Lawrence Grimmel
Tortured artist
Italian
Ooo.. The mafia
Posts: 52
(6/2/07 11:46 pm)
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Lawrence Grimmel
Name:Lawrence Joseph Grimmel
Age:25
Gender:Male
Race:Human
Appearance:Lawrence is a well built man, standing around 6'2" without shoes. With shoulder length chestnut brown hair and brilliant hazel eyes, he's likely to stand out in a crowd, and even more likely to gain female attention. His appearance takes after his mother more than his dark, Italian father. His locks of hair surround a beautiful face, masculine but finely boned. A scar travels up from his navel, spanning a distance of four inches up his torso and is a reminder of the self inflicted gash that ended his first life.
History:The artist was born and raised in Italy of the modern world. His family life was far from normal, also. Being born Italian, Lawrence was born into the mob there also. His family just happened to be the ringleaders of the entire operation, his father, the leader of the organization.
Joseph and Janea moved to Paris, far away from the influence of Italy and Joseph’s father. Five years went by, the beatings becoming more intense, to the point where Janea couldn’t find the strength to stand after Joseph laid his fists on her. During this time, Janea became pregnant twice, the first time with a little girl. Her husband was enraged, how dare she bare him a girl as a firstborn! He dealt her a vicious, bloody punishment for having the audacity to do such a thing, and to no one’s surprise because of the state she was in, she slipped into a temporary coma, but only after losing the child. When she arrived home two weeks later, Joseph stood glowering at the door, knowing that the hospital knew. She merely dropped her bags and bowed her blonde, almost silver haired head, ready to accept the abuse of the man that she loved, but feared more than anything else. She knew if she left, she would die. That fear lingered in Janae’s mind day and night, so she stayed with Joseph loyally. ‘Til death do us part. . .
A second child was born to the couple, a squalling, fat baby with a full head of black hair like his father. He was christened Nikolas James Grimmel, Janae enforcing American names in each of her children before Joseph could change that fact. The one thing she held firm on effected four boys and two girls. Janea loved her children equally with her entire heart, but instilled the knowledge of the American world especially in Lawrence. She taught him of the people, the way of life, and the freedom of the United States. Lawrence took all of this deep inside, along with the artistic qualities of his mother. He began painting at a very young age with her, developing his own talents and style before reaching teen age.
Lawrence’s childhood was always troubled. His highlighted hair was blonde from birth, but darkened into a lighter brown. Nevertheless, it served as a beckon of difference in the black-headed, Italian, Grimmel family. Each and every one of the other children had the eyes and hair of their father, along with the Italian facial features. Lawrence had inherited the finely boned face, but never the thick nose and other characteristics. As he grew, he proved to be an amazingly beautiful man, but as a young boy he was taunted by his siblings. They claimed he was not their father’s child and that his birth only meant that their mother was an “unloyal whore” as stated by Joseph too many times to count, usually accompanied by a sharp slap to Janea’s face. Lawrence’s young mind was poisoned by this, always giving him the tendency to stay quiet in the presence of others. Childhood friends never stuck around long after witnessing the violence in the household. He grew up lonely, very lonely and stayed that way for the rest of his life, but always had his beautiful hidden talent.
The rest of Janea’s children weren’t as ripe as Lawrence seemed to be, the girls and boys all falling to their father’s way of life. The family had long since moved from Paris to Italy in the midst of all of the children’s birth, right after Joseph’s father passed away. Joseph inherited the mob empire and all of its responsibilities, the one job he was most suited for. His father’s way of living was passed on in a never ending cycle that would inevitably fall into Nikolas’ hands.
Lawrence's father, Joseph was heartless and cold as compared to the warm blooded, compassionate artist. Even though he rarely spoke out against his father, the young man spoke up when his father ripped apart a family that had not done a thing to deserve it. Hazel eyes gleamed with anger when Lawrence discovered the photos of a young mother, shattered by bullets with an infant, dead in her arms. He knew that the father, the husband, the victim in all of this was being tortured in various ways down in the basement of his three story childhood home. The silent screams of this man boiled up through the stone floors and flooded the artist’s ears. He’d had enough.
On the wind swept roof of his father's business building, the two forms argued, one young and slim, the other aged but muscled greatly. Lawrence had wisely taken a knife with him on that crystal clear night, just in case he would have to defend himself. Joseph lunged at Lawrence, knocking him to the ground with the knife in hand, the father and son wrestling in a fierce mortal combat for seconds until a gasp and tearing flesh was heard. Both bodies went still, one in fear, the other in death. Lawrence's was the form to rise, shrugging off the dead body of his father. The even was an accident in full and was labeled that way by the police, mostly because they knew that Joseph's death would bring more peace to their city.
A funeral was held a week after Joseph’s passing. A line of children, each strong in their build and facial features stood beside a cherry wood casket as it was lowered into the ground, to Joseph’s undeserving resting place. He didn’t deserve the dirt that so graciously accepted him into its clutches. Tears ran from the eyes of five people out of the seven lined up there. Only Lawrence and Nikolas kept their eyes dry, Lawrence because he felt no emotion and Nikolas because he knew deep inside that he had gained far more than he’d lost. Lawrence and his mother stood close together and the eyes of the beautiful woman poured tears. Tears of joy, tears of freedom, tears of praise rained down her cheeks and she hugged her son around the waist, thankful to have him. As Nikolas shoveled the first clump of dirt into the hole in the ground, Janea walked forward, her nose and cheeks red with tears. Cupid’s bow lips turned up in a smile, then pursed as she spat on it, spit on the casket and the life he had given her. Nikolas turned to her with cold fire in black eyes and looking very much like Joseph, he raised his hand to her. A soft, artist’s hand grabbed him by the wrist and hazel eyes stared back into the coals. Heartbeats passed before Nikolas pulled away and Lawrence pulled his mother to him. The scene faded away as the grave was filled, but two forms, like stone statues embraced each other, one crying tears of joy, the other wondering of what the future would bring.
After his father's funeral, Lawrence plunged into a deep depression. He had never been emotionally stable, the mistakes of his father and brothers preying on his mind day and night, but this was the final straw. He blamed himself fully for the death of Joseph and became a shell of a man, only living to paint and painting only so that he lived. Despite the way Joseph had lived his life, Lawrence held the death of another on his artist’s, paint splattered hands and that was a fact he couldn’t live with. His emotions went deep into his paintings, his masterpieces, bold expressions of dark red and black paint. Lawrence's artwork never caught on, mainly because he showed few what he'd done.
On the anniversary of his father's death, the artist stood over a newly finished painting and looked at the room filled with similar, but unique paintings. The artist's steps were silent as he took up a dagger that he'd had from childhood, happy memories of the man that had once been his father. Little did Lawrence know, but Joseph had never loved his family, only pretended to keep up appearances and to gain more control through the branches of his family tree. Little did Lawrence know but the man would have left his own son's body on that very rooftop to rot. Tears trekked down the tanned cheeks and he stabbed the dagger into his body, ripping it upward, blood gushing as he fell forward onto the wet paint. Blood mixed with acrylic black paint as the artist's body was drained of life, the mix of it dripping to the floor.
Days later, his brothers discovered his body and his stash of paintings. His first painting sold for 1.8 million dollars, the second for 2.3 million. As Lawrence exited this world, he became a millionaire, a fact his family rejoiced in but something he would never know. One brother took careful note and never forgot what had happened, Nikolas Grimmel, Lawrence's oldest brother and the newest leader of the mob.
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