was brought up early and often, so she has had plenty of time to brood over it. Simply, she hates him, whoever he is, for putting her in what she feels is a miserable situation. Besides that, she doesn't realize that her mother wasn't always as spacey and borderline insane as she is now, and so feels that whoever this angel is, he took advantage of her (which isn't actually the case).

"Here's your bedtime story, love... you're my dearest angel, my most beautiful, brought to me by Heaven..."

The bag hit the floor with a solid, satisfying thunk as Whitney leaned back against the door she'd just closed. First day waitressing, and hell, she'd had no idea it was that hard. "On my feet the whole damn day," she grumbled softly, then walked forward into the apartment. "Mom, I'm back. Where are you?"

"In here," Ruth called from the kitchen, appearing in the doorway to bestow a cheerful smile on her daughter. "I know you must be tired and hungry after working, so I decided to make dinner. A ham and cheese sandwich for each of us, doesn't that sound delicious?"

Whitney tried to return the smile as best she could. ("Mom, I'm going to be at my new job today, I made you two ham sandwiches for lunch with cheese, lettuce, and tomato. Don't forget to eat, okay?") "Sounds... great, Mom. Bet you must be hungry too. I'll just put this bag away..." She continued to their bedroom, and sank down on her bed with a sigh.

*Ten dollars an hour can't buy medicine... I don't even know how to get her health insurance, for chrissake. Job's decent enough, but fuck... got to find a better one...* Just the thought made her so tired. It had been hard enough to get this one... Automatically, her hands reached for her walkman, and she drew her knees up under her chin as she lost herself in the grand, sweeping music now filling her ears. Trying so hard to hear, to feel, only that; to shut her mind to all the struggling that lay ahead with no end in sight.

Angel of Music... She hugged her legs tighter, tracing the horn section through its intricacies, a soprano voice reaching higher with every note, guide and guardian / proud to be your glory... the music drew itself up for a flourish, organ thrilling and sending a powerful burst of energy along her spine--

She stopped short, music playing on unheeded, at the sound of tearing. Tearing what? Quickly, she snatched off the headphones and listened hard for any sounds from her mother, but there were none. The apartment was silent.

But now there was a little bit of a chill at her back... it was her shirt that had torn. *What the hell?* Whitney craned her neck back to assess the damage and froze.

Black feathers curved impossibly over her head, trembling a little in her horrified gaze, then stretching out even farther and flapping agitatedly as she tore out of the room. *Oh my God, what's happened to me, what the hell's happened!* She didn�t even notice how panicked her voice had become as she gasped, "Mom! Mom, what is this?!"

Abandoned on the bed, the walkman played on, deep organ overpowering lighter melodies as the song shifted into the next.

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creationlog

Quote and translation from the song "Au Clair de la Lune"