#h.aesthetic

Name: Holder Albert Teichman

Aliases: Doc, Dr. Teichman, Holder

Age: 36

Sexuality/Gender: Homosexual Trans Man He/Him

Personality: A deeply nervous man, Holder's speech patterns are laden with stutters and uncertainty, and he finds it difficult in the present day to trust anyone, much less a town full of relative strangers. Endlessly loyal when he eventually allows himself to trust someone, it's guilt that guides his actions and efforts- a constant belief that his stringent clinging to his Hippocratic oath in the moment that he had to decide whether or not to let the Mystic River Killer die caused the death of three more people- and left him the sole survivor of their bloody rampage. Driven to help others to the point of self-harm, he'd set himself ablaze to keep someone else warm for even a moment longer, kindness often taken full advantage of by those without his best interest at heart, sensationalized and exploited for a time after his brush with death- it was really only his arrival in Huntsville that allowed him to take a breath and stop answering to the constant interviews from news media, television, and the dreaded true crime podcaster.

Occupation: While a Coroner in Huntsville, Holder's former work was that of a surgeon- though his shakes and injured right hand have left him unable to trust himself to work on anyone who isn't already dead.

Affiliations: Huntsville Police Department, the Town of Huntsville

Scent Profile: Faint cologne and aftershave he's about to run out of, the constant clinging scent of blood and antiseptic, as clean as one can be in the aftermath of what's happened to Huntsville. There's the faintest smell of wood polish, paints and oils- though this is clearly tied to his hobby over his work.

Aesthetic: Tight leather gloves hiding the reminder of your most crushing shame, blood and sweat clinging to pale skin- the shadow of doubt looming over your shoulder. You are no killer, so now their blood is on your destroyed hands. A pendulum, a pivot- the world changes, so you do. Now the ferryman, pennies on the eyes, a fee for the afterlife- their journey overseen by careful, still-shaking hands and a desperation to right the wrongs you've inflicted. your phone still rings off the hook, they didn't tell you when your morals and virtues die in the split second you make that kind of decision that the vultures come despite the body still breathing. You are a story. You are trauma porn. You are clicks and interactions and you cannot take it anymore.

This place is a godsend. You feel just as guilty for that feeling as you do everything else.

It's like an hourglass I can't turn over And when it's out, it comes down like a mortar.

CHAPTER ONE: LIFE IN HUNTSVILLE POST ARRIVAL

Now serving as one of Huntsville's Coroners, Doc is, strangely, doing better than he ever was on the outside. The constant media circus unwilling to let his trauma die with the other victims of the Mystic River Killer now on the other side of a barrier that silences all emails, phone calls, and interruptions, he's comfortable in the quiet that's come from being allowed to focus on his work, even if the bodies he's handed are particularly brutal. There's a comfort in the commonality of cause of death- 'ghost related slaughtering' is an easy enough marker to make on paperwork, with the rare deviation to include natural disaster, gunshots, and falls from great heights. There is a comfort in death- a comfort Doc has not been offered- but not for lack of trying.

Even now struggling to trust the people around him- and to cope with the reality of his continued survival in the face of crushing odds when others haven't been so 'lucky'- Doc's tenuous friendships with his coworkers- and those who have attempted to get past the walls he's hastily cobbled together to assure him there's no reason to be alone in a place where more people than anywhere else understand the ache of losing someone to savagery. But their efforts are slow-moving, as Holder's trauma lingers, crawling and creeping through his mind like tentacles to constrict ever tighter- ironic, he reasons, given the current state of things in the place he's found himself. His is an existence of slight hermithood- loyal to those who have taken the time to offer kindness and care- but not trusting, never trusting.