Angel’s Diary, entry 4

Yet another sibling birthday. Yay.

It seemed like there was always a party going on at my house.

They were always well attended — coworkers of my father, those awkward impotent followers of my mother, ex-babysitters and random people that nobody invited. Most of the time the guests didn’t care about the person whose birthday it was. They were just there for some weird unspoken social connection they had to my parents.

I don’t blame them for not caring about the children, though. My siblings were boring and useless, annoying distractions at best.   There was the first set of twins, Giana the Clumsy Slob who was always fussing with her hair or upset about some teenaged drama and Camilla, who was either sitting around like a Couch Potato or laying around Outdoors, staring at the sun. One summer she was supposed to take care of the family garden but she spent so much time sleeping in that the plants wilted and half of them died. The only good thing about her was watching her grow obese as the years passed.

The second set of twins was even whinier than the first, and it was no surprise that they grew up poorly: Dean was always Grumpy, never did anything right and was tormented at school for being such a Loser; Darren had a great amount of intellect — one might even say he was a Genius — but it was wasted on him because his Technophobic tendencies caused him to reject technology — he only seemed to feel safe Outdoors.

Stealing candy from babies is as easy as they say, and infinitely more amusing.

If I had to choose just one family member to spare from execution, though, I suppose it would be Darren.

Darren seemed to have a a strong interest in me from a young age, and I used to test it in small ways. I would sit down to play chess, for example, and time how long it took for him to shyly come up and ask to join me. “I’m just finished.” I would say, and walk off, leaving him with such a stupid look of disappointment I would have a good laugh when I got to my room.

No matter what I did to him, he always continued to care what I was doing and whether I liked him or not. No other person had such a strong power over him. I found him.. interesting.

I suppose this relationship continues in some regard. Though we are both grown now and he is employed he has no friends of his own, has never married and still lives in the house with me. Sometimes when I come home from work he is sitting up at the table, and sometimes I notice that he has prepared an extra portion of food.  He looks up hopefully as I go to the fridge to get a quick meal without acknowledging him at all.

He still has that stupid look of disappointment, too. But it only illicits a smile from me when I return to my room and lay in bed. I guess it takes more to make me laugh these days. But I almost want to, remembering this.

Angel’s Diary, entry 3

I have been promoted at the hospital. The associated extra work hours exempted me from scrutiny for all of four days before she started in again.  It seems she won’t be letting this one go. I will have to focus on this stupid exercise.

Let’s discuss my father, then.

His name was George Dean. He was my mother’s boss at work, another “peace officer.”  They married, had me, and then four other children. They never fought.

I didn’t know him.

It wasn’t just that he didn’t have time to play ball because he was tired from working all day, that old excuse so many fathers use. My father didn’t like me. I didn’t understand why, because I did everything I could to please him. I was on the honor roll, I cleaned up after myself,  I had learned to be Friendly. But he remained distant. It was like he was afraid of me.

I didn't understand then why he wouldn't accept me.

When the time finally came for him to retire from work, I was excited because I thought we might finally get to know each other as a father and son. But nothing changed. He took up gardening with a kind of obsession and napped in the evenings when I was home. And I remained a stranger in his house.

My father at his retirement. He was a DNA profiler but preferred his old uniform.

The beginnings of the family garden.

Angel’s Diary, entry 2

And so I begin the task of “exploring” my memories.

Where does one’s story truly begin?  Is it with the twinkle in the father’s eye? Does a person’s life begin with conception, or with birth? Is it the moment that the heart first beats, or when the functional machine of flesh is given consciousness — and is the point of true consciousness, self-awareness, determined by the first memory? The standard seems to be to begin a life story with one’s parents, and so I shall begin with mine.

My mother, Carly.

My mother as I remember her was beautiful. She had a certain quiet grace about her that was almost awe-inspiring. People didn’t know how to react to it. I found she had many followers through the years — women who found her a comforting presence, men who stayed close but never had the courage to confess their affection.  She was strong and Brave, showed compassion despite her Hot-Headedness, was devoted to her family without limit despite the fact that she was also a Workaholic.

Her Law Enforcement career began in Sunset Valley and ended here in Riverview, where I grew up.  She accepted a Secret Agent job and was promoted to the top of her field, becoming an International Super Spy, and she never retired — she passed away at 99 years old, on her day off. Due to the clandestine nature of her assignments she wasn’t exactly famous, but she was well loved by the police and other public servants of the city. At her funeral there were so many well dressed strangers that there was nowhere left to sit.

I would hear countless rumors about her past growing up. There was a time when they held an amount of excited interest for me, and I became obsessed with uncovering the truth, searching for depth and meaning, hoping there was a dark side to this seemingly perfect, Good person — a real blood connection between myself and this woman who had given birth to me. But it was all in vain. If there was more to my mother, I decided, it died inside her long ago.

She was a woman who knew the dark undercurrent of the human existence, but it did not run through her. Or she had found a way to shut it off. As much as she was caring and vibrant with me, this made her feel cold, unliving. We had a very close form of distance between us. Her love was at once smothering and isolating. Is that what parental love is supposed to feel like? I don’t know. I know I resented her. Not her presence or her behavior, but her existence. I don’t know a better way to describe it than that.

But what is my first memory of her? She left me some photos when she died. One of them shows us reading together. I remember the book, I can still recite it, but I don’t remember her reading it to me. I know that she did, probably dozens of times. But I don’t remember the experience. It is just a collection of stored facts — I don’t feel anything. Shall I adopt this memory because I know it to be true? No, let’s find a different memory. A genuine memory.

It is time for work, I will stop here. Perhaps something will come to me during the day.

Angel’s Diary, entry 1

My new therapist informs me that it is beneficial for people with my.. diagnoses.. to journal their thoughts and dreams as a way of “getting to know themselves from the inside out.”  “Even if you write just one paragraph every morning,” she says,  “or every night before you go to bed, you will see that you’ll start to open up and allow yourself the freedom to express your feelings honestly.”

I do not dream. Dreaming requires submission of the waking will to the deep yearnings of the subconscious, and that is something I can never do.  Still I feel I must participate with this “exercise” for the sake of my marriage. My wife has informed me that if I will not allow this “expert,” the third therapist I have seen in as many months, to “help” me, she will leave.  She believes my “resistance” is the sole cause of these failures — I do not wish to appear resistant to this final test, so I have no choice but to play along.

I will have to use memories instead of dreams. They too require a measure of suppression, but they are easier to control.  And perhaps she will find something touching in watching me uncover the forgotten trials and disappointments of my childhood.

Would she find it easier to love a disturbed little boy than a quiet and stable man?

3rd story posted

Dear Readers,

First gen story posts up to this point have been consolidated & can be accessed from the sidebar (Carly’s Story).  Now we shall begin to focus on generation 2!

Thanks for sticking around,

your host

Angel’s letter

To my beloved firstborn son, Angel

You are only a young man as I write this so it feels strange, but there are things I wish to share with you when you are old enough and there is enough space between us that you might truly hear them.

No doubt you have already learned that I have left the house to you. Please do not feel guilty about this. Your brothers and sisters will look out for one another, and I have set up accounts for each of them so that they won’t have to strain financially. A home is a place of refuge and source of strength when the world outside can be cold and demanding.  I hope you will stay and live in it for many years to come.

I know you have heard things about my past — you may hear even more after I am gone — but I want you to know that I have not kept secrets from you intentionally. There is no shame involved. I simply needed to let certain things go.  I was changing when your father and I got together, and when we had you I truly became a new person.  You have brought me more joy and hope than I imagined possible for myself, and that is what I chose to hold onto.   Whatever else you hear or learn, please always remember this.

You have a similar duality about you. Perhaps you are not yet fully aware of it, but it may force you to make a choice one day. Know that no matter what darkness calls you or what you feel you excel at, no one is doomed to a single fate. As long as you have consciousness you have free will. Your life is yours to live, but sometimes you will have to fight for it.

It is true that I have loved all of my children equally, but I loved you first. For that you will always be special to me.

I believe in you.

Your mother,

Carly

P.S. I have enclosed some old family photos for you to keep.

your father and I – engagement

pregnant with Angel

Angel’s 1st birthday

you were a beautiful baby

reading your favorite book

building our home

Business matters

Riverview City Hall
Attn: Executor’s Office

To the executor of the DiMarco estate:

You will find the final details of my last will and testament enclosed. Everything should be laid out quite clearly, but if there is any question you may contact me at home. I have also included a letter addressed to my son, Angel DiMarco, to be delivered upon my death.

Thank you,

Carly DiMarco

Updates coming soon

I’ve managed to get some playing in, and am well into the 2nd generation. Expect updates to the legacy story soon!

If you’re interested in some behind-the-scenes side stuff in the meantime, check out the unplayable Spooke and King’s page.

Thanks for your patience!

Generation 1 Update!

Carly, the book-toting Vice Detective

So, parts 1 & 2 of Carly’s story are up, and here’s an update of where we’re at with the Legacy Challenge:

Total points: 1

Generations: 1

Lot worth: $19,889

Friends: 2 (Boss and Partner)

Love interests: 0

Job: Vice Detective (First one after choosing Special branch in Law Enf.)

House: More like “furniture pile with a northerly sheetrock border”

Days ’til “adult” : 2

As you can see, as a legacy builder our lady is a touch of the suck. Her whole young adult life is nearly behind her and she’s never so much as kissed a boy. I like to pad the front of the legacy with a lot of story, so we have a sense of how the family came to be that is a little more than a voice in the sky imprisoning them and making them breed on the lawn (ironically I love to read those, hee).. The main reason being that if I don’t have one in mind I’m likely to peter out around gen 3 and stop caring what happens to the little bastards.

As I (the player) am finding it a bit tiring to ascribe meaning to the mundane and also advance the challenge along, I think I’m gonna let the Carly ‘story’ fade and concentrate on making the heir now. I’ll include enough childhood info for us to know what became of her, don’t worry. =)

I hope you enjoyed reading so far. I’m trying to use the voice I imagine each sim to have according to what traits they’ve got, so depending on that the heir stories may be quite different.  It’s good exercise for me, anyway.

See you soon!

Second story bit up

Hello again folks,

The last batch of blog entries are now re-posted in page format as “Carly’s Story, part 2” for easier reading. Soulless points update next!

Love,
your host