vanish.

this is a lowkey blog meant to write with my friends, although i do welcome others to interact. please note the aforementioned triggering topics when choosing to follow this blog. don't misbehave, be chill, stay kind & have fun. name. camille preaker. age. thirty. occupation. journalist. residence. chicago, illinois. hometown. wind gap, missouri. family. adora crellin (mother), unknown father, marian crellin (half-sister †), amma crellin (half-sister), alan crellin (stepfather). hair. long, curly and strawberry blonde. damaged from box dyes. eyes. green, with full lashes. often bleary from alcohol use. physical. camille is a slim woman of average height, with a strikingly pretty face. her body is covered in scars which spell often feminine or flat-out negative words, a self-mutilation that began at the age of thirteen. she wears clothing that covers her body fully, preferably breathable so as not to irritate her skin. history. camille self-describes herself as "trash from money", the eldest and least-favorite daughter of the wealthy, cruel, and controlling adora crellin, owner of the hog farm industry of the small southern town of wind gap, missouri. she has made a life for herself in chicago as a mediocre journalist, oftentimes looked after by her well-meaning editor curry and his wife eileen, though her self-hatred and alcoholism hold her back from professional success. when a murder and a disappearance of two young girls in her hometown bring her back home for the first time in years, camille is forced to examine her origins to deduce the reason for the murders and confront demons from her past.

to be written.

some women aren't made to be mothers. the epiphany first came to mind when camille thought of her own progenitor. her memory recalls incorruptible flesh between pearly, evenly spaced teeth; she feels a faint, itching sensation of ghostly nails, manicured to perfection like gleaming daggers, burrowing into her spine.

emitting a soft chuckle as she banishes the burning feeling with a swipe of hands against her scalp, she tousles her red hair into a mess. "me neither. can you picture me trying to make one stop crying?" i can barely manage myself half of the time.

the dark. fire. open water. deep water. being alone. crowded spaces. confined spaces. change. failure. war. loss of control. powerlessness. prison. blood. drowning. suffocation. public speaking. natural animals. the supernatural. heights. death. dying. intimacy. rejection. abandonment. loss. the unknown. the future. not being good enough. scary stories. speaking to new people. poverty. loud noises. being touched. sex. chains. inner demons. hallucinations. staring. going berserk. betrayal. sickness.

"that so?" camille intones into her glass of bourbon.

wakefield is a small, cozy place where everybody knows everybody — much like her wind gap. all fitting together like a too-tight sweater, stifling and itchy on her skin. outsiders are regarded with suspicion and hostility, subject to vicious gossip, especially when they mosey in with expectations of answers to private questions.

after all, no decent person would forget propriety like that.

so camille smiles charmingly when she sets her glass down on the countertop. loosens up her frame, uncrosses her legs, hand on her chin, feeling the liquid courage burn in her throat. although she has carried no signs of identification to her being press into this dive bar, she knows that whispers spread like wildfire in a place like wakefield, texas. if his claim is true, he already knows who she is.