* Eugene King character development RP.

I remember as if it happened yesterday.

The wind cut through the air with a cold front that made everyone in its path shiver. That is everyone except the four teenage boys, between the ages of thirteen and fifteen, standing in a circle encompassing another fellow teenager, though he looked as though he was in his mid-twenties. The boy in the middle of the circle stood at least twice the height and size as the others, but he lacked a mean streak and his counterparts were well aware of his mishap.

The verbal jarring was just getting underway, just like it did every other day. The “circle of doom” as the other kids called it was an everyday occurrence at lunch time at Hope High School in Atlanta, Georgia. It was so common that all the other kids didn’t pay attention anymore. Every day at noon in the far corner of the basketball courts the same four teenage boys would chomp on their prey. The purpose for their relentless attack you ask? The freakish size of someone their same age was the center of their torture. Not to mention the lack of a fight increased the torment.

Today was no different…

The verbal jarring was just getting underway, just like it did every other day. The onslaught of verbal abuse showed no effects on the outside of the “beast”, as they called the kid in the middle. However it would soon be revealed that while showing no emotion the kid was destroyed on the inside. While being called “big foot” doesn’t seem so bad, in reality it is when you are a fourteen year old kid who has been anything but normal his entire life. At every age he has been the biggest kid wherever he went. And at his current age he was by far the biggest student in school, actually he was bigger than all adults as well. Standing at six feet four inches tall, a strong two hundred and twenty pounds accompanied with a full beard that most grown men can’t get to grow is hard for someone so young to have to deal with. While everyone else is struggling to reach five feet six inches tall and facial hair far from a glimmer of hope he stood out like Malcolm X would at a bar mitzvah.

After minutes of verbal abuse with little rebuttal the abuse turns physical. On occasion the oversized teenager has had his head busted open from rocks being thrown at him. Again, this day was no different. Rocks were being hurled from all different directions. Luckily, most were errant throws and missed, but the occasional rock found its mark. On this cold, windy December day one rock in particular crashed into the right eyebrow of “big foot”. Blood immediately started flowing down his face while his tormentors laughed. While assessing his wound with his hands the attack raged on. Kicks to the shin and knees were frequent; fists collided into his ribs when the far shorter attackers got lucky. Just like every other day, the abuse continued until the bell to end lunch rang.

Whilst school was a common place for people to get picked on from time to time, I suffered through the torture every single day, Monday through Friday. I would spend my weekends recuperating just to go through it all again the next week. You may ask yourself, why didn’t I retaliate? Why didn’t I fight back? Truth is, that wasn’t my style. I wasn’t a fighter. I wasn’t the type of person to mess with people or pick fights with people. As the proverbial saying goes, I didn’t have a mean bone in my body. Truth be told, I didn’t know how to fight back. In my mind I knew I wasn’t normal to them so I figured them picking on me was normal. Say what you will, but I guarantee most of you haven’t gone through the hell I was put through.

The sad part is that this was just the beginning of my decent into hell.

The school day ended, which meant freedom for the young Eugene King. He got to finally escape the diabolical hellhole that was high school. While his fellow classmates participated in various extracurricular activities the abnormal teen went home, hid himself in his bedroom until it was dinner time and then went back into hiding. He found comfort and solace in his room, in the dark, all alone. It was the only time he felt normal.

Except this night was different…

The darkness no longer provided the freedom he so badly needed. No, this night provided the straw that broke the camel’s back. It went unnoticed to his mother when he grabbed the butter knife off the kitchen table before his mom removed his plate. The hard part was out of the way and he didn’t even break a sweat. He went through his daily routine in an effort to not alert the one person that understood him. He turned on Nirvana just loud enough to be heard outside of the door, but not too loud to be yelled out to shut it off. While the voice of his idol wafted over the room he felt connected and felt as though he understood the pressures the man must have felt. After all, he was going through same thing, minus the drug addiction, or so Eugene thought. He closed his eyes, humming along to the beat of “Smells Like Teen Spirit”.

By now some of you may know what is about to happen, but please do not cast judgment for most of you don’t know what it was like growing up as me. Just like years ago nobody understood or knew what it was like being Kurt Cobain. We were two people with serious issues caused by the pressures of the world and most notably the people around us. It was as though we were one in the same, except for one small detail……

I failed.

As the song faded out the first swipe of the knife made contact with the skin. Eugene opened his eyes a millimeter at a time only to find nothing more than a light pink streak across his wrist, similar to a mark you see if you hit your arm on the corner of a table. It was obvious that the task at hand was not as easy as he thought it would be. Another song from the “Nevermind” album began to play; it was time to try again. The second swift motion was done with more pressure, just enough to break the skin. A shot of pain flowed through his body with little to show for it. Eugene carefully examined the knife realizing it was entirely too dull. He would be better off trying to paper cut himself to death. It became evident why Cobain used a shotgun….it was a lot easier. Alas, a weapon of that magnitude was not readily available to the “beast”. The dull butter knife would have to do as the weapon used on the police report.

Hopefully the proverbial third time is a charm would hold true. With even more pressure, Eugene placed the knife against his skin. Instead of the swift motions that failed before, he decided to act as if he was cutting an orange in half. The constant back and forth movement combined with enough pressure this time around did the trick. At first the blood appeared on the surface, but seconds later it culminated into a free flowing river of crimson.

Satisfied with the outcome of his “hard work”, Eugene started on the next wrist. However, he didn’t take into account that he would be weak because of the blood loss. Neither the energy nor the power was there to get the job done a second time. As if he were in a movie, Eugene blanked out just as his idol let out his last croon as the song faded to its end.

When I seen the bright lights above, I knew I failed. I kept my eyes fixated on the lights, afraid of who was around me. My fear was soon answered as my mother leaned over the bed, our faces only inches apart. In fact she was so close I could see the moisture in the corner of her eyes move slowly towards the center where her salty tears formed and eventually fell. I wondered how she felt. Did she feel the same fright and pain I did? No, I’m sure she didn’t. I closed my eyes, the dark was much more comforting.

His large six foot ten inch frame was grossly oversized for the brown leather couch in Dr. Lisa Sweeney’s office. Instead, she made the largest man she had ever seen lie on the floor, his arms crossed at his chest as if he were lying in a casket. In her plush leather chair she hovered over the giant, recording her notes on the legal pad resting against her knee. She had not made a single note during the suicide attempt, but now that he was done, the pen moved vigorously across the paper. She studied the man intently before jotting down her last note.

“Open your eyes Eugene.”

His eyes flickered, readjusting themselves to the light.

“What do you think Doc?”

Dr. Sweeney didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked down and studied her notes. Her eyes shifted from her notes to Eugene and back to her notes again as she pondered the best way to formulate her words.

“What do you do to release your anger?”

Her question threw the big man off guard. Eugene was expecting her to tell him what was wrong; nonetheless he started stroking his long beard, racking his brain to figure out how he released his anger. It seemed like an easy enough question, but in reality he was mystified. He had no answer. A simple question turned into a soul searching that revealed nothing.

Nothing……that is an adept word to describe myself. After all that is why I was here….because I felt as if I am nothing. My whole life I have felt as if I was nothing.

“I don’t.”

Dr. Sweeney attacked her notepad with a fury of notes, much like a tornado attacks a hapless town in the Midwest. She abruptly stops, readjusts her glasses and stares at the large mass of a human lying on her office floor. Sympathy oozes from eyes, she felt sorry that Eugene had never experienced a “normal” life and knew that he probably would never know what it was like to be “normal”.

“I can sense the anger in your voice. What are you angry at?”

This was an easy question.


Instead of releasing an onslaught onto her notepad, Dr. Sweeney instead looked out the lone window in her office that gave a scenic view of a pond. She removed her brown-rimmed from her face, placing the end of one arm between her teeth. A client such as the one lying on her floor had to be dealt with the utmost care not only because of his size, but because the man was certified crazy.

“I think it would be beneficial if you found an outlet to release your anger. I believe it would go a long way to help you function mentally.”

I was at an impasse. I had lived my whole life bottling up my anger, not knowing how to let it go and here I am as an adult with the same quandary. I am filled with rage caused by life - though if what I have experienced so far is life I’m starting to think I would much rather prefer death - trapped inside and it has taken my soul hostage. Dr. Sweeney was telling me to do something I never knew how to do and still don’t.

“And how do you recommend I do that.”

She wasted no time answering, as if she had already planned that Eugene was going to ask that question.

“Physical therapy.”

It was ironic. The same reason why I was in Dr. Sweeney’s office searching for help was the same reason I was lying on her floor, the receiver of her advice. It almost seemed odd, but then again what someone would consider odd I would consider normal. What a fucking way to live life.

I guess this is the time when I should digress and figure out a way to reach some level of normalcy. The Doc said physical therapy and she would know better than I so it was time to set out on my journey to fix the problem that is Eugene King.