KENNEDY, miles

[attr="class","hdtitle"]PERSONALITY

[attr="class","hdinfo"]Miles Benedict Kennedy is nothing short of a rockstar in his own mind, and he comes complete with a careless "I just rolled out of bed" look, all naturally tousled hair and perpetually lazily-lidded eyes.

Tall, fit, and never without a wink to tip to the pretty girls (and boys), this kid is your typical playboy. He thinks he’s god’s gift to the world, and he isn’t exactly humble about it. Miles certainly isn't for the timid or shy to be around, either; Miles isn't just friendly, he's Friendly with a capital F. The boy’s a confident, unconcerned person, and it especially shows in the overly-familiar way he conducts himself with people he meets. Forget about being reserved until he gets to know you better -- right off the bat, he'll lean into your space, throw an arm around you, and tease you until the cows go home.

Flirtatious, good at reading body language, and irritably persistent in a casual way, Miles oozes charm. He's charismatic and easy to get along with, as long as you don't mind how he can come on a touch strong. He's never been slapped yet, and it owes to his quick wits and intuitive "people reading". How he'll flirt with you (and believe you me, he will flirt) depends on the type of person you are. He's gentle and affectionate and playful with the shy ones; he'll smirk and tease and croon at the "don't touch me" types; and he'll whisper sweet promises to the wary ones -- the bottom line is that if he wants you, he won’t let up. It’s a touch manipulative, but he doesn’t like to think of it that way.

Are you regretting striking up a conversation with the assertive, manipulative blonde yet? Too bad. Time spent with Miles doesn't end until he says it does... and when he says it's done, it's done. Strong-willed and spontaneous make a dangerous combination and leaves a trail of hurt feelings behind; he'll cajole and flirt and smooth-talk you until you're putty in his hands -- and then quite suddenly he'll lose interest, and you'll be dropped like a sack of unwanted potatoes. And that's just sad, because potatoes are delicious. Sorry, potato-chan. Miles is moving on to pizza now. Don't take it personally, though, it's not you.

Miles doesn't intend to be cruel or malicious. He doesn't purposefully abandon people, nor does he ever mean to stomp on anyone's feelings; it isn’t as if Miles wakes up in the morning and decides, “All right, time to hurt people today!” He just loves the game — the thrill of chasing and persuading until he’s got you melting into his embrace. Each conquest adds a tally mark to his inflated sense of self; utterly triumphant is he to have claimed another heart. In a way, he's like a magpie, ever on the lookout for shiny new things to clutch. But there the fun ends. He’s gotten what he set out for and he has no use for a heart, now that it bends so easily to his will. There’s no challenge there, nothing to excite his restless mind and capricious whims. It’s nothing more than a game to him; perhaps what Miles doesn’t understand is that it isn’t always a game to everyone else.

His problem is what any professional psychiatrist may call a narcissistic personality disorder. He craves praise and attention, needs to be validated like he needs air to breathe. If he’s charming, it’s because he needs you to be charmed. If he’s assertive, it’s because he needs you to agree. And when you don’t — when you finally turn to him and tell him his ruse is never going to work, and you will never be another mark on his tally chart — when you tell him in no uncertain terms that he’s flawed, egotistic, and desperate — he snaps. That’s when the ugly, fractured sides of his personality show, in anger that’s wholly disproportionate.

Underneath his irrational, almost fanatic urge for validation lies problems with roots so deep, he can’t tell where they end.

[attr="class","hdtitle"]HISTORY/MISC.

[attr="class","hdinfo"]Miles was an exuberant child, loud and forever commanding the attention of the room. He was vocal and expressive from a very young age, and soaked up the limelight like he was born to be in it. His parents cultivated his enthusiasm and almost fanatic desire for spotlight, and encouraged him to be bold in his nature. With his natural charm and love for the spotlight, it was only natural that his parents eventually enrol him into a private school with a focus in various art forms.

He did all right in grades two and three. He was a cute kid, all bright blue eyes and sun-bleached hair. He was competitive and smart, and the teachers would constantly tell his parents that they had a “wonderful little heartbreaker” on their hands. But by grade six, some of what his teachers previously called “charisma” had turned into concerned murmurs about “acting out” and “lack of empathy”. If his report card notes were brutally honest, they would have all read as such: dominates class conversations and should pull back to give other children a chance; tends to intimidate other children during disagreements by interrupting or taunting; given to bouts of temper when confronted with constructive criticism; has appearances of arrogance and contempt towards other children.

But private schools are businesses at heart, and the principle would not hear of her teachers picking out any flaws in the children whose parents pay her fees. Miles’ parents never did understand why their little boy started growing more and more restless. They didn’t know he grew isolated from his peers. They didn’t know the teachers tried various methods of dealing with his inability to blend with the other children.

They didn’t know that Miles, at only age 12, had begun to panic. The compliments he used to receive about his expressive personality became gentle admonishments to simply “use your indoor voice”. The praise he used to receive about his natural ability to lead became kind reminders to “give others a chance”. Having known nothing but praise all his life, Miles was at a loss. As a result, the child developed an irrational need to claim the admiration and special treatment he had always been given until this point. So he acted out in every way he knew how, because he didn’t understand how else to get the attention he once had.

Eventually, even the most carefully worded report cards weren’t enough to hide that something was amiss from Miles’ parents. He was 13 when they took him out of that school, and for the next short while, they homeschooled him. Being neither doctors, therapists, nor psychiatrists, they didn’t know what to do for their child but to be supportive. “We’re here for you, no matter what,” they would anxiously tell him. They meant well with that, but in supporting him, they only validated his behaviour.

Nothing Miles did got criticism from his parents, and he recklessly tested their limits. By 14, he had learned how to lick salt and shoot tequila. By 15, he had four piercings and two tattoos. By 15 and six months, he had ended up in juvie twice for drunken assault. When his parents bailed him out, and his mother sobbed into her hands the entire drive home, pleading with him, please, my love, you’ll burn yourself out like this — all Miles could think of was, but did I burn bright enough?

Putting him into Birchwood at age 16 was his parents’ last, desperate attempt at giving him structure, in a setting where his needs could hopefully be addressed. Whether or not Miles can learn to adapt is something else entirely.

And yet for all that, he’s never been diagnosed with anything. For one thing, Miles himself is unable to tango with the idea that he isn’t perfectly fine, the way he is. For another, his parents are convinced he’s just expressive and outgoing, and one day he’ll grow out of it. Heck, at least if he had a diagnosis of something, he’d have that something to blame his terrible personality on.

As it is, he just comes off as an asshole with zero redeeming qualities.

• misc information

Miles has too many piercings to count. He has six or seven (depending on whether or not he feels like wearing the lobe earring) on his right ear, four to five on his left ear, and a barbel through his tongue. Whenever he's contemplating something, he tends to roll his tongue around to play with the metal ball on the end of the bar... and when he isn't contemplating something, he'll do it anyway, because he likes the way it draws attention to his mouth.

He's also covered in tattoos. His biggest piece is his neck, chest, and sleeves design. He isn't shy, either. Ask him and he'll toss off his shirt to share.

Lastly, despite all that he boasts, he’s never actually had sex with anyone. That’s a touch too much intimacy for comfort.