BIOGRAPHY

mild spoilers for The Graveyard Booknobody owens was not always a nobody and he was not always an owens either. surely, before he crept up that hill into the local cemetary, he had a name. like john, david, maybe michael, even. and he certainly had a last name: d o r i a n .but those things were lost, stolen with the lives of his parents and his sister in an instant, and for what? some prophecy that MIGHT have something to with the lad? the cult of men who sought his death were certain enough to have nearly killed a one year old that night, but fate is funny and likes to fuck with those who try to one up it.the baby survived, all because he crawled through the gates of a graveyard and was given the blessing known as the freedom of the graveyard. within the graveyard he would be raised by ghostly parents, given a name and a strange set of gifts only the dead should have.nobody, they called him, because he was nobody but himself. owens on account of mr. and mrs. owens who took in the lad as their own. but he was not raised by them alone. the whole of the graveyard raised nobody owens for fifteen years, and that included a vampire guardian and a werewolf tutor at that. and remember that thing, about fate fucking with ya? well it had it out for the lads that had is out for Nobody and that prophecy partially came to be true.Fifteen years old and he killed a man, would you believe it? Probably not, then again most people don't believe him when he says his name is NOBODY, so he's used to it by now. Fifteen was when the graveyard gave up the living boy from it's protective grasp and fifteen was when Bod was given a little money, government ID somehow made with his odd name, and the gentle push toward a life of the living.oh he would miss his family, that much was certain, and though the freedom of the graveyard faded from his grasp he would not stop until he found other secrets that might allow him to one day easily visit mum and dad as easily as he had as a little boy.nobody had the freedom of the world, now, and so he set out to take full advantage.now he's in his thirties and thriving, but there is no corking the curiosity in this one. he can visit his parents, sure, he's got loads of spells that and items to give him that power, but there is so much more out there...and honestly, he isn't entirely sure he has fulfilled that prophecy fully...

READ THE STORY FROM BOOK TO MID-TWENTIES

PERSONALITY

nobody is an extroverted introvert to the fucking MAX. this means he weighs his mental, emotional, and physical energy as best as he can but has a huge desire to put every last bit of it to work. because he's insatiable when it comes to curiosity and that need to know everything can make someone naturally observant and quiet go bananas in an effort to get what they want.so which is it, though? is he foremost an introvert? well he has the great makings of one but he'd probably argue it's more so nurture than nature on that one. after all, having been raised by the dead he was treated like them for half his life. he was invisible to most, for his own safety really, but it's a hard a habit to shake. besides, being a passive observer of the world often allows one to see more of the obvious and thus make better, more thoughtful choices in how one interacts with the world.it's just that sometimes he hasn't the patience to maintain that passive, observant self. he can do so well and he knows fully the consequences of going buck wild with his need to know things, such as the exhaustion of his energies, but that is his nature.after all, he was one years old and he got out of his crib and crawled up a hill to a fucking graveyard, do you think that is something a quiet, well behaved person does? you can thank the entire graveyard for having understood this about bod and knowing how to shape it into something useful and good.you, a perfect stranger, would see him as an easy-going, liberal sort of man. with his arms fully covered in sleeves of artwork and his smile rather inviting it's hard to think of him as being in a shell of any sort. that's the beauty of his magic and how he was raised... you would never notice him if he didn't want you to. magic and psychological bullshit come together to make a ghost of the man whenever he pleases. literally, he can fade through walls with the right spell these days.you might come to notice, if you were to spend more time with him, that he drinks in knowledge like a sponge. he remembers names, birthdays, your favorite way to take coffee, all the little things that make you you. he is incredibly observant and acts on these things without much thought, making you feel at home with him easily if you let him. of course there is the downside where it is rather creepy to be that observant. there is also that thing where he might come off as knowing more about something than he really does and that is mostly due to his being used to knowing the most. he doesn't like to admit it but finding he has not noticed something or hasn't been able to find what he is wanting to find drives him a little batshit nuts and anxious.bod has a heart of gold but he has very different ideas about right and wrong. he killed a man at fifteen and his very best friend called him a monster and while he technically gets it... he doesn't agree with that. some people have to do the ugly things, and not everyone appreciates the beauty of the ugly things, right?but for the most part nobody owens is a good guy, a loyal, protective guy who loves fiercely and will go to the ends of the earth for what he wants, even if it takes a huge toll on him and even if he forgoes caring for himself to make shit happen.ya gotta give it to him... this mother fucker is determined.

ONE

you learned the first night to count your money twice and hide it somewhere that people would never want to touch. even then you knew they were looking, sizing you up as if they thought they might make a go at it anyway. you lost a twenty pound note to an old woman with missing teeth and breath that smelled worse than the rotting chapel.you live, you learn, a woman crooned on the radio. you weren’t yet used to so much noise and sleeping didn’t come easy when it was louder during the day.you knew the roll of notes would not last. everyday you grew more anxious about your inability to remain invisible like you used to. people saw you and they stared and some even looked a little disgusted at the state of your clothes, the mop of dark curls that kept falling across your eyes.and then you met her, the woman who looked at you with the sort of expression you hadn’t seen since you left the graveyard. she smiled and fretted like your mother did, even gave you extra chips with your order.you heard her saying to another regular it was time to clean the gutters but she hadn’t the legs she used to for climbing ladders.so you said, with grease gleaming lips and belly full, full, full, “i can do it, if you have a ladder.”kindness always took you further than being frightening, anyway. a lesson well learned, you thought to yourself. a lesson your mother would be proud to know kept you company even when you felt loneliest on your new adventure in the big world.

TWO

an illustrated man eats at the fish and chip shop every friday. his arms are about as big as your head and your new landlord and boss babies this grown man as if he’s only fifteen like you. the man loves it. he loves her, you can tell. he hugs her not like she’s too old and frail, but like he’s worried she might one day not be there to hug anymore.one day you’re too curious for your own good and you ask, “when did you get your first one?”he knows what you mean. this is not the first time he has been asked this question. but he’s kind, despite how frightening he appears, and when he smiles with those big, violent white teeth, you suddenly find yourself wanting to BE him.he says, “did my first one myself when i was about your age, i reckon.”he says, “it’s an addiction, but better than most.”he says, “you have any?”you shyly shake your head but that night you dream about your skin coming alive, about all the animals inked onto your arms living when you sleep, trading places with each other mischievously.three days later you have your first one and it burns like hell and you know to keep it hidden under your shirt sleeve because technically you aren’t old enough to sport one, but he said, “i like you, nobody, you’re a cool kid.”it’s just your name. N O B O D Y in a sort of elegant scrawl on your left bicep.and he’s right.it is addicting.(you get your second within three months. your third a month after that. it’s all downhill from there. imagine your glee when you discover the world of magical tattoos.)You’re eighteen and sometimes you watch the shop for the old woman, but you’re a manager now and she’s on her last legs. When you aren’t at her side or taking her to the doctor then you’d rather be free of the scent of grease and fish.(For a long time you won’t be able to eat fish and chips. We’re talking YEARS.)So you let other people run the shop, kids that need the money more than you (you know she’s leaving it all to you when she goes, no matter how much you argue about it. she says you’re like her son, so much like her son. how did you end up with more than one mother, Nobody Owens? and why are they always so close to death?) and you hide in the tattoo parlor where you got your first ink three years ago.It started with just letters, your name etched into your skin, no color and nothing fancy. You don’t know where it will end. All you know is that you’re addicted and every inch of your arms is reserved space for something. But lately you’ve been picky about what goes where and why.You met a traveling man when you were sixteen and freshly sporting your name and a tombstone on your shoulder. he laughed when you told him how much more you wanted.He said, “don’t forget it’s there forever. What you lay down is part of you for good. I’m not saying a fun thing here or there is bad news, but your body? Think of it like.. a temple.”You asked if he was one of those types, those born again sorts that didn’t drink or smoke or cuss because the bible said so. He laughed again, hiked up his shirt sleeve and showed you all the runes that circled his wrists.Runes you swore moved when you stared long enough.“Nah, but I know the feeling of being reborn. Just like you know what it means to be dead and alive, I reckon.”You still aren’t sure who he was, or what he was. But he gave you your first real book on sigils, on runes and the magic of symbols. And when you chose your next piece you let him ink it for you and after you said, “I thought of an incantation the whole time. Do you think it makes a difference?”He shrugged.You knew if it did you’d know and the rest was history. Every piece you choose means something, is more complex than the last. Some take months to do, require ritual and work done by more than just the man you first met when you were fifteen, or the traveling stranger when you were sixteen.And when you’re exhausted by the shop and your shoulders ache from the weight of all the love you feel for this second (third?) mother, you steal away to this holy place where your best magic is born and hidden in your skin.You turn twenty at her funeral. You tell a priest, “most of my birthdays have been in cemeteries,” and your smile is a little too sincere. Later you’ll return to her grave as often as you do your own mother’s, to chat and tell her how things are going. After all, she was (is?) your THIRD mother.A week later, the fish and chips shop is under new management. Your friend who does tattoos says, “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on this lot,” as if it’s easier for him to distrust a couple as scrubbed clean as these compared to his usual ilk. If they had been pierced and inked they might have been better received.Now you’re free, with just the smallest of strings that keep you tethered to home and that’s the checks for the leasing agreement that show up in your bank account monthly.

SIX