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Aerin Konstantinos | Nothing but Shapes


yoteborg

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Waking up from the American Dream

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"Vee... I ain't feelin' right, after that clobber to the head."

A Liberty City boy with heavy Greek admixture, Aerin has only done his best to survive the harsh reality he faces. After a good few weeks in Los Santos, he begins to realize that life in the city isn't all it was cracked up to be, back East. These are his misadventures through his life- however short it may be.

His desperate attempt to make a living for himself in the city often leads to more than he could have expected, however his troublemaking personality tends to wean him into situations.

 

He could barely remember himself, and the faces that he strove to ingrain into his memory that were now long gone. It started a while before, but the most recent event he could recall with the most clarity was the attack at the gas station. A simple mistake that could have been solved with an apology turned into a grim murder and a bout which Aerin would not forget. The two thugs waited for him outside of the shop until growing tired and tried to coax him into a vulnerable position. A fight soon broke out. The flurry of punches and stabs were quick in succession from both sides of the aisle, until it spilled out onto the street outside in a loud tussle.

 

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Edited by yoteborg
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The blood gushed from his crown. Talking back to a guy with much more strength and a crew behind him, that was the smart thing to have done. Luckily, after an intense skirmish his only close friends came to his aid as he was knocked unconscious in the back of the head by the brutal strike of maglight, cutting open the flesh off from his scalp, skull nearly visible through the sanguine red tint that marked his head. The next few hours were spent in a haze, the kid plagued by nightmares as his body fought to break itself from the deep sleep it was put under as a result from the fight. Hasty stitching and quick action saved him, but the consequences would be long-lasting to come.

 

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Edited by yoteborg
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Waking up from the American Dream (cont.)

 

Despite the medical assistance he had received, he was still out cold for the next two days. His friends would occasionally check in on him to give him water and tend to his stitches. Most of his time was spent unconscious and dreaming. 

Aerin tended to have unsettling nightmares, but the combination of psychedelics mushrooms he had taken prior to the attack coupled with the violent head wound twisted them. In his brief otherworldly life, the sky had a sickly red hue, and the sun never showed its head.

Before he knew it, he was in a position he'd remembered all too well from his waking hours.

 

Sending a knife repeatedly into the gut of an enemy- manifesting his rage into killing the victim. Before he knew it he was finished with the job, only to be horrified as he slowly turned them around in that darkened room. It was his closest buddy, eyes glossy and unmoving as Aerin looked down at his hands, hazily realizing what he had done.

 

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 Lying there unconscious on the run-down couch, he couldn't tell how long he had stayed in the darkness of his mind. The distortion of time made it feel incredibly long, while at the same moment there was no sense of the present in Aerin's mind. There only existed the next dream his psyche fed him like a spoiled slice of raw meat. Slowly, the picture came into focus. The feeling was odd, like he was hovering without having to stand. However he was frozen in place, made to watch the gruesome scene play out in front of him.

 

 

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The madhouse slowly faded from his vision, but the screams were still violently loud. That's when he jolted up for real, unable to tell if he was in reality. All he knew was that his brain felt like it had been pounding against his skull. After a quick exploratory, but painful probe to the back of his head with a finger he could tell it had been sutured shut. The burn on the back of his head only brought him closer to reality, as the gash had become infected. In his mind those horrors still played. clear as day. With a quick glance back to the armrest he laid on, it was clear Aerin had bled out rather heavily but padding and stitching by the other two most likely saved him. Rubbing his face in pure exhaustion he sighed and closed his eyes. He could still hear the sirens wailing from the dreams. Reminding him of his mock-fate. Being shot to pieces by the law. And his own body laying on a table in the city's morgue.

 

 

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Snagging a quick nip from the flask in his nearby belongings, he managed to drag himself out of the small garage and out into the day's light, wincing as his eyes got adjusted to the sun eventually. He'd get through it. He always did, or so he thought. The liquor's burn traveling down his throat gave Aerin the pick-me-up he needed and soon after the kid forced himself to drag his ass to his Hexer, revving up the engine and hoping to God he wouldn't fall. Los Santos didn't wait for anybody, much less the sick or the dead.

Edited by yoteborg
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