HOME | DD

Description
►► OUTDATED, NEW REF HERE ◄◄

〚ᴛᴡ ғᴏʀ ᴅʀᴜɢ ᴜsᴇ / ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, sᴇx ᴛʀᴀғғɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ, & ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏғ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴜsᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ sᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ〛

Chey’s mother was a first-generation Japanese immigrant, a smart and overachieving young woman. Unfortunately in college she fell victim to her parents’ high expectations, as well as the “Smart Asian” stereotype her professors had bought into; expecting nothing less than absolute excellence. Her desperation to do well got her mixed up in stimulants; first the all-too-common college drug of Adderall. That led to coke, (Hey, it’s just a stronger version of Adderall, right?) and then to meth. (Amphetamines, methamphetamines, is there that much of a difference?) By her junior year, Chey’s mom was pregnant by way of her dealer and dropped out of college to live with him. Chey was born into what amounted to a drug den, but only had to put up with it until he was three before a concerned neighbor saw a crying toddler wandering the yard and finally called the cops. Chey was placed into foster care through an overwhelmed agency, stretched far too thin. The privatized system allowed foster parents to collect money for fostering—and while that was usually fine, Chey was placed into a home that was nothing more than a den of abuse and a money-making tactic. His foster mother, despite having five other children in her care, seemed to detest children—and certainly didn’t want to spend any of her “hard-earned” money on them. The overworked CPS system failed to do proper check-ups, and Chey, along with his foster-siblings, slept on a concrete basement floor and faced being beaten or held beneath the bathwater for perceived misbehavior...Or just because his foster mother was having an episode and felt it was necessary.
The abuse took its toll, and Chey attempted to hang himself at just age eleven. Fortunately, the rope was old and gave out—but he was left with a nasty rope burn scar on his neck. Not long after that, his foster sister Alaska ran away—and when his foster mother made no attempt to locate her, Chey took a page out of Alaska’s book. He left, becoming homeless before even hitting twelve years old. It wasn’t long before he was recruited as a drug courier, a gig he accepted eagerly; life on the streets was hard and hungry—money wasn’t something to turn down. It was just a couple years later, on a cross-country delivery of several kilograms of coke, that he met Anarchy. The two became fast friends, inseparable; they were brothers without blood...Or more even than that. Chey gave Anarchy his name, his first tattoos. Anarchy gave Chey some impulse control and some tattoos of his own. And when everything spiraled out of control into addiction and illness and selling their bodies for another fix even though they were just fourteen, they fell into that hole together.
Age sixteen, things took a turn. For the worse, for the better, it was hard to say. But he was young and barefoot and shaking and finally got spotted by a couple cops who took him in for "truancy." Found his agency, but were unable to send Chey back to his original foster home due to his foster mother having been stabbed to death by one of her charges only a few months earlier. Chey was placed in a different home, but he was traumatized and troubled and unable to find somewhere that “stuck.” He bounced from foster to foster for years as they kicked him out for stealing or using or misbehavior, before finally “graduating” out of the system at age 18.

After that, he slipped directly back into what he knew: heroin and prostitution. He ended up with his first CPCS 7 conviction and stint in jail that same year. He spent the following fourteen months sticking nearly exclusively to a life of illicit activities; prostitution, addiction, stripping and stealing and dosing and dealing. He racked up a prostitution charge and a second CPCS 7 conviction, over a month of jail time when put together, before hitting his nineteenth birthday. He was only a month past it when he got his third CPCS 7 conviction. Though he dodged getting charged with intent to distribute, it was his third conviction—the courts were losing their leniency, and he spent three months in jail. Upon getting out, by total chance, Chey stumbled upon a program for homeless youth with addictions that was reaching out in the area. With the program, Chey got medical help in the transition from heroin to methadone, which he’s interested in trying to taper off from—though the withdrawal symptoms have hit too hard for him to quit completely. He got therapy; one-on-one and group, and got tested for HIV, caught it and started antiretroviral therapy before it could progress into AIDS. He received assistance applying for unemployment and food stamps—and began a long, slow road to recovery.
At first he struggled to commit to therapy; couldn’t quite wrench himself from his old life. He kept ‘dancing’ at shady clubs and continued to self-medicate with non-opiates; primarily MDMA, acid, and codeine—though he turned down next to nothing. He relapsed into heroin use for the first time not long after beginning treatment, his ‘first strike’ in a three-strike system that the outreach program employed: Relapse three times, you’ll be deemed a financial loss and kicked from the program. Three strikes, you’re out. With that hanging over his head, Chey started trying a bit harder; tried to do less stripping and self-medicating and sex work, to instead learn more about the production of the music he had danced to. He still found himself sinking deeper into aspects of his old life when times got hard or hungry, though; still spent colder months exchanging sexual favors for room and board.

In early 2016, by total coincidence, he reconnected with his long-lost foster sister, Alaska, and became close with her and her boyfriends. A fortunate thing, because later that year he relapsed for a second time. His second strike. When he told Alaska about it, she noted the hopelessness of his tone, the hang of his head. And she fretted over the fact that her brother seemed to be resigning himself to an inevitable third strike, to failure, to life in a hole of addiction that he could never escape from. So—she invited him to come stay with her for a little while. See if he couldn’t find his way back to the optimistic, smiling, sunlit boy he described being when he told her about life after running away but before addiction. She encouraged him to really commit to the therapy his program offered him, to strip less and focus more on learning his way around computers like Nathaniel was doing. All of it, especially the therapy, helped him immensely. He was one of the lucky ones, and by now has made almost a full recovery from PTSD.

Despite her insistence that it was fine to stay, he felt like an imposition after a few months—and wary of Reggie’s occupation eventually tempting him back into substances harder than weed. So he returned to the streets, and though nearly chronically homeless in an expensive city, Chey followed Alaska’s advice for the most part—even if he still paid rent with his body when it got cold. He didn’t go back to full-time sex work, never returned to stripping, and kept himself fed and clothed through digital means; freelance post-production work for independent artists, some website coding and design. Chance and coincidence featured prominently in Chey's life, and didn't stop; while scrolling through a bandom blog he followed, he saw a photo of Anarchy. Playing bass in a band, looking healthy, looking successful—looking alive. Chey found out when and where EoI was playing next—and went, just to see, to make sure—even though he knew. Anarchy saw him as he left, chased him down, and they fell back into step like the years had been hours. Now, with the rest of EoI, with his sister and his friends in the Midnight Scars, Chey’s on top of the world. He loves life, loves his friends, loves trying to earn the trust and friendship of the quieter, more closed off people he's met. He wants to be sunlight for others to warm themselves in, wants to be energy for the worn and tired, wants to offer hope to those that have given up. Little by little, he seems to be succeeding in being the light breaking through the cracks for his friends, and he could not be happier.
-----

fashion references here and here

art references here

aesthetic board here

spotify playlist here [always under construction]

---

aaaa finally i did it,, still gotta write his bio edit: bio added!! and as always I'll probably edit & update a few times over the next week ish

Chey's feral design was originally adopted from @/Rinermai

edit: minor changes & playlist link added!
edit 2: redrew his human form and gave him more tattoos! He's also shrunk a couple inches because I COULDN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE
edit 3: he shrunk a couple more inches and i finally fixed up (read: added like 500 words to) his bio to more accurately reflect what he was doing with his life during his absence. gotta fix some associated writing now but i'll get to it

Description
►► OUTDATED, NEW REF HERE ◄◄

〚ᴛᴡ ғᴏʀ ᴅʀᴜɢ ᴜsᴇ / ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, sᴇx ᴛʀᴀғғɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ, & ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏғ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴜsᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ sᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ〛

Chey’s mother was a first-generation Japanese immigrant, a smart and overachieving young woman. Unfortunately in college she fell victim to her parents’ high expectations, as well as the “Smart Asian” stereotype her professors had bought into; expecting nothing less than absolute excellence. Her desperation to do well got her mixed up in stimulants; first the all-too-common college drug of Adderall. That led to coke, (Hey, it’s just a stronger version of Adderall, right?) and then to meth. (Amphetamines, methamphetamines, is there that much of a difference?) By her junior year, Chey’s mom was pregnant by way of her dealer and dropped out of college to live with him. Chey was born into what amounted to a drug den, but only had to put up with it until he was three before a concerned neighbor saw a crying toddler wandering the yard and finally called the cops. Chey was placed into foster care through an overwhelmed agency, stretched far too thin. The privatized system allowed foster parents to collect money for fostering—and while that was usually fine, Chey was placed into a home that was nothing more than a den of abuse and a money-making tactic. His foster mother, despite having five other children in her care, seemed to detest children—and certainly didn’t want to spend any of her “hard-earned” money on them. The overworked CPS system failed to do proper check-ups, and Chey, along with his foster-siblings, slept on a concrete basement floor and faced being beaten or held beneath the bathwater for perceived misbehavior...Or just because his foster mother was having an episode and felt it was necessary.
The abuse took its toll, and Chey attempted to hang himself at just age eleven. Fortunately, the rope was old and gave out—but he was left with a nasty rope burn scar on his neck. Not long after that, his foster sister Alaska ran away—and when his foster mother made no attempt to locate her, Chey took a page out of Alaska’s book. He left, becoming homeless before even hitting twelve years old. It wasn’t long before he was recruited as a drug courier, a gig he accepted eagerly; life on the streets was hard and hungry—money wasn’t something to turn down. It was just a couple years later, on a cross-country delivery of several kilograms of coke, that he met Anarchy. The two became fast friends, inseparable; they were brothers without blood...Or more even than that. Chey gave Anarchy his name, his first tattoos. Anarchy gave Chey some impulse control and some tattoos of his own. And when everything spiraled out of control into addiction and illness and selling their bodies for another fix even though they were just fourteen, they fell into that hole together.
Age sixteen, things took a turn. For the worse, for the better, it was hard to say. But he was young and barefoot and shaking and finally got spotted by a couple cops who took him in for "truancy." Found his agency, but were unable to send Chey back to his original foster home due to his foster mother having been stabbed to death by one of her charges only a few months earlier. Chey was placed in a different home, but he was traumatized and troubled and unable to find somewhere that “stuck.” He bounced from foster to foster for years as they kicked him out for stealing or using or misbehavior, before finally “graduating” out of the system at age 18.

After that, he slipped directly back into what he knew: heroin and prostitution. He ended up with his first CPCS 7 conviction and stint in jail that same year. He spent the following fourteen months sticking nearly exclusively to a life of illicit activities; prostitution, addiction, stripping and stealing and dosing and dealing. He racked up a prostitution charge and a second CPCS 7 conviction, over a month of jail time when put together, before hitting his nineteenth birthday. He was only a month past it when he got his third CPCS 7 conviction. Though he dodged getting charged with intent to distribute, it was his third conviction—the courts were losing their leniency, and he spent three months in jail. Upon getting out, by total chance, Chey stumbled upon a program for homeless youth with addictions that was reaching out in the area. With the program, Chey got medical help in the transition from heroin to methadone, which he’s interested in trying to taper off from—though the withdrawal symptoms have hit too hard for him to quit completely. He got therapy; one-on-one and group, and got tested for HIV, caught it and started antiretroviral therapy before it could progress into AIDS. He received assistance applying for unemployment and food stamps—and began a long, slow road to recovery.
At first he struggled to commit to therapy; couldn’t quite wrench himself from his old life. He kept ‘dancing’ at shady clubs and continued to self-medicate with non-opiates; primarily MDMA, acid, and codeine—though he turned down next to nothing. He relapsed into heroin use for the first time not long after beginning treatment, his ‘first strike’ in a three-strike system that the outreach program employed: Relapse three times, you’ll be deemed a financial loss and kicked from the program. Three strikes, you’re out. With that hanging over his head, Chey started trying a bit harder; tried to do less stripping and self-medicating and sex work, to instead learn more about the production of the music he had danced to. He still found himself sinking deeper into aspects of his old life when times got hard or hungry, though; still spent colder months exchanging sexual favors for room and board.

In early 2016, by total coincidence, he reconnected with his long-lost foster sister, Alaska, and became close with her and her boyfriends. A fortunate thing, because later that year he relapsed for a second time. His second strike. When he told Alaska about it, she noted the hopelessness of his tone, the hang of his head. And she fretted over the fact that her brother seemed to be resigning himself to an inevitable third strike, to failure, to life in a hole of addiction that he could never escape from. So—she invited him to come stay with her for a little while. See if he couldn’t find his way back to the optimistic, smiling, sunlit boy he described being when he told her about life after running away but before addiction. She encouraged him to really commit to the therapy his program offered him, to strip less and focus more on learning his way around computers like Nathaniel was doing. All of it, especially the therapy, helped him immensely. He was one of the lucky ones, and by now has made almost a full recovery from PTSD.

Despite her insistence that it was fine to stay, he felt like an imposition after a few months—and wary of Reggie’s occupation eventually tempting him back into substances harder than weed. So he returned to the streets, and though nearly chronically homeless in an expensive city, Chey followed Alaska’s advice for the most part—even if he still paid rent with his body when it got cold. He didn’t go back to full-time sex work, never returned to stripping, and kept himself fed and clothed through digital means; freelance post-production work for independent artists, some website coding and design. Chance and coincidence featured prominently in Chey's life, and didn't stop; while scrolling through a bandom blog he followed, he saw a photo of Anarchy. Playing bass in a band, looking healthy, looking successful—looking alive. Chey found out when and where EoI was playing next—and went, just to see, to make sure—even though he knew. Anarchy saw him as he left, chased him down, and they fell back into step like the years had been hours. Now, with the rest of EoI, with his sister and his friends in the Midnight Scars, Chey’s on top of the world. He loves life, loves his friends, loves trying to earn the trust and friendship of the quieter, more closed off people he's met. He wants to be sunlight for others to warm themselves in, wants to be energy for the worn and tired, wants to offer hope to those that have given up. Little by little, he seems to be succeeding in being the light breaking through the cracks for his friends, and he could not be happier.
-----

fashion references here and here

art references here

aesthetic board here

spotify playlist here [always under construction]

---

aaaa finally i did it,, still gotta write his bio edit: bio added!! and as always I'll probably edit & update a few times over the next week ish

Chey's feral design was originally adopted from @/Rinermai

edit: minor changes & playlist link added!
edit 2: redrew his human form and gave him more tattoos! He's also shrunk a couple inches because I COULDN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE
edit 3: he shrunk a couple more inches and i finally fixed up (read: added like 500 words to) his bio to more accurately reflect what he was doing with his life during his absence. gotta fix some associated writing now but i'll get to it