Dempsey, Mara-Claire Gael

[mara-claire gael dempsey]

[atrb=style,width: 500px; background-color: B9B9B9; border: 10px dashed #754A4A; border-right: 15px solid #754A4A; border-left: 15px solid #754A4A; padding: 5px, bTable][th] Mara-Claire Dempsey BARISTA/INFORMANT, IRISH SOLDIER, WILLA HOLLAND

the basics FULL NAME Mara-Claire Gael Dempsey AGE & DOB twenty | March 2nd, 1992 HOMETOWN Dublin, Ireland/size] ETHNICITY Caucasian, Irish LANGUAGES SPOKEN English, conversational Spanish SEXUAL ORIENTATION hetero HAIR COLOR dark, chestnut brown EYE COLOR blue, gray, hazel, even green sometimes. it depends on the light, her environment, and her mood. HEIGHT & WEIGHT five foot seven | 120 pounds DISTINGUISHING MARKS Freckles, across her nose and cheeks. She has five tattoos. The first was a claddagh ring on her right ring finger she got when she left Ireland. The second is a small anchor on her inner left ankle that holds down a small, simple cross. The third is on her inner, left upper arm that says "nothing good gets away." in a small black, typewriter font. Her fourth is a Dave Eggers quote on her inner right wrist that states "i will spread myself like wings. i am a billion tiny feathers. you have no idea what's happened to me." in her own scratchy handwriting. The last, most recent is on her opposite wrist in the same style as her 4th tattoo that reads, "do not pity the dead. pity the living."

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likes: Ireland, the beach, painting, poetry, writing, books, blue, green, tea, backpacking/hiking, the mysterious, her religion, prayer, astrology, palm reading, her sister and parents, her cousins, change, time to be in her own head, getting "lost" dislikes: routine, predictability, being stifled creatively, loud spaces, crowds, pain of any sort, needles, the obvious, know-it-alls, math, atheists generally, being told what to do(especially by those she considers on her level), the color orange, suffering in others, being criticized, staying in one place too long, her connections with the Irish motorcycle gang, making decisions, being wrong, being told she needs to get her head out of the clouds and "get with it"

strengths: compassion and empathy. Mara-Claire is the definition of a bleeding heart. She would do anything to help someone in pain, something she sees as a strength though the people she associates with think otherwise. She'll give the shirt off her back to help someone, especially her family. She can handle any situation with the utmost delicacy and sympathy. adaptability Mara-Claire can adapt to any change or situation in life she is presented with. She hates routine and predictability, and actually embraces change. She sees each one as a new opportunity, forever the optimist. Even things that can be challenging she sees the good in, making it easy for her to think on her feet and be comfortable doing just about anything. Even things that are devastating, like death, Mara-Claire can brave and adapt to, choosing to see it as all part of a bigger plan. weaknesses: impractical. Living mostly in her head that is fervently fueled by her optimism, Mara-Claire is far too optimistic and creative to be a practical, functioning adult. She's impulsive and usually lets her whims get the better of her, forgetting her responsibilities. She has trouble taking care of herself as things like bills, rent and grocery shopping just seem trivial and slip her mind because she is too busy living in her head. easily taken advantage of. Because she believes everyone is generally a good person, Mara-Claire is easily used. If someone asks her for something, she'll give it and if she believes someone is hurt she'll do just about anything to help them. Once people realize this she is easily to manipulate. And instead of learning from her past she makes the same mistakes over and over agin, handing out second, third, fourth chances when they aren't deserved, not thinking about her own sacrifices or consequences.

traits: gentle, patient, malleable, generous, friendly, good natured, kind, easygoing, affectionate, submissive, compassionate, sensitive, accepting, strong willed, imaginative, creative, artistic, stubborn, open minded, optimistic, emotional, withdrawn, cold, melancholy, wishy-washy, adaptable, intuitive, self sacrificing, easily taken advantage of, loyal, lazy, faithful, addictive personality, scatterbrained, restless, unrealistic, fearful, dreamy, gossip, intense, reflexive, instinctual.

Arthur Owen Dempsey- 57, school teacher and patch. "My father was 27 when I was born, and I think he was disappointed I was not a boy. The first of many ways I have disappointed him. I know he loves me, and I love him, but I often don't like him. It's obvious I'm not the child he wanted. Not like my sister, who is golden to him. It was just especially hard on me growing up and realizing what my family was a part of in Dublin, and now here. At some point a parent always falls from the grace of a child, it was just a long fall for Da. I know he's a good man deep down, he's just made some choices, okay a lot of choices, I hate. But it's not my place to say anything, and even if I did, it wouldn't change anything. I just wish he could see that I'm not the girl he wants me to be and never will be so I could stop disappointing him."
Fiona Grace Dempsey (nee Gallagher)- 56, accountant. "My mum...is cold. Calculative. Manipulative. To be honest she and I never much got on and I barely liked her. Not much has changed in all honesty. I always preferred my Auntie Ariel more than my own mum, and did so openly. Oh we used to fight like cats and dogs when I was younger. Still do sometimes. Shelby says it's out of concern, says it's because I'm 20 and can barely take care of myself, and if I'm not careful I'm likely to get myself killed especially in a town like this one here. But it's more then that. If my Da is quietly disappointed in me, then Mum screams it. She wants me to be like her, and has tried in vain to mold me in her shape but it never did work. We're polar opposites. I try and avoid her, really. That's what it comes too. Family is important to me, I would never desert them or do anything to hurt them, but I'm not above skirting around our problems and avoiding her."
Shelby Dempsey- 23 "Shelby and me, we were close as sisters could be. God, I loved her. Love her, so much. I hate to see what she's become though, easily took up in the family business, happy to do so. I don't want to hurt no one, but she doesn't much care what happens so long as the people she works for are happy. I used to tell her everything, she was my best friend. But ever since I came back, things've been different between us. There's a gap. And the more I try and close it, the bigger it gets. I just...don't understand how she can do it, especially after Murphy and his men killed our own flesh and blood. How can she be so happy to serve with them when they did that? To us. I just want my sister back."

"Mara. It rhymes with Car-uh." Sometimes I hate my name. It's beautiful, insanely Irish. Mara-Claire. But you try having to explain the pronunciation about 12 times a day, it gets tiresome. That's why I gave in, and let people call me mostly whatever they want. Even MC, though I hate the nickname. Funny, it's what I'm called most often. Or just Mara. I suppose people think Mara-Claire is too much a mouthful. It's so lovely though, I adore when people call me by my rightful name. Mara-Claire. Especially in an Irish accent. Goodness, how that reminds me of home. It sounds fine in an American accent, but the Irish make it sound like a lullaby. Oh, how it makes me home sick. I miss Dublin. I was born and raised there, just moved to Valkyrie but two years ago. Less.
You see, I probably would never have left, and if I had not have come to Valkyrie on my own. No, I followed my family here. Because I miss Ireland but it's not the same without my family. I'm close with them all, or was at least, closer than most. I'm the youngest of two girls, and my parents they're still together. I adore my sister, wanted nothing more than to be just like her, copied her every move, followed her around like a little shadow. But we were bigger then just the four of us. My Da's two brothers and their families all lived on the other side of Dublin, so we saw all them quite a bit, holidays and such, birthdays and the likes. But my mom's sister, Aunt Ariel, her husband and her seven boys lived a stone's throw away down the road. Gosh, you should have seen us all. We ran up and down those streets day and night, my best memories there with them. The Rooney boys and Shelby practically raised me. They taught me to play football and cricket, climbed what trees we could find and threw rocks at alley cats. or more, the boys did and I would cry or yell at them to stop. I was always the most emotional one of the lot. Cried the most. Cried over everything. Spilled milk, someone pulling my hair, a dead mouse in a cat's mouth. Those boys gave me hell for it though, thank goodness. Toughened me up a bit, taught me to at least put up a front. I still cried more than most, seemed to care more, feel things deeper than the others but I got better at hiding it. Until I was alone at least. I heard from first curse word from Thayne's mouth. Had my mouth washed out for an hour when my mom heard me say "fuck," for the first time. Good thing Aunt Ariel never heard him, she probably would've had a heart attack.
I loved all of them, but Tommie and I were always closest. Born just a month apart, we did everything together, went through everything together. He was like a brother I never had. Oh and poor Harry, the baby of us all. How Tommie and I used to boss him around, happy to have someone to do what we said, happy to not be the babies. Little Harry chased us around all the time, struggling to keep up, usually ending in us taunting him, playing some trick on him and Aunt Ariel having to scold us, and heal Harry's bruised little ego. She was a good mum. It wasn't much of a secret that I preferred Aunite Ariel to my own mum. They were sisters but they couldn't have been more opposite. My mom was dark hair, dark eyes, cold, moody and controlling. Aunt Ariel was all red hair and fair skin, caring, loving, called the mum of the neighborhood and rightfully so. I could talk to her about anything and everything, stuff I would never dream of telling Mum. She seemed to just understand me. I think I was more like her than anyone else in my family, which I think aggravated my mum to no end. They were sisters, and maybe because there was a 10 year age difference between the two, but my mum never could understand her sister, thought she was weak or something. And she probably thought the same about me. If she saw me cryin' or upset she wouldn't try and make me feel better. She'd just tell me to quit howling, to do something better with my time. She'd never try and figure out my problem either, not like Aunt Ariel who took an actual interest in my life, and my problems no matter how stupid or insignificant they may be. She was capable of sympathy. Mum was not.
Even when I was young, it was obvious I was the black sheep of the family. I loved them, my mum and da, Shelby, and my cousins. But I wasn't very much like them. When I was little I liked reading or day dreaming more than I liked most people, especially those who weren't blood. I preferred to be on my own than make new friends, living in a dream world. I was highly imaginative, had a whole hoard of imaginary friends. And I devoured books. It was all too easy for me to insert myself in the books. You should have seen me when the first Harry Potter book came out. I couldn't have been any older than 8 and I read the whole book on my own, the first chapter book I read without nay help maybe. I referred to myself as a witch for weeks, running around with an old towel pinned to my shirts as a cloak and a stick I found in an alley as a wand, casting spells on everyone I crossed. And I was good at painting too. Every cild does his little crafts and finger paints and what have you, but I loved painting. Real paintings, and it was obvious I had some talent for it. I was no master or savant, nothing like that, but I was naturally inclined to it, beyond the skill of a girl my age. I liked it, really liked painting actually. If I wasn't reading, I was usually painting. If it was obvious I was different when I was little, by the time I was in secondary school it was a flashing neon sign. I became cold, especially towards people I didn't know and frankly had little interest in knowing as everyone around me was a prat. But underneath my exterior that had built up from years of teasing, I was all creativity, emotions, secret desires. Attachment. I withdrew more, partially of my own will, spending more time reading, painting, day dreaming. I became interested in astrology, palm reading. That sort of mystic stuff. And by interested in, I mean devoted to. I partially withdrew because the people in my school knew I was strange, knew I was weird and rejected me for it. I never did much mind being ignored, the whispering, or being called names. I had my fair share of people call me "a fucking freak." But the fighting was the worst. I can't count how many times Tommie had to pull me off some poor girl, probably didn't realize I had grown up fighting with the Rooney boys, and drag me away before I would start to cry. I hated to see anyone in pain, hated to hurt people. Sometimes, you have to though. I'm not just going to sit back and let someone have at me. It tore me up to fight, probably more than any physical pain I inflicted.
I also, took to church. My parents said we were catholic, but other than Easter, Christmas and when we visited my grandparents our family never stepped foot in church. Except me. Another way I was glaringly different. I loved church. I'd always liked the unknown, mysterious things. I was just sort of drawn to all the questions a Sunday service caused to stir up in me. Big questions, things that mattered. And going to church, praying, it made me feel good. Little did I know how much I would cling to that. How much I would need that.
When I was 15, things started to come out. Dark things, family secrets. Maybe they had been there all along, I had just never noticed too busy dreaming. They'd been happening long before I noticed though. It was Shelby who told me. Or at least led me on the path to asking my da the right questions that forced it out of him. My family wasn't just close because we were family. No, there was more. The unbreakable bond of family and being involved with the Irish mob. And it wasn't just Da. Mum was in on it too. They'd been involved for years. And Shelby, she was 18 then, she loved it. My cousins. Tommie, Harry and I seemed to be the last ones to find out, being the youngest and all. Aunt Ariel, even she was involved. My loving, kind, sweetest woman ever, aunt was involved. That pub she ran, the one I hung out in after school nearly every day, it was some sort of headquarters, some sort of meeting place. They had kept it from me to protect me, and I wish I had never found out. With that knowledge came horrible awareness. Came horrible responsibility. Horrible Obligations.
At first, I didn't do anything, just knew. But within a year they had me doing small errands, involved. I guess you could say I was an informant. Just because I was not very outgoing when it came to meeting people, I really did make friends easily. It may not have looked like it, but my ability to sympathize, my ability to care so deeply and genuinely, people trusted me. And no one would suspect a young, pretty, innocent girl. And I was surprisingly quick on my feet, not just book smart, but clever. I have an uncanny ability to respond to any situation I am presented with. Reflexive. I don't make the first move, I never take the offensive side. I wait for things to happen, and react. But it worked for me. And when this was recognized, well it wasn't long. They were taking all the things I loved about myself, and using them in a way that would hurt people. I began to hate myself. Pure, real, genuine hate. I wanted to stop, I didn't want any part of this life. And though I was good at getting information for people, it quickly became apparent I was not made for this life. I'm too sensitive, too emotional, too compassionate to do what I do. The work took a great toll on me, which I made no point in hiding. But what could I do? They were my family, and they did awful, terrible things, but I loved them. I could never just leave them, and even if I did where would I go? They were all I had. Not to mention I knew too many secrets, I could never just walk out. I was obligated to them all. I was in, whether I liked it or not. So I did the only thing I could think to do. Pray. I prayed for my soul, for my family's souls. For forgiveness, for guidance, for answers, for direction, for clarity. For everything. For something. For anything. I went to confession, tried to rid myself of sins. I took solace in the church, more than I ever had. It was the one thing that made me feel good, the one thing I still liked about myself, my unflagging faith. I had none in myself anymore but no matter what, they couldn't take that from me. They could turn me against myself but couldn't make me turn against God.
Things were bleak, my life a vicious cycle of obligations, hate, for a while. Until he came along. Aidan. I was seventeen and it was love at first sight. He moved in down the street, was a friend of Robbie, one of my cousins. I would have followed him to the ends of the Earth. He was smart, and funny, caring. And blessedly normal. No affiliations with the dark stuff my family muddled with. He had no idea what I was involved with, blissfully unaware as they say. But he made me feel like a decent human again. Hell he made me feel human again. He didn't care that I was emotional and lived more in a fantasy world than this one. He didn't care that I could never make up my mind and didn't mind that I was guilty for things I could never explain. Hell, forget making me feel decent. he made me feel human again. It wasn't long before we were sneaking around, getting it in whenever and where ever we could. I went to church religiously, but that doesn't mean I was a saint. Like rabbits we were. I didn't care, we were in love. But that didn't stop things from falling to shit. The way we were, it's no shock I became pregnant, right about my 18th birthday. A month before. Well actually, it was a shock, at the time. I can still remember it with perfect clarity, sitting in the loo of that coffee shop miles from my house where no one would recognize me. The pink stripes on the test, the way the room started spinning, my head pounding. The first thing I did was vomit. I had never felt so lost. So scared. Ironic, considering I technically worked with the mob. And a pregnancy made me feel the lowest I had ever been.
I knew I couldn't keep it. I was only barely 18. Aidan and I weren't married. Neither of us were ready for a child. And besides, I could never bring a child into this world and raise it. Not into my family, the circumstances we had. I had a great childhood, never left wanting, well loved. But I could not in good conscience raise a child knowing he would grow to follow in my foot steps, because it was a vicious cycle and I wasn't breaking it. I couldn't. How could I raise a child at 18 normally, but especially knowing the life he would grow into? I knew I couldn't have an abortion though. I was already a month along when I found out, and even though my religion didn't go so far as to stop me from fucking my brains out, I could not live with myself if I did that. I already had enough against me. I waited a few days, the secret heavy on my shoulders, before I finally broke and told Aidan. His face still haunts me, when I told him, the look of...disgust. How could he look at me like that, when it was just as much his fault as mine? It wasn't as bad as when I told him I was giving the kid up for adoption. He went mad. Started screaming, started throwing things. How could I be so stupid, so daft? Just get an abortion. It'd be easier. What was I thinking, didn't I realize people would talk, what they would see? It's not like I could hide a big pregnant belly in nine months. I told him I'd made up my mind though. He called me a stupid cunt and left. It was the last I ever saw him. I begged him to stay, and cried when he left. I wish I hadn't now.
It wasn't long after this my parents announced they were moving. Or, we all were. Moving to Boston. Bringing the Irish mob to new shore, expanding our horizons. I had no idea I how I would tell my parents I was pregnant, but I saw my opportunity here. I convinced them, when I finished high school they would move, and I could spend a year backpacking around Ireland, England, Scotland. It wasn't hard to convince them, surprisingly. I guess they had Shelby going with them, and they knew I'd join them not too long after. So we packed up the house, and they moved to a new country leaving everything we'd always known behind, and I went to London just as I started to show.
I lived in some roach infested, leaky, awful little flat with three others, the only people that ever knew I was pregnant other than Aidan. I worked in a shop, and gave birth October 28th. I was 18, almost 19, and it was a boy. I saw him for a brief second, but I never even held him. He was never mine, I went through some adoption agency and he was adopted by a nice white collar couple from Essex. People that could give him the life he needed, the life he deserved. The kind I could never provide for him, or any other future children so long as I do what I do. I'm not a part of his life, I don't want to be. He doesn't need to know about me, because I'm not the kind of person you hope your mother is. A few weeks after that, I did actually leave to do what I had told my family I was doing. I spent the next four months weaving my way across the British Isles, taking photos, proof that I had done it, to show everyone when I went to Boston.
It came sooner than I expected. My flight to the states. I missed my family horribly though, I had never been without them for more than a few days, and it'd been nearly a full year. I knew what would be waiting for me when I got there, what sort of life, but I still was eager to come. That's when I knew. I was in for good. I could never leave Shelby, Mum or Da. I loved them too much to ever leave them for good, even if it meant I was an awful person. Even if it meant I hated myself. God forbid, even if it meant I have to kill someone. I needed my family, even if I hate them for what they do to me, to themselves, to others.
Or so I thought. I'm not so sure anymore. Ever since I returned, I've seen things in a new light. I took off after the Earthquake. Well, more accurately, after that caused my Aunt, my uncle, all of my cousins but Flynn to be killed. Tommie, Harry, Thayne. All of them. I thought I had known pain before. i thought I had known suffering before. But I was wrong. I feel their absence everywhere, feel the gaping hole they have left in my heart with every aching breath. I had to leave, because how could I be there, where they were haunting me? I didn't tell anyone I just left. Who was there to tell? Mum, Da, Shelby....they all took up with the new leader. Maybe it was for their own lives, but how could they? Just like that? It seemed like they didn't even care, like it didn't even bother them that their own flesh and blood had been spilled upon the ground. Maybe it was just because I still felt things tenfold, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't stay. I couldn't talk to them. I just had to run. I no longer had a home. My home had always been with my family, and now I had none.
I went to Mexico. Mexico City. Holed myself up for a few weeks, crying until there were no more tears. Until my throat ached, until I was raw and red. And then I drank. I spent two weeks drinking until I was good and numb and dull. But I came back. Because you can't just run out like that. Because people'll find you eventually, and people like that'll kill you. And I'm a horrible coward. I fear for my life. Sometimes I wish I were dead, it'd be easier. But I fear it all the same, the little part of me that made me return. So here, I am in Valkeryie. Looking for the one person I can still think of as family, Flynn Rooney. To stand by his side, to grieve with him. I can't go back to my family, not yet. I love them still, as much as I wish I wouldn't. Because they're not good people. And I don't like them.

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the player

ALIASCarsen
YEARS OF EXPERIENCE 8 or 9?
OTHER CHARACTERS N/A
HOW'D YOU FIND US? an ad
RP SAMPLE

It was beautiful, the library. Don't get her wrong, it was tiny. But it was beautiful nonetheless. Quiet, calm. The polar opposite of every other setting in Hazel's life. Her home was full of noise. The sounds of drinking and giving up long ago. The sounds of struggling and chaos. The sounds of a family that had been splintered and pieced back together, grown stronger despite the absence which could be so obviously felt. Sounds of love and love lost, unanswered questions and responsibility, and above all the sounds of a young family trying to make it work when they had so little. The hospital was full of noise. The sounds of grieving and begging, anger and denial; faith, hope, joy and more often then not, loss. She loved her job, she did. But it was hard. It was hard to watch people wither away into dust. It was even harder to watch the people that cared for them leave that place with nothing but pain and someone slipping through their fingers they were defiantly trying to hold on to. Some people believe in fate. Some people rely on destiny, it's all in God's plan, to make it through it all. Some people turn from faith toward cold hard reason. Some people believe in the absurdity of life; it's all random. Hazel....she believed in hard work, and people. She believed in fighting, and doing thongs for yourself. And when there was no more fight left, she didn't know what she believed in. Four years of school had never really prepared her for her job. Sure, she could place IV's and give meds, read charts. But how do you comfort the dying? God, she was trying. But she was only 22! Still so young. Older than most her age, life wizened her. But still so unprepared for what she had been thrown into.

So she turned to books. For answers. For solitude. For escape. For quiet. The library was her small oasis in this small town. She didn't have much time to herself, what with working full time and then some at the hospital and caring for her three siblings who still lived at home. But they were all older now, a relief and a scare. Hazel no longer had to stand over their shoulder every second of every day but they were off on their own for the most part. She had built her whole life around raising those kids, and when that was gone, what was left? Everything she had done, every choice was for them. Was she even anything without them? She tried not to think about it, besides they still needed her now anyway. Not as much as a few years ago, but yet still.

It was nice to have a few hours a week for Hazel to pursue something that was just her own. She had her garden, and she would play the piano. But above all, books. Every chance she got, she tucked herself into the sunny corner, her favorite worn in spot in the library, book in hand. Sometimes fiction, sometimes a memoir, or Shakespeare, philosophy, history book, or book of science. She read all she could get her hands on. Trying to escape the noises that surrounded her, trying to find answers to her problems in the ramblings and problems of others. They helped. They worked. Sometimes it seemed as if books were her best friend. Since she had so little time for friends of the human kind. At least those that she was close enough to that they could understand, inform and comfort her like Dave Eggers or Henry David Thoreau could.

That's where she found herself on that warm, sunny Sunday afternoon. In her favorite, familiar spot in the library, in the arms of the latest John Green novel, whose main character shared her name. Hazel paused from her reading, looking up to examine the world around her for a minute. She checked the phone tucked into her purse in case Hope or Hayden or Hattie had called. They hadn't. She wasn't due home for another hour and a half before she would start dinner and perhaps try and peel her father off the couch. Until then she could forget them and jump into the alternate world of John Green's Hazel Lancaster.

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