James Cassidy

[James Cassidy]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 402px; background-color: CACACA; padding-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 2px;] JAMES CASSIDY YOU HAVEN'T MET ME, I AM THE ONLY SON FULL NAME // James Cassidy ALIAS // Gunner, Cas GENDER // Male BIRTHDAY // March 1st AGE // Twenty-seven OCCUPATION // Gunsmith / Gunnery owner AFFILIATION // Civilian FACE CLAIM // Jensen Ackles He told them it was suicide. That of course, was the biggest lie to ever come out of James Cassidy’s mouth. John Cassidy was a drunk and a tyrant and James simply had no choice. He had to do it. Had to. He went to the shop to speak with the man early one morning, and though he'd figured John would be passed out cold, when he opened the door he was greeted with an awake but incredibly drunk father. It wasn't too surprising, of course, to see him cleaning his old rifle that his father had passed down to him. A gun that John said James would never inherit. A gun that his father said he wasn't worthy of. "Knew you'd come," the older man slurred drunkenly. There were two bottles of whisky on the floor next to his chair--empty. James nodded, "Well, gotta work don't I?" he asked and turned around to close the door behind him. By the time he'd turned around John had trained his rifle on his son, the muzzle pointed at the center of his chest. James stopped dead in his tracks. "Y'know it shoulda been you that died," he said, his tone angry. He was talking about how James should have died instead of his mother. "Then she might be alive t'day. It's your fault," John continued, disdain growing with each word. He'd sat here all night and thought about how much he hated his son. James knew, and he wasn't all too unfamiliar with a situation such as this. In his childhood he'd never been treated kindly by his father. He never caught a break. He was constantly yelled at--never did anything right. Constantly beat--because he deserved it. Part of himself as a boy wondered if his father was right, that it truly was his fault that his mother had died in labor. Part of him believed it was true. "You killed her!" John yelled and stood up quickly. He swayed and took a moment to retrain his aim on his boy. "You were a murderer the damn day ya were born!" It was true. For John, it was true. Everything he was saying was true and he felt it in his head and in his heart. But his mind was dark and his heart was broken and his sight was cloudy. But if there was one thing he knew, it was the hatred he'd felt for that child since the day he was born. James was only twenty at the time. Just a young man, but he knew what his father was accusing him of now was unfair. It was untrue. He was not a child anymore. He was smart enough to know that the blame was not his to claim. In his situation, however, there wasn't much he could do except wait. He knew that if he spoke, it would only mean his father really might pull that trigger. He never had before, no, but who was to say this morning might be the last he ever saw? "You weren't never no good for nothing," his father growled, his eyes bloodshot and whiskey apparent on his breath as he got closer. "You were a waste. Every breath you take you stole from her. She deserves to be alive, not you." He stopped then, only two feet away from his only child. The child he loathed. The child who deserved death. He pulled back the hammer on the gun and steadied his aim again. It was then or never, James knew. His father was serious. Everything happened quickly, and thanks to his father's slowed reaction reflex, James managed to grab the barrel of the gun and aim it to his side when his father pulled the trigger. The first shot went into the floorboards and his father cussed and struggled to pull his weapon back under control, but James was stronger and clear minded. He pulled the gun away and fired--it all happened in a split second before he could even question his actions. It was self defense. James quickly placed the gun next to his father, next to his hand, and took a few steps back. Blood was flowing freely from the wound in his chest and stained the hardwood floors of the gunnery. A deputy who had heard the shots came into the shop and halted upon the sight. James was taken to the jailhouse to be questioned. He told them that the man pulled the trigger himself. That he had tried to talk the man down, even tried to get the gun away from him, but he still managed to end his life right in front of his son. Everyone in the town knew that John Cassidy was not a nice man, not to his customers and certainly not to James. Still, he didn't want to tell the truth. He didn't want to be known as a murderer. Even if it was self defense, James felt that there was enough blood on his hands--he didn't need others seeing it. He was released the same day. John was intoxicated and had an arsenal of weapons at the ready--it was almost as if the town expected something of this sort to happen one day. James was free, but with a secret to keep locked up within him. As John's only living kin, James inherited everything. The Gunnery, and even the rifle--the gun he wasn't worthy of. James melted it down the day of John's funeral. He didn't want it or the memories it would bring. To hell with tradition. He didn't need it. It has been seven years since the death of his father. Seven years since owning the Gunnery. Seven years of making a name for himself as a better man than his father ever was. ALIAS: HADEN / AGE: 19 / TIMEZONE: GMT -6 TEMPLATE BY MYSELF (HADEN) PLEASE DO NOT USE WITHOUT PERMISSION

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