Fanon:Thea Donnybrook

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Thea Donnybrook

About the Story

• The motivation behind this story is for me, the author, to get the most out of playing The Sims 3. I like for my game to be as realistic as possible. Adding a more detailed storyline to my sim's life will help in this regard.

• My goal is to do "everything" in The Sims 3 with this single sim, Thea Donnybrook. For that reason, I don't really have any story arches in mind.

• I am not necessarily writing for an audience, though I do hope I can manage to keep an exciting enough story that people are interested.

• There are clearly some discrepancies between the world in The Sims 3 and the real world. I'm going to try and manage these the best I can, in some events just accepting that the world in The Sims 3 is its own little place with its own rules.

• The dates are mostly arbitrary, just to mark the passing of time. I didn't want to start with today's date and travel into the future too quickly, so 2005 seemed like a good year.
• Thea will change a lot over time. Her appearance, her personality and her desires will all morph and change as her life progresses. This is why there is no infobox.

Thea Donnybrook's Diary

March 12, 2005

My life isn't a story. If it were, perhaps it'd be more enjoyable. In stories, there are rarely superfluous details. I could be confident that anyone who made an appearance was set to play a large role. And oh, the foreshadowing! If my eye lingered on some object for a moment too long, I'd know it were significant. If my life were a story, I'd be both the protagonist and the reader and I could be sure that things would wrap up neatly. Any secrets I had would come out, any desires I had would be fulfilled.

But then again, if my life were a story -- not a single novel, mind you, but maybe a 13-season TV show -- I would probably grow tired. After all, protagonists are not also readers. Stories cannot lull like lives do. To keep readers, or viewers, interested, things must constantly be happening. Yet, for people to stay sane, we must have a sufficient amount of rest, of nothingness, of boredom.

The one thing I remember about my mother was that she kept a diary. My shoddy memory breaks my heart as I cannot remember the color of her hair or how she smelled or her face. I can't remember what my father's arms felt like, or what his voice sounded like. I just remember one thing, that my mother wrote in a little book and she called it her diary.

They died, both of them, from overdosing on heroin. It's never been certain if it was intentional or not. Part of me wants to believe that it was intentional, that the two of them couldn't take being drug addicts while their little girl needed them. But I don't necessarily want to believe that they'd purposely leave me on this earth alone, either.

And alone I am. With no immediate family able to take me in, my parent's death put five-year-old me into the foster care system. I bounced around foster homes, changing schools in the process, never quite making friends or taking root. When I was 14, an older couple, the Donnybrooks, took me in with the promise of some sort of stability and I took their last name to feel more normal. I appreciated them, but they were old, retired and they were not parents. They let me be and I let them be. When I officially became an adult and the state no longer had an interest in me, they let me stay until I graduated high school and then gave me some money to start my life with. They didn't say so, but I took the money as an offering to stay out of their lives. They didn't want a daughter, but they weren't terrible enough to leave me on the streets.

After a few weeks in motels, I decided I should join the military. I don't really feel I have any other options. I found the nearest base, in Sunset Valley, so I ordered a cab and rode into town. I've heard there are only two types of stories: a stranger comes into town, and someone leaves town for an adventure. On some level, aren't these the same thing? Someone coming has to be leaving somewhere. So maybe my life is a story, in some sense. This is my story. I suppose I can leave the boring details out and keep those quiet moments to myself. The rest will become written word, and live on, the way my parents didn't.

March 13, 2005

I bought a beater of a home, but it's actually quite lovely in a worn sort of way. It's all wooden and maybe rotten in some areas, but it's surrounded with these gorgeous willow trees and even has a pond in the front yard. At night, the crickets sing me to sleep. It was really the only place in town I could afford. Nearly all my money from the Donnybrooks went to the house, but I have a home now. I didn't realize until just writing that that this is the first time I can remember that I actually have a home that is mine in any sense.

Though money is a slight concern, I've officially signed my soul over to Uncle Sim, so paychecks should start arriving soon. I've been issued a uniform and some other gear and toured the base but I've not put any work in quite yet. I start tomorrow, bright and early. Good. The mornings are beautiful here.

March 20, 2005

When I said the mornings are beautiful here, I was assuming those were mornings greeted with an able body and a full night's rest.

School was always easy for me. I see now how lucky I was. I never had to study for tests and reading is actually something I enjoy. I guess I've never had to work hard at anything. Despite my early childhood, I think I've been pampered and spoiled.

My whole body aches. I joined the gym, but I'm not even sure that was necessary now. My duty may be in the latrines but they don't skimp on the PT. I can't simply stop when I am tired. My body is not my own; it belongs to the military. I am forced to push myself to the very edge, until my vision is beginning to go. In order to be on base in time to report, I must go to sleep very early. But as I am so tired when I leave, I immediately come home and fall asleep. I've not had time to do anything but work my body to the point of exhaustion and then sleep. Is this what military life is going to be like?

My supervisor, McIrish, an older woman, mentioned she has a daughter around my age. I'm not feeling too lonely yet, but it's good to know I have a potential friend out there. I can hardly write as my arm is shaking with fatigue.