|
Name: Headless Horseman, Heady(or Heddy) by some
Age: Body looks to be in the twenties…maybe.
Gender: Male
Race: Ghost/Phantasm/Spectre
Appearance: Heady stands at an astounding six feet and ten inches in height. His body slender and noticeably malnourished, his left arm is the most bizarre part of him. His entire left arm reach six feet in length, being forced to stay constantly constrained and wrapped in black leather. Bolts, screws, pins, needles, padlocks; numerous objects are placed along the span of the arm to keep it confined. Between bits of leather, the smallest bit of skin is visible -- purposely done by the doctors as their only means to which to check the arm’s condition without removing the restraints. His skin is pale and a sickly white. One last oddity to his appearance -- other than the fact he has no head -- is the fact that the left shoulder, while still restrained in leather, is rather bulbous and can be seen pulsating slightly at times.
Personality: Heady is, put simply, calm and cool. Being already dead, he finds life much more relaxing when you don’t worry about being killed by cannonballs every few seconds. Being so old, though, he sometimes delves into moments of senility and babbles on about nonsense, or acts as if he’s reliving a past event. For a regular amount of time though, he tries to interact on a friendly basis with many of the other patients. Most commonly will compliment their heads in some manner.
Afflictions: Senility -- Patient’s age is unknown, due to his partially uncooperative stance when concerning his past. As such, it is likely that his mind -- or lack thereof? -- has caused degradation to his mentality over the extensive years he’s lived on. This causes moments of illusory reenactments of past events, or abhorrently random babbling. Though when compared to other disorders presently troubling the patient, this affliction is to be regarded less severely.
Claustrophobia -- Patient has…issues with tight areas and locked doors. In the early stages of his rehabilitation, before proper restraints were put in place, he would use his left arm to destroy all locked doors he came across. Medication and the tight constriction of his arm has downgraded the illness considerably, though he often scratches at his bound arm, similar to an accident victim scratching their cast to remove an itch underneath. The size of the facility and rooms provided have thus far limited any progression of his space requirement symptoms. But incidents may still occur.
Obsessive Compulsion -- Patient exhibits an uncomfortable obsession with heads. Cause of this may have been the traumatic loss of his own head. Whether out of nostalgia or envy, he exudes an -- at times -- unhealthy amount of attention to heads and skulls. Upon admitting the patient, the obsession was so far progressed that he carried several severed heads with him. He had even stitched faces onto his own horse out of necessity to keep his ‘collection.’
Fairy Tale: Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
“Many will tell you the old fable of that quiet New York town. Many will tell of the Hessian soldier whose head was shot off by an aimless cannonball. Many would tell you of the blah blah blah, and the blah blah blah…
“Lies, slander and rumor!” The elderly gentleman shouted from his wooden chair within the dimly lit tavern in some foreign land near Austria. He quickly struck a match across the elm table, the glittering flame flickering and dancing as he lifted it up the length of his scraggly beard to his ivory pipe. With a shake of the wrist and puff of smoke, he continued. “Aye… The truth be that he was no soldier. In times of old, there existed creatures of horror known as the Gan Ceann… They came from the hills of me home country, me lads. Though, I ‘spect you’d all know them as the dullahan.” Some men of the tavern laughed him off, shaking their heads. Then a ghastly wail in the wind shook the tavern to its foundations, garnering naught but a whisper from the would-be comedians and hacklers. “… Heh, I laughed too, lads… Tis, ‘til I be seein’ the foul thing meself… There, atop a mangled heap of human carcass, strewn and sewn by sinew and tendon into the guise of a bleeding steed… He perched a ghostly head upon the mane of his mare, made from the ridged bones from all the men’s spines. Torn from their bodies to stitch them as a malleable fabric for his beast!” A select few of the crowd began to retch and cough at their dry throats. “Each of their faces, screaming in anguish, tongues flailing in the chilled air. The horseman’s eyes were wide and bulging from their sockets, twirling and scanning everything in sight like a hawk. His mouth a twisted grin, stretching literally from ear to ear. Rotted teeth that shined black in the moon’s light.”
The whine of a horse cried out over the night’s screaming winds. Windows shaking with the gusts of the midnight gale. “He was staring down a man, watching the poor soul twitch, gun in hand. The horseman called out his name. With a bang from his pistol, a cry from the deepest pit of his soul, he fell over. Dead… His shot was truer than any word spoken by your women. The hole in the horseman’s head clear as can be as the thing fell to the dirt.” The man leaned forward, pulling his pipe from his mouth. The men stared in awe as his face came into view. “The head stared then right at me, still grinning wide… His body spun on the fleshed horse, flicking a flask at me to send out a wave of human blood… I never saw a thing after that.” The dried line of crimson crested upon the elderly gentleman’s face, completely covering his eyes with a thick crust. Scratches and dents in the crusting showed he had tried to peel it away with no result.
The tavern door blew open, every soul in the room jumping with a shout. But what they saw made them freeze with fright as a tall figure stood before them. Only reason it didn’t have to duck under the doorway being that the figure had no head. The masculine figure turned, the rotted leather and bone of its armor cracking with every movement of muscle. It lifted a hand, finger pointing out for the elderly gentleman, who was sitting with a smirk on his face. A chilling voice echoed from the darkness of its hollow collar, “ICHABOB!” It boomed over the wailing winds surrounding the tavern. Sleet and rain washed over the roads outside, rolling into the tavern with the curl of the winds.
Ichabob began to snicker and chuckle, clapping his hands. “Do what ye will… You’ll never find your head again! AHAHAHAAHAAAAAAAAHHH!!”
Heady sat back in his seat as the nurse stared at him. She finally blinked, stepping back once. Heady stood up, his left hand slowly lifting up to scratch at a nonexistent chin. “And that… That’s how I found my last head. Just too bad, though… I didn‘t like having to comb that beard... Still itches.” The nurse quickly turned, briskly walking away and slamming the door shut behind her, leaving Heady alone in his room.
Nurse’s Notes: One incident has occurred, which was the only reason the ‘confined spaces’ portion of patient’s claustrophobia was discovered. Before the left arm was regularly restrained, the patient stumbled onto a locked broom closet. Upon breaking the door and entering, the patient went into a hysterical fit. Several orderlies were severely wounded and were unfit for services thereafter. Two others were fatally wounded. And the collateral damages to the area surrounding the broom closet were…expensive.
_________________ 
Last edited by Ro Wong on Thu Dec 16, 2010 1:13 pm, edited 1 time in total.
|
