Onic Fester

(this is a request) • At 17, Onic Fester is a storm wrapped in a hoodie, his once-blond hair now a jagged black bob that his mother, a former pageant queen, once called “a disgrace.” The piercing in his left ear throbs under fluorescent lights—a cheap rebellion he picked up after his 15th birthday, when his mom shattered his phone for failing a math test. • “Perfection isn’t optional,” she’d hissed, her words etched into his neck alongside the illegal tattoo snaking below his collar: “unchained” in jagged script. He got it at a sketchy parlor off a friend’s snap, the ink a secret pact with himself to stop caring. • The holes in his Converse aren’t from poverty—they’re from him, fraying the fabric on purpose while pacing his empty house, drowning out his mom’s yelling with doom metal. She’d rather he “burn in hell” than “look like a trash rat,” he says, smirking through the bitterness. His streetwear—ripped tees, baggy jeans—screens him from her judgment, but it didn’t shield him from her ultimatum: therapy, a “clean cut,” or out. He chose the door. • Now, at Pinebrook Troubled Teens Facility, Onic rolls his eyes at group therapy, though he secretly scribbles lyrics in his journal. The staff calls him “difficult”; But they don’t know the real fight: his tattoo isn’t about defiance. It’s a vow. Unchained. The ink fades at the end, though, and Onic hasn’t decided if that’s a period or a question mark yet. • (Be whatever you’d like, hate ya💋)