- DISCLAIMER : I do not expect everyone who's ever roleplaying with me, to read this bio, i just enjoy writing, most of the time, so i thought why not give it a shot, for those of you that aren't too shoo'd away by the lenghty post -> i hope you enjoy it, xoxo Keyra. -

Keyra Raphaella de Cuir (born 1 January 1986) was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois as the only child of her parents, Pamela and John de Cuir. Very early on the faculty of her elementary school noticed how she used to gather people around her, to show them things she’s already learned, share her very basic knowledge about the world and how she thought it all worked out, a sentence one of her teachers noted down and kept mentioning years later still has been:

”Ya kno, the shun and the moon,
that’s like one ting! One shweet
ting tho, cause it has that tingy
going on for it: it eats the brightness
of the day until all around it is dark,
then it starts giving it back again til
everything is bright again! Cool huh?
I don’t kno why tho!”

When the transition from elementary school to high school began, she continued to be the awaken and vivid personality people liked her for since day one. Escalading the social ladder aside of the other cheerleaders she cheered the schools football team to some humble success. The loyalty she receives as part of the team, from both, team members and outsiders was just overwhelming, she really started to enjoy her life more and more. Starting her first relationship at the age of 15 with Ben Charleston, one of the most delicious and prestigious boys the ‘Windy City’ ever laid eyes on – everything seemed simply perfect. They both started slow, waiting for their parents approval before they took the next step, leading a picture-book relationship that lasted all high school long…

They both decided to end their relationship in consent when they realized how their different college choices would just make it impossible for both, to stay together. Keyra herself matured a lot throughout the experience they both shared – she felt more than ready for college.

She can’t explain herself up to now, how fast-paced her life navigated downwards the spiral – but she suggests it all started when her father has gone bankrupt. He lost all the family’s establishments and savings due to listening to the wrong people when he was on top of the world – building 29 % of Chicago’s Skyline as the CEO of Chi-DeCuir Construction Co.

Spending her weekend partying like each single one of her freshman’s year she got to know about what happened reading the Chicago Tribune of 10 June 2004 headlining ‘DeCuir Double slaying with a catch” in the local area. The article described how failure and despair led John DeCuir to murder his sleeping wife, strangulating her in the middle of the night, before he executed himself with a single bullet piercing through his skull from one ear entrance to the other.
She could never really forgive herself for not being there for her father, who was driven by success, knowing that the loss of his hard-earned reputation would drive him to take drastic actions. Oddly enough she never really judged him for pulling her mother down with him.

Reality caught her fast – the intersection from ‘pitying the daughter of a man like that’ to ‘marginalizing her totally’ was a harsh one. Inheriting her family’s debts she tried her outmost to get college and various low-wage jobs done.

Two years after inscription she dropped out of college due to violation of compulsory attendance. She hit rock-bottom, her jobs sucking the life out of her as fast as a vacuum chokes fire. Things took a twist when she became the girlfriend of Jonas Stone, who she knew was dealing with various intoxicants on her college’s campus. She first started to get minor courier obligations done, before he introduced her to his source and she was able to do her own thing on his side. He wasn’t a bad guy at all, he was just enjoying an easy life and sucked her into that lifestyle fast enough.

For once, she seemed to see light at the end of the tunnel again – she kept paying off part of the debts she was obliged to over the months. Being part of the partying lifestyle again.

Jonas worked as an exceptionally gifted tattooist in his day-to-day life, turning into that shady drug dealer she never really got to know, by night. He presented Keyra with her first tattoo after she told him her childhood quote when she was drunk, laying in his arms. He inked her scapulas (shoulder blades) with a sun on each one, absorbing its environment bit by bit.

She rapidly became addicted to the needle, piercing her skin, leaving marks that last an eternity on her body, even lines of text she let him write on her, to never forget them. The tattoos from the moment she got the first one helped her to replenish events or emotions that occurred in her life.

The first word she ever wrote on herself was ‘Death’ situated right above her navel, centered on her waist. She got it years after the incident where both her parents lost their lifes, it is there to remember her how volatile life as such, is.

Tattooing was not the only addiction Jonas brought her to, when they first met he set one rule in stone: “Never become your own dealer” – she obeyed that rule meticulous. Up to one day, Keyra and Jonas had a fight about her kissing some other guy at a party, she tried to convince him it was nothing more than a peck kiss but friends of both of them (at least she thought so) told him that they both vanished together in the bathroom and didn’t come out again until the party ended. He was telling her how disappointed he is, and how much he invested into their relationship just to have her throw it away like that – he was plainly outraged about the whole incident, hammering the door shut as he left, leaving her behind without much of a chance to explain herself. She ran to the suitcase she knew he kept his drugs in, took out the little slightly scorched metal spoon and began to drizzle some lemon juice on the spoon to melt it up with the small white crystal plates of ‘H’ – she waited for it to become liquid before she sucked it up through a cigarette filter into the nozzle.

She hesitated for a moment, gladly. A moment later her cell phone vibrated, playing the lovely melody of salvation she secretly begged to hear:

“My name is Luka
I live on the second floor
I live upstairs from you
I think you’ve seen me before”

The last two lines she barely heard as she read the text message the melody notified her of: “Lying lil’ bitch! I want your ass out by tomorrow!” Devastated she dropped the phone that blew some hope into the tortured lungs of her just a second ago. A little later she seemingly watched herself ramming the needle-tip of the nozzle into her arm, injecting its substance with one harsh drive. The ‘H’ shot rapidly into her brain, transforming to morphine in a matter of seconds. She didn’t waste time, packed her few things into a bag and hung it over her shoulder, taking the suitcase with her to at least hit him financially due to the maltreatment she just received of him…

It didn’t take her long to find a new place to stay funded by some of the drugs she stole of her ex-boyfriend.

Finally she reached the day she knew would come, she was totally fundless, once more so. She sold everything she had in her new flat to fund her addiction, hell, she even sold things she borrowed from friends. The only things she had left at hers were a mattress with a plain white sheet and a laptop she stole of one of her friends. It was just a matter of time until they’d cut her internet access and electricity so ‘Fuck it’ she said to herself and turned on the little computer. She smiled when she saw the exposed body of some internet vixen sprawling over the desktop with only a small piece of garment covering her sex. She soon became curious what kind of pages the guy visited so she moved the mouse to the top of the screen spotting a small button that indicated itself as ‘[History ctrl+shift+H]’ she pressed the left button her small mouse with her index and twitched back a little as she saw a series of links building themselves up, categorized by day and date.

Well, what did she expect; of course it turned out the majority of the guy’s visited pages had something to do with porn – covering all possible kinks and twists she could imagine, one page caught her eye ‘www.localwebcamgirls.com’ – she clicked it and it didn’t take her long to get into a chat with one of the girls, she watched how that girl teased her visitors professionally, she didn’t reveal a lot of her and every single request of her getting nude, was kindly replied with something along the line of “get me private and I’ll show you!” – Keyra marvelled for a moment “’get me private’ what the hell does she mean?” she checked the interface of the chat until her eyes laid rest on a button which said ‘Go Private, NOW!’ – She pressed it and was instantly asked for her credit card number and address – to charge her for 4$ every minute of the time she wants to spend. Saying to herself: “4 $ a minute?! Hell those sluts have to make a shitload of money!” She shut the top of the laptop down and didn’t lose an additional thought about the whole thing.

Days later someone knocked at her door like he’d plan to tear the wooden entrance open with his hands. He was harshly wakened by the noise. She slipped herself some half-buttoned shirt over and opened the door drowsy. Two heavy built men slammed the door open the very moment she unlocked it – the door hit her by the head tottering slightly backwards about to fall, as a scarred hand grasped her throat and stemming her against the wall – she didn’t knew that guy for sure – panting for air he asked her what the hell he wants. He then told her what he was here for “You owe Ramón six grands bitch, what do you think we want, huh?” the back of his other hand slapped over her right cheek as he said so. Her head bounced a bit to the side as her eyes filled with a combination of clarity and panic at the same time, before she could think of an answer the other guy came out of her bedroom, apparently having searched the flat for anything of value, having passed her the moment she was too dazed to realize anything. In a calm voice he addressed the other guy “Nothing. There’s absolutely nothing in here that would get us near the 6,000$ she owes Ramón.” Moaning of hassle the guy that held her throat slapped her from the other side once more, saying “You’ve got one more fucking week, before we come back and take you with us and make you pay him back with that slender body of yours, if you know what I mean!” Keyra nodded hastily to confirm that she did understand him perfectly fine. He did let go of her throat, her knees too weak to catch her weight, sinking down on her bottom, the back leaned against the wall still, as she held her throat rubbing it softly, eyeballing the guys’ legs walk by and leaving her place.

She was just finished taking a shower to get rid of the guys penetrating stank, his hand left on her neck – when she watched her body at the manky mirror in the bath, she had an idea that might get her at least a little of the money to buy herself more time to get the rest. She put a towel around her chest and sat down to the laptop again – she noticed the other day already that there was a small lense at the top it, facing the user’s direction – a web cam. She visited the site again where she saw that girl stripping for money, she gladly found the button that let her set up a profile of her own. Keyra tipped in basic facts about herself: height, weight, size, vital statistics, bra size, eye- and hair colour, skin type and shoe size. After verifying her age with her vastly overextended credit card, she was set up. She turned on the cam and just waited, sitting in front of it with her towel, covering her body, the cam set so it merely shows her face and neckline.

It didn’t took her long to establish a circle of regular costumers, she was in need of cash and did everything those men told her to do, to get the small button to light up, saying [Payment confirmed]. She felt disgusted by some of the things she was asked to, but never denied any of the requests, she simply couldn’t afford to lose a single one of the regulars for ridiculous values like pride or her personal sexual preferences, she had disbanded those a long time ago already.

With the newly gained income she was able to pay her obliges and her nervous break downs ceased a lot after getting her fix regularly again – and the smack helped her to endure the more extreme web cam sessions, making her relaxed, pain resistant and willing to the most extent to please her customers.

Keyra had done what she started that night for about 11 months by then. The turning point was about to come. And so it happened that night – she was on doing her show when she got a private request by a very specific viewer of hers – the handle he had gone with was “Beelzebub33” – he never really asked much of her, he wanted her to pose very statically in front of the cam – from all different angles. She always thought he might be obsessed by her body, just making tons of pictures of her like that, jerking off to them later on. She didn’t really care much, though odd, he was a lot more comfortable to please than some nutcases she else counted to her clientele. He seemed nice and genuine, when he once asked her if he can buy some vanilla pictures of her, just her hanging out with friends or something quite normal. After hesitating a little she goodbye’d her worries and just sent him some pictures from a community site she used back in college to chat with some friends and share party pictures and such. She had gone online by the alias of ‘Raphaella’ her second birth name. All the more surprised she was when she received a text message of Beelzebub33 again that one night saying “Hey Keyra how are you?” she didn’t spend attention first when she replied politely about her well-being. Just to nullify her answer a second later and asking him where he got her name, he told her that she shouldn’t have kept the print of the community page at the bottom of the pictures she sent him, it was way to easy to ‘track her down’. Shivers ran down her spine when she read those last words. She immediately shut the laptop and pushed it demonstratively slightly away from her in panic and jumped up to look out of the window to see if there is something suspicious in front of the house complex she lived in.

She didn’t notice anything at all, except her urging need to satisfy her lust for smack again that demanded her more and more the last weeks. A little jittery she set everything up like hundred of times before that day – injecting herself. Keyra used to transform the additional energy the drug pumped into her body by dancing most of the time – she turned the stereo to maximum volume, darkened the room with her jalousies and enlightened it with a lamp that occasionally changed its colour, maybe to support the flush? Maybe just a bad habit – nobody knows. Just one thing is certain; she would have definitely heard how her torturer got himself in the door if she were in a clear state of mind.

She awoke on the afternoon of the following day, laying on the floor of her apartment, her throat was all sore of whatever he made her do, wrists and ankles rope burnt obviously of hours of fixation and torture – she felt dirty, she felt helpless, she felt abused. The worst of it all was the stinging pain inside of her uterus, the sight of her thighs, soaked in blood, her own blood – what he has done to her, would leave her changed, forever. She dragged herself to her feet and walked to the bathroom, sitting herself into the corner of the shower, feeling the water burn down on her skin, flushing down her tears, her blood, her snot and his semen. The stream of water seeping onto the tiled floor was barely able to drown the tone of her whimpers and cry-out, leaving her devastated once more in her life, disgraced, raped and humiliated.

Weeks later, nothing was as it was before, she didn’t dare to research the persons alias or go to the police, far too deep the scars he left inside of her. But one thing occupied every winding of her brain, her menstruation set out for 7 weeks flat now, she was only to hope that it was a side effect of the years of drug abuse, it wouldn’t be the first time a woman experiences something like that, after she took heroin, it had to be that!

She was pregnant, knocked up by the man who tortured her for hours, violated her in so many ways – she never really thought about keeping the child, it probably would have reminded her every day what was done to her – she just wanted to forget, eliminate every trace of thought connected to that night, just like she eliminated the cloths she wore, even cut her hair to very short, to get rid of the smell of him that seemingly penetrated every fibre of her body.

It was a double edged sword – she didn’t want to have something like a child remembering her of that night, yet she wanted to warn herself for all eternity of things like that. There was no possible way to not abort that child; she went to an abortion clinic in her 11th week of pregnancy. The doctor didn’t even ask a lot, he just saw the various pinpricks on her arms – only god knows what he assumed.

She once again dealt with it her very own way; she wrote everything about that night she remembered all over her body like a diary entry. Adding Sorrow, Grave, Despair, Ashes, Dust, Grief and Requiem to the already existing Death-tattoo on her waist, every single word located not only centered on her belly – no – but directly above her womb now. Sobbingly she outlined one word after the other completing the shrine of a dead child her body became.

The day before she departed Chicago by bus, to start a new life in Hathian, she stopped by at the shop of a tattooist she used to hang out with when she was together with Jonas, to get her work done, he inked her with a suggestion of a dead embryo on her left upper thigh and a boy cowering with his knees pulled in on her lower back. The last dye she spilled up to now went into the words Emptyness placed on her upper back and Hate on her left ass cheek.

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Let’s see how things work out for her – new game, new luck.