|Donnatella Marie Duvall|
"She's got enough country for the both of us, but I'm hoping if we spend enough time together some of it'll rub off on me - I could really use that lasso trick."
|Hometown:||Port Isabel, Texas|
you know you drive me up the wall Edit
Donna to her friends, Thumbelina to her Russian, and Miss Duvall if you're nasty; Donnatella is an LA-based Texan bartender who smokes too much, watches her drinking lest she go the way of her alcoholic mother, and doesn't believe in heels lower than four inches in her off hours.
the way you make good on all those nasty tricks you pull Edit
Donnatella Duvall was born on September 1st, 1977 to Richard and Nancy Duvall, one half of twins (Donnatella Marie and Aaron Richard) and the third and youngest child. She was raised by Richard Duvall and his "friend" and neighbour, Michael Kirkpatrick. The daughter of a (primarily) science-fiction novelist and the understandably unhappy woman he'd married after accidentally knocking her up with elder daughter Elise Duvall, Donna's childhood was superficially unremarkable, a middle class family in the suburbs getting by.It was pretty unremarkable when you take a closer look, too, but only because there is nothing new or unique about the kind of problems the Duvalls had. Donna's father was untreated and undiagnosed with bipolar, struggling to deal with holding together a family he hadn't planned on while remaining closeted for the sake of the woman who hadn't thought this would be where she ended up, either. With a dedication to appearances, the cracks all happened below the surface and behind closed doors. Donna took responsibility for her father at a very young age when she decided no one else was doing a good enough job; between his illness and the alcohol in the household, she's still not going to refer to what went on as abuse. The fact that her father was bigger and stronger than she was and that sometimes his children came away with bruises was, obviously, outweighed by the fact he was a sick man who didn't intend to hurt them. Who didn't deserve to be vilified for it. So they don't talk about that.
They don't talk about Aaron's death in late August of 1990, either, which was followed by a relocation in 1991; the Duvalls coped with loss by denying it and never looking at it again, and most people in Donna's life are unaware she ever had a twin. She isn't - Aaron had been her closest confidante and for a long time more or less her only friend, and losing him sent her into a tailspin that lasted all the way through highschool. Low self-esteem ("the pretty one" doesn't have to be "the smart one"; basing your self-worth on your looks and working on the assumption you're actually kind of dumb is not healthy, and an ability to be both misandrist and misogynist at the same time developed a really fun sexuality) coupled with a distinct lack of boundaries in the home led to some impressively bad decision-making, establishing and reinforcing patterns that would follow her for her entire life. Michael (a 6'6" soft-speaking ex-con who considered himself slightly out of place with his partner's insane extended family) would later regret having taught her how to throw a punch and handle a gun.
In her twenties, set to a backdrop of her parents' marriage finally falling apart and Richard and Michael moving in together, Donna opted to travel and passed over the suggestion of an English major and went to bartending school instead of college. She was still young when she met USAF pilot John Sheppard, a good decade her senior, and entered a fairly turbulent relationship with him. Her parents approved, his didn't, and Donna really didn't care. Her first pregnancy (though not first pregnancy scare) coincided with one of John's tours overseas, and once she realized she decided it would make a really great welcome home surprise! ...unfortunately, a minor car accident at about six months triggered premature labour and while Donna was ultimately fine, the baby (a boy) died.
John, coming home, had no idea what he was walking into and unfortunately Donna chose not to enlighten him. Grieving, angry, guilty and bitter, she took her frustrations out on him until their relationship collapsed under the weight. She walked out, looking up an old family friend in LA; Piotr Volkov, who'd "worked" with Michael when they were both younger. (Piotr Volkov was born Peter Farrell, in Ireland, and it's one of life's great mysteries how he's pulled off living as a Russian for the past thirty years.)
you're packing up your stuff and talking like it's tough EditIn LA, living initially with "Mr Bartokomous", Donna continued the ongoing theme of making really special life decisions. Peter threw her out on three separate occasions, usually as a direct result of whoever she was sleeping with at the time, and on a number of others took her back in and may or may not have broken that one guy's legs, they're both very vague on the subject. She worked at a series of clubs and bars, ending up at her present place of work - Boulevard3 - a few months after Peter introduced her to a friendly acquaintance of his in May of 2008, Sasha Alekseyev, who is actually Russian. A "friendship" initially born out of Donna wanting to polish her accent in conversational Russian and Sasha not having any compelling reason not to help, while she still insists to all and sundry that he is not her boyfriend and she is so far over boyfriends she couldn't see any if she turned around, they've now been officially living together for several months. When she moved in, Donna brought her four year old Papillon, Rasputin, with her.
Elise Duvall Ryder has made periodic attempts to reach out to her younger sister since Donna set herself up in California; partially due to the fact they weren't close in the first place and partially due to Donna not getting along well with Elise's husband (George Ryder, born again Christian and secular asshole) this has met with limited success. Donna occasionally sends gifts and cards back to Texas for her nephews, but calls next to never and has occasionally checked caller ID and pretended not to be home. Elise does not have her cellphone number.
and trying to tell me that it's time to go Edit
Donna is 5'1" (Sasha is 6'4", and responsible for the 'Thumbelina' nickname), slim, green-eyed and naturally brunette. She has faint, barely-there-any-more stretchmarks from her short-lived pregnancy and some minor scarring from typical childhood and youth injuries and things a little less rosy-tinted. She has a tattoo of tornadoes in the small of her back, and spent most of the '90s as a bottle-blonde.
Donna speaks fluent Russian and passable conversational German, and can still do the backflip and splits from highschool cheerleading. She's comfortable handling guns, a decent shot, and hits harder than you'd think. She's a not-so-secret Trek nerd and will argue passionately that Picard owned all the other Starfleet captains; she used to like Star Wars more than she does now.
and it always seems you got something on your mind other than me Edit
girl you been giving me that line so many times Edit
it kinda gets like feeling bad looks good Edit
but i know you ain't wearing nothing underneath that overcoat Edit
I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.
Look out! Fore! I hate you.
The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging
from under by third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.
A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.
My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant “good morning”: hate.
You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head
under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.
(Julie Sheehan's Hate Poem)