#wicklow:intro

𝟎𝟎𝟏.                                            𝑏𝑖𝑜𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑝ℎ𝑦.

one   thing   about   lola   fox?   she’s   always   been   the   kind   of   woman   you   remember.   not   because   she’s   loud   (though   she   can   be),   or   flashy   (though   she   wears   leather   like   it’s   her   birthright),   but   because   there’s   something   about   her   that   lingers.   a   storm   that’s   already   passed,   but   the   air’s   still   heavy   from   it.   she’s   the   girl   who   figured   out   early   that   the   world   won’t   hand   you   anything,   so   she   learned   to   take   it.   tooth   and   nail.  

born   in   a   nowhere   corner   of   new   jersey   to   a   young   mother   who   did   her   best   with   what   little   she   had,   lola’s   early   life   was   a   cocktail   of   overboiled   spaghetti,   late   rent,   and   tv   static   humming   through   the   night.   her   father?   just   a   name   no   one   said   out   loud.   her   mom   loved   hard,   but   she   was   drowning.   when   things   got   worse,   and   lola   started   pushing   back   ;   skipping   class,   smoking   too   much,   fighting   for   breath   in   a   house   too   small   for   her   anger -   her   mom   did   the   only   thing   she   could   think   of.   she   sent   her   away.   told   her   to   go   live   with   her   aunt   in   wicklowridge.   somewhere   quieter.   somewhere   safer.   lola   never   forgave   her.   but   deep   down,   she   understood.

wicklowridge   was   slower.   smaller.   sometimes   suffocating.   but   it   gave   lola   room   to   breathe,   and   eventually,   to   build.   she   took   jobs   wherever   she   could - washing   towels   in   backrooms,   sweeping   floors   in   salons   she   wasn’t   good   enough   to   touch   scissors   in   yet.   and   when   she   finally   scraped   together   enough   to   get   certified?   she   never   looked   back.   beauty   wasn’t   just   her   trade ;   it   became   her   way   of   surviving.   of   controlling   something,   anything.   of   transforming   herself   and   the   women   who   sat   in   her   chair.  

but   she   needed   more.   so   she   left.   early   twenties,   nothing   but   a   duffel   bag,   a   vision   board   scrawled   in   sharpie,   and   the   kind   of   hunger   only   girls   who’ve   gone   without   understand.   she   bounced   from   city   to   city - chicago,   philly,   even   a   stint   in   vegas   that   almost   broke   her . . but   she   made   it.   learned   from   the   best.   came   back   sharper,   harder,   more   sure   of   her   hands   and   her   voice.   now?   she’s   thirty,   back   in   wicklowridge,   running   a   moody,   low-lit   salon   that   smells   like   vanilla   tobacco   and   burning   sage,   and   she’s   finally   doing   things   on   her   terms.  

you’ll   know   it’s   her   before   you   even   turn   the   corner . . the   rumble   of   her   harley,   the   jangle   of   silver   rings,   the   cigarette   balanced   between   black-painted   fingertips.   she   keeps   her   circle   small,   her   secrets   closer.   but   she’s   loyal   to   the   bone   once   you’re   in.   some   say   she’s   all   thorns.   others   swear   they’ve   seen   her   cry   watching   carrie   for   the   fifth   time.   she’ll   roll   her   eyes   if   you   ask   about   her   crystals,   but   she   keeps   rose   quartz   in   her   back   pocket   and   won’t   do   a   color   job   without   clearing   the   energy   in   the   room.  

lola   fox   is   built   of   contradictions ; rough   edges   and   soft   heart,   middle-finger   energy   and   quiet   kindness.   she’s   not   looking   to   be   anyone’s   savior,   and   she’s   sure   as   hell   not   waiting   to   be   saved.   she   is   her   own   damn   hero.  

and   she’s   just   getting   started.

𝟎𝟎𝟐.                                            𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦.

if   lola   fox   is   anything,   she’s   curated.   not   in   the   artificial,   instagrammable   sense   . .   but   in   the   way   of   women   who   know   survival   is   in   the   details.   her   closet   is   an   armor   rack:   low-rise   jeans   that   ride   dangerous,   black   lace   tops   layered   under   vintage   leather   jackets,   ripped   tights   with   no   apologies,   and   her   trusty   doc   martens   -   the   boots   that   have   seen   more   nights   out   and   bad   decisions   than   any   therapist   could   untangle.   her   silver   jewelry   is   heavy,   and   there’s   a   story   behind   every   ring   she   wears.  

she   rides   a   matte-black   harley,   the   kind   that   announces   her   arrival   long   before   she   walks   into   the   room.   when   she’s   not   at   her   salon,   she’s   either   burning   sage   by   the   back   door,   watering   her   overgrown   devil’s   ivy,   or   curled   up   on   her   couch   watching   some   grainy   b-grade   horror   flick   she’s   seen   a   dozen   times.   she’s   got   a   black   cat   named   matchstick   (because   she   was   skinny,   fiery,   and   hissed   when   lola   found   her),   and   that   cat   is   the   closest   thing   she’s   let   live   in   her   heart   without   fear   of   abandonment.

her   salon   is   an   extension   of   her:   moody   lighting,   dark   florals,   scattered   crystals   on   windowsills,   incense   coiling   in   the   corners.   people   say   it’s   where   breakups   happen   and   transformations   begin.   her   regulars   trust   her   with   more   than   just   their   hair.   she’s   a   confidante,   an   occasional   therapist,   a   keeper   of   secrets.   she’ll   nod   while   they   speak,   maybe   offer   a   wry   “men   are   trash,”   and   keep   cutting   like   it’s   ritual.

she   doesn’t   open   up   easily,   but   she’s   loyal   to   the   death   once   you’re   in.   she’s   the   friend   who’ll   hex   your   ex,   pick   you   up   at   2am,   or   quietly   slide   you   a   flask   during   family   dinners.   she’s   cautious   around   new   people,   quick   to   trust   animals   and   bartenders   over   strangers.   emotionally?   she’s   a   locked   drawer   with   the   key   jammed   in   sideways.   physically?   a   magnet   for   the   wrong   kinds   of   lovers,   especially   the   brooding,   broken,   or   dangerously   pretty.  

she   smells   like   warm   tobacco   and   bourbon   perfume,   the   kind   of   scent   that   clings.   her   playlist   is   all   fleetwood mac,   lana   del   rey,   guns n’ roses, lizzie   mcalpine,   and   moody   guitar   riffs.   she   journals   in   spurts,   dances   only   when   she’s   drunk,   and   keeps   her   tarot   deck   wrapped   in   silk   beneath   her   pillow.   no   one   really   knows   what   she’s   dreaming   about,   but   if   you   ask   her,   she’ll   say   she   doesn’t   sleep   all   that   much   anyway.

𝟎𝟎𝟑.                                            ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑛'𝑠.

✶   rides   a   2002   harley   sportster   883   with   chipped   matte   black   paint   and   a   dangling   evil   eye   charm   from   the   handlebars.   her   helmet’s   got   lipstick   stains   inside.

✶   signature   scent:   tobacco   vanilla   with   burnt   sugar   and   clove   . .   smoky,   sweet,   and   a   little   dangerous.   people   turn   their   heads   when   she   walks   by.   always.

✶   speaks   in   sarcasm   and   soft   truths.   her   love   language   is   doing   your   eyeliner   better   than   you   can   yourself.

✶   owns   one   too   many   leather   jackets.   her   current   favorite’s   got   a   rip   in   the   sleeve   she’ll   never   fix.

✶   her   apartment   smells   like   patchouli,   palo   santo,   and   dry   lavender.   vinyls   stacked   next   to   incense   next   to   old   zines   and   books   of   poetry   with   bent   spines.

✶   black   cat   named   matchstick ;   formerly   feral,   fiercely   loyal.   they   have   staring   contests.   lola   usually   loses.

✶   crystal   drawer   includes:   obsidian   (for   protection),   rose   quartz   (though   she’s   skeptical),   amethyst   (for   clarity),   and   citrine   she   swears   works   because   her   tips   went   up   after   she   brought   it   into   the   salon.

✶   late-night   horror   movie   marathons   are   sacred.   she’ll   quote   scream   word-for-word   and   roll   her   eyes   at   modern   CGI.

✶   tattooed   hands,   chipped   black   nail   polish,   rings   on   nearly   every   finger.  

✶   can’t   cook   to   save   her   life,   but   her   charcuterie   boards?   divine.   she’ll   hand-feed   you   olives   with   a   smirk.

✶   has   a   folder   in   her   notes   app   called   “spells   +   petty   curses.”   most   are   poetic   affirmations   in   disguise.  

✶   burns   bridges   with   class.   blocked   numbers   and   no   second   chances.   unless   your   name   is   kyle.   and   that’s   its   own   disaster.

✶   spent   three   years   away   after   turning   twenty-three —   hopping   between   cities,   couch-surfing,   working   late   shifts   in   tattoo   shops   and   basements   of   beauty   schools.   came   back   wiser,   meaner,   and   with   better   bangs.

full name: matthew james archibald hardwick. nickname(s): matty, matt. birthday: 20th december. gender / pronouns:  cis man ,  he / him. orientation:  bisexual / biromantic. personality: quick-witted, argumentative, restless, ebullient. languages spoken: english. bits of french, spanish and latin from school. height: 182cm / 5'11. build: slim. piercings: double lobe piercings, left ear. tattoos: all black patchwork sleeves semi-in-progress. not cohesive at all, gets what he feels like in the moment. a lit match on his left shin, above the ankle.

( tws ; parental neglect, substance abuse, alcohol, rehab, relapse )

matthew was born in islington, london. he and his two older sisters were the product of a marriage between two people who couldn't really have cared less for one another. his mother the daughter of a viscount and his father a wealthy businessman in his own right.

safe to say, they were not lacking in money. the house in islington was modest enough -- one of many like it on the street. the house in buckinghamshire ( or more accurately, the estate, courtesy of the viscount ) on the other hand was comically large and devoid of warmth ; a sentiment echoed by the family.

while his sisters were at least sometimes willing to be dressed up and paraded around like prized possessions, it was clear from a very young age that matthew was not. he was trouble from day dot and siblings and parents alike made it abundantly clear they had no time nor care for him. which was just fine by him.

he had all of london and the lands around the buckinghamshire house as his playground and by god he made use of it. he would disappear for hours, returning home having ruined yet another pointlessly expensive outfit or "less problematically", a broken bone or other injury from misadventure.

in prep school, teachers would take the few opportunities they had to discuss with matthew's parents to inform them he was cleverer than he let on and simply refused to apply himself. instead, he spent his time stirring up trouble ( running away was a big go-to ) and just generally being something of a nuisance in the classroom.

when it came to secondary school then, the hardwicks did what any other disinterested parents of means would do and shipped him to boarding school in scotland. even matty himself is not quite sure how, but he managed to finish his a levels ( with mediocre grades to show for it ) despite pouring most of his energy into disruption and being a nuisance. he was almost kicked out in year ten for smoking weed, but he promised not to smoke anymore and to never distribute it ( something he'd already been doing, naturally ) and was simply never caught again.

looking back, matty would say at the very least having the structure of school was a grounding force. returning to london at eighteen without it, well... he was ripe for going off the rails, and that he did.

by twenty he'd featured in several tabloid newspapers for attending and hosting ragers, making a fool of himself in clubs and bars, and generally being associated with ingesting more illegal and 'legal' substances and alcohol than someone of his lanky stature should even be capable of surviving. all in the innocent pursuit of a good time, of course.

shortly after matty turned twenty-three, his parents decided they'd finally had enough of their good name and reputation being dragged through the mud ; if only their son had had the good sense to be a mess in private. they paid for two months of private impatient rehab and for a year or so of follow up outpatient. dropped matty off at the clinic and that was the extent of their input.

he would at least concede to his parents that it was a good move. he fell off the wagon here and there, especially within the first year -- bored out of his mind, hired and fired from various minimum wage jobs -- but settled down well after that by moving out of london to manchester. funded by his parents, of course. matty was rarely able to keep more than two pennies to rub together.

a counter-intuitive move, perhaps, for someone who had been to rehab for substance abuse to get a job as a bartender... but he'd managed to work his way into a ( relatively, not perfectly ) healthy place regarding his relationship to alcohol and it seemed like a good fit job for him. he liked to be busy, talking to different people -- hearing about their lives and experiences. to his own surprise more than anyone's, he was actually quite good at it.

at twenty-seven, matty was as settled as he'd been since he was in school. this of course meant he was itching for something else, somewhere new, maybe. chatting as he often did with a tourist in the bar one evening, he came to learn about wicklow ridge, a town in vermont. it didn't seem like a natural fit for someone used to the hustle and bustle of a major city ( and who frequently found himself bored there ) but something about it struck him. not two weeks later, a one way flight and a stay at hollow rock inn were booked.

he spent a few weeks in town as a tourist, exploring like one does before deciding to stay. chances were he wouldn't stay that long, but it didn't matter. the job at the stag's rest came first -- a natural fit for his experience. but with nothing to fill the rest of his days, his characteristic restlessness and tendency towards trouble. well, let's just say it didn't take long for trouble to find him.

not wanting to ruin the good thing he'd started for himself completely though, matty sought out a second job and landed himself one as a delivery driver for the general store. another thing to keep his hands busy.

'probably a year or two' somehow turned into nine years in the town recently. matty is probably more shook than anyone he's managed to last this long. he's still in and out of trouble -- less so than he's ever been in his life. it seems like something has finally switched in his brain and he is consciously trying not to ruin a good thing.

headcanons.

thirty-seven going on twenty-three. matty has always been... immature, but he's done the most growth and maturing in his life since arriving in wicklow ridge and hopes to continue. baby steps.

goes pretty much exclusively by matty. he'll accept 'matt' too, but only begrudgingly. frankly will not answer to matthew -- his parents refused to call him by anything but that full name so the associations are largely negative. if he hears matthew, he assumes he's in trouble ( usually correct anyway lbr ) and it just generally rubs him the wrong way to hear it.

has a horrendously posh accent and it has not changed one bit since he moved. plays it up sometimes, and also finds it funny when the more ignorant americans say it reminds them of the royals because he's brushed shoulders with a fair few minor royals in his time. and he is technically nobility, though he's not one to bring that up -- he's managed to put the atlantic ocean between himself and his family and even that isn't far enough.

after two years in town, he rescued a grey/blue italian greyhound he dubbed monty who is a little goofball. he takes monty for walks mostly around town and the lake and they goof off together. it's two idiots telling each other exactly but one of them is literally a dog.

sporadically attends an NA/substance abuse support group in town and has a sponsor. he didn't in manchester and does feel it's made a massive difference with his ability to cope. remains, however, in denial of his alcoholism to an extent. he's much better at keeping things in moderation now, but slips up more often than he should and when he overindulges, he doesn't do shit by halves. this is where a lot of trouble 'finds him' -- stupid shit, like picking fights with folk twice his size, running his mouth, generally making stupid decisions and lacking in self-preservation.

predictably, he doesn't earn very much. enough to get by, just about, definitely. money continues to come in from his parents -- they largely funded the move itself, seeing it as mutually beneficial -- and sits in a savings account. matty dips into it every now and then as it's handy for emergencies or unexpected charges, but he feels very conflicted about it. just as he does with anything that ties him to his parents, really.

has somehow managed to go his entire life undiagnosed with adhd, but he absolutely has it. he vaguely recalls someone ( maybe a friend, maybe a teacher ) mentioning it to him when he was still in school, but nothing was ever actioned and he's not given it a thought since. he was, however, diagnosed with dyslexia at nine when teachers noticed his consistent struggles with reading and spelling in particular. matty still harbours a kind of negative attitude towards reading -- every now and then he'll say he's going to properly get into it, start reading like everybody else... then gives up before he can really give it a proper go out of frustration.

a cheeky chappy ! absolutely terrible at holding his tongue, says the first thing that pops into his mind far too often. matty is, however, generally harmless. he has a kind heart and a good soul -- really cares about other people even if sometimes he's not the best ( read: horrendous ) at showing it. loves a bit of banter, which he finds works well in the bar most of the time. not great with authority / authority figures ; bossing him around tends to irk him, but given how long he's been able to hold two jobs down now -- and no one is more surprised than matty himself -- he has got significantly better. growth.

much more sensitive than he'd ever let on. he's guarded with his emotions, having learnt it's best not to show them but can be good at making it seem like he's opened up or let someone in. matty is terrified of the idea of actually being known, let alone loved. he doesn't necessarily view himself as impossible to love -- but difficult to? absolutely. at times undeserving? for sure.

absurdly good with kids. presumably because he basically still is one himself. he hasn't got very much experience with them at all, which is why it's generally shocking that he's a natural. that being said, he panics when babies are involved -- too delicate and tiny for his liking. adorable,for sure, but terrifying to be at all responsible for.

very bad at anything adult and / or involving looking after himself. frequently forgets to eat and drink and generally lives off eating out or takeaway and more widely has the poor diet of a student. sleeping schedule... what is a schedule? matty wouldn't know.

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME :  simon paul lark.

MEANING : 

name: simon (hebrew): “he has heard,”

middle name: paul (latin): small, humble.

surname: lark (english): a songbird, symbol of dawn, renewal or freedom. 

MONIKERS / NICKNAMES : si, lark, callsign formerly mute.

GENDER & PRONOUNS : cis man, he/him.

ETHNICITY : white english.

DATE OF BIRTH & AGE: october 24th; forty-four years old.

ZODIAC SIGN : scorpio sun.

ORIENTATION : bisexual.

MARITAL STATUS : unmarried and has never lived with a partner.

OCCUPATION : clinical social worker (va outreach; trauma focused, heads the anger management programme)

CURRENT LOCATION : wicklow ridge.

BACKGROUND

PLACE OF BIRTH : manchester, england.

RESIDENCES :  - former: army barracks, temp. housing in leeds and london. - current: a rented cottage. small, open concept space with a loft bedroom.

RELIGIOUS VIEWS : quiet agnostic; raised anglican, not practicing. 

EDUCATION : - military training - ba in psychology (completed online over years) - msw (master of social work) post discharge

LANGUAGES SPOKEN : english (fluent), pashto and arabic (military field fluency, now rusty), bsl and asl (functional, moreso in bsl).

FAMILY : mother – deceased; no contact at time of her death    father – not present siblings – younger half brother (estranged)

OTHER FAMILIAL RELATIONS : none maintained. no spouse. no children.

APPEARANCE

FACECLAIM : sam roukin.

HAIR COLOUR / STYLE : dirty blonde, cropped short on the sides with a messy top when not trimmed.

EYE COLOUR / SHAPE :  deep-set, heavy-lidded dark brown eyes with light lashes.

HEIGHT : 6’3” (190.5cm)

BUILD : lean and sinewy, narrow-wasted, but strong; military carriage.

SPEECH STYLE : soft-spoken, crisp northern english accent; rarely raises his voice.

RECOGNIZABLE MARKINGS : long, pale scar running from the right cheekbone across to his jaw, a slit in his eyebrow, a thin scar that curls across the bridge of his nose, shrapnel scarring at the base of his throat, slight tremor in his left hand (nerve damage)

BEAUTY HABITS : extremely clean but minimalist, keeps his nails trimmed to the quick. dresses plainly: dark sweaters, clean slacks, sturdy boots. wears light cologne; something dry, vetiver based.

PERSONALITY

MBTI : istj – the logistician

ENNEAGRAM : 6w5 – the loyal guardian.

ALIGNMENT : neutral good.

TEMPERAMENT : melancholic-phlegmatic.

POSITIVE TRAITS : steady, empathetic and fiercely protective.

NEGATIVE TRAITS : closed off, mistrustful, stubborn to the point of sabotage.

HABITS : rubs the scar on his jaw when stressed, counts his breaths in multiples of four, journals compulsively in code.

HOBBIES : woodworking, sketching from memory, yoga, hiking on his good days, reading.

USUAL DEMEANOR : quiet, polite, eyes always watching. feels present without crowding.

HEALTH

PHYSICAL AILMENTS : degenerative joint pain (left knee, old gunshot wound), occasional tremors, partial hearing loss (right ear)

NEUROLOGICAL CONDITION : ptsd (combat related), ocd (mild; ritualistic thinking and cleanliness control)

PHOBIAS : enclosed spaces.

ALLERGIES : none noted SLEEPING HABITS : chronic insomnia, 3-5 hours max, sleeps on the couch more than in his bed.

SOCIABILITY : socially competent but emotionally withdrawn. intense one-on-one presence, avoids groups.

ADDICTIONS : formerly addicted to painkillers post-discharge, now stone sober. 

EARLY CHILDHOOD

born in manchester, raised by his single mother who loved him but didn’t know how to care for him. his father was never even on the birth certificate. their power was off most of the month, their flat was cramped and cold, and simon learned young that silence was safety. he was a quiet child, not because he had nothing to say, but because saying it didn’t change anything.

the neighbourhood was rough. the schools were worse. he was one of those strange, discordant little boys who never belonged to any crowd. too observant, too clever, too quiet. teachers said he had a “nasty streak” when he snapped under pressure, but never noticed the bruises. 

he grew up thin, wiry and watchful, less a child than a loaded spring.

TEENS

at sixteen he started spending nights away from home. sometimes on friends’ sofas, sometimes outside. the night always felt cleaner than the places he’d come from. he worked whatever jobs he could get his hands on: construction, warehouse work, kitchen, until he was old enough to lie about his age and enlist.

by seventeen he’d joined the british army with a forged signature and no one to notice he was gone.

the military gave him structure. purpose. and for a time he thrived, training obsessively, gravitating towards sharpshooting. he found himself routed towards advanced recon and sniper programs. officers said he had “an eye for terrain” and a head for the long game. he didn’t make friends, exactly, but some of the other soldiers called him “lark” in a tone that wasn’t cruel, and that was enough.

SERVICE

served in the SAS with a focus on reconnaissance, long-range engagements and embedded operations, often alone. the kill list was long and the missions classified. but he was good at it, too good, maybe. he disappeared into the role with frightening ease.

the silence that once protected him started to turn on him. he failed two psych evals, then a third. he punched a superior officer who called him a moral liability. he was given a choice; go quietly with commendations, or be dragged out of service in disgrace. he chose quiet. he left with nerve damage in his hand, a mangled knee and half his hearing in one ear gone.

POST DISCHARGE.

relocated to wicklow ridge six years ago. current occupation: clinical social worker specializing in post-traumatic recovery, anger management and crisis de-escalation, particularly within the va system. 

( trigger warnings: death, alcohol mention, drug mention. )

★                       statistics.

full   name:   babette   mary-helen   dutton. nickname(s):   babs,   bette,   mama,   betty. age:   forty   six. date   of   birth:   november   11th. star   sign:   scorpio. sexuality:   bisexual. hometown:   dallas,   texas. occupation:   owner   of   the   pit   road. favourites:   glitter,   light   beer,   seeing   the   sun   after   a   long   night   of   work,   loud   cars,   arguing,   acrylic   nails,   the   smell   of   gasoline,   fake   fur,   pink.

★                       personality.

bette   dutton   is   a   whirlwind   of   a   woman.   big,   blonde   hair   wrapped   in   a   glittery   accessory   or   five,   when   she   walks   into   the   room   everybody   knows   about   it.   loud   and   proud   of   it,   bette   had   never   sought   to   minimise   herself   to   make   her   more   palatable   to   other   people.   if   others   find   her   abrasive   or   obnoxious   then   fuck   them,   right?   in   this   world,   you   fight   for   your   place   in   it,   and   she   believes   she's   more   than   fought   enough   for   the   right   to   exist   exactly   as   she   pleases.   maybe   this   makes   her   a   bit   harsh   when   it   comes   to   others,   willing   to   give   them   the   hard   truths   that   others   are   happy   to   skirt   around.   she   simply   believes   that   the   sooner   someone   knows   the   truth,   the   better,   and   if   everyone   else   is   too   weak   to   tell   someone   it…   well,   then   she's   happy   to   be   the   villain.   villainy   comes   easy   to   her   though   when   she's   as   dramatic   as   she   is.   unable   to   control   her   emotions   at   the   best   of   times,   if   bette's   upset,   it   becomes   everyone's   problem   –   except   her   daughter's,   of   course,   who   is   forever   spared   her   mother's   hot   pink   wrath. amidst   all   of   this,   though,   is   a   woman   with   a   generous   heart.   if   you're   beloved   by   bette,   you'll   know   about   it.   she's   a   passionate   woman   who   doesn't   do   things   by   halves   and   will   give   you   the   shirt   off   of   her   back   if   it's   what   you   need.   true,   she   doesn't   make   this   side   of   her   very   known,   a   remnant   leftover   from   her   dad's   ‘don’t   let   them   see   you   cry'   mentality,   but   it's   certainly   there   and   just   as   present   as   the   negatives   she   more   often   likes   to   put   out   into   the   world.   bette's   also   notorious   for   never   giving   up,   even   when   the   going   gets   tough,   even   when   the   going   gets   downright   horrific.   the   world   is   bette's   runway   and   she's   going   to   dominate   every   inch   of   it   if   it's   the   last   thing   she   does.

★                       biography.

i.   babette   mary-helen   dutton!   the   shining   star   of   the   dutton   family,   the   apple   of   her   mother's   eye   and   a   frequent   flier   on   the   pageant   circuit   since   before   she   could   even   walk.   accolades?   expectations?   pressure?   you   don't   know   the   half   of   it   until   you've   existed   as   the   only   girl   in   the   dutton   household,   born   to   the   king   of   the   dutton   car   empire   and   the   queen   of   texas'   beauty   queens.   truthfully,   babette   never   had   a   chance   to   figure   out   who   she   was   in   the   formative   years   of   her   life,   because   she   was   whatever   her   parents   decided   she   was   going   to   be.   miss   county   fair,   miss   dallas,   miss   texas,   miss   whatever   other   modifier   you   wanted   to   put   onto   the   end,   she   had   them   all.   she   had   three   older   brothers   who,   despite   sympathising   with   her,   weren't   exactly   interested   in   helping   their   baby   sister   escape   their   mother's   clutches…   lest   she   turn   her   gaze   onto   them   instead.

ii.   the   dutton   family   were   car   people.   always   had   been,   always   would   be.   they   serviced   some   of   the   finest   motors   in   the   world,   supplying   supercars   to   the   wealthy   and   selling   tires   to   the   average   joe.   they   had   a   finger   in   every   pie   of   the   automative   world,   so   to   speak,   and   bette   was   the   jewel   in   their   crown.   whilst   pageant   trophies   began   taking   over   other   rooms   of   their   grandiose   mansion,   she   was   trotted   out   like   a   show   pony   at   her   father's   car   shows   for   the   extra   press.   it   was   shameless   southern   belle-ism,   create   the   perfect   daughter   and   then   use   her   to   market   your   products.   genius,   right?

iii.   until   bette   got   so   sick   of   it   she   up   and   left   at   only   seventeen   years   old.   yes,   their   beautifully   perfect   pageant   queen   was   now   a   teenage   runaway,   having   disappeared   into   the   night   off   out   into   the   big   bad   world   that   they   assumed   would   swallow   her   alive.   turns   out   though,   bette   had   seen   her   existence   with   her   family   as   her   own   personal   hell.   she   wasn't   the   perfect   doll   they'd   thought   her   to   be,   she   was   miserable,   she   was   suffering,   and   it   had   made   her   tough   as   nails   to   bite   her   tongue   and   dig   her   nails   into   her   palms   all   these   years.

iv.   until   her   marriage,   bette   took   her   time   enjoying   the   world.   she   fucked,   she   fought,   she   laughed,   she   cried   –   she   found   her   freedom   on   the   roads   and   in   the   bars,   collecting   fucked   up   found   family   members   all   along   the   way.   it   didn't   matter   that,   for   this   period   of   her   life,   she   didn't   have   her   hair   rollers   or   her   fine   silks,   she   had   freedom.   she   had   joy.   she   laughed   so   hard   her   cheeks   hurt   and   joy   burst   forth   from   her   chest   like   a   beam   of   light.   she   learned   to   be   tougher   than   ever,   learned   where   the   soft   spots   were   on   a   man   twice   her   size,   learned   how   to   count   cash   quick   and   when   it   was   time   to   do   a   sneaky   shot   behind   the   bar.   she   was   exuberant,   she   was   boundless,   she   was   untethered.

v.   then   one   day,   she   met   chet.   things   clicked   in   a   way   for   her   like   never   before.   he   was   just   as   passionate   as   her,   just   as   crazy   and   wild   and   full   of   furious   beauty.   she   screamed   louder   than   anyone   in   that   crowd   for   him   and   felt   an   electricity   course   through   her   veins   that   no   substance   could   compete   with   –   was   this   it?   their   kisses   made   it   onto   the   big   screens   and   influenced   crowds   of   thousands,   their   chemistry   could   be   heard   over   the   devastating   roar   of   engines,   and   they   were   married   before   either   of   them   could   catch   their   breath. 

vi.   and   then   divorce   hit   like   a   truck,   and   that   was   that.   if   bette   was   being   honest,   she   would've   fought   like   goddamn   hell   for   that   marriage   if   dafne   hadn't   been   there   –   which   sounds…   backwards,   at   first,   but   even   she   knew   the   toxicity   that   would've   arisen   from   her   clinging   to   their   legal   marriage   would've   only   been   a   detriment   to   her   sweet   girl's   development.   maybe   that's   why   her   and   chet   keep   falling   into   bed   with   each   other,   even   after   relentlessly   slinging   mud   at   one   another   like   it   was   necessary   for   survival.   she   despised   him,   perhaps   because   he   had   dented   that   shiny   pride   of   hers?   no,   it   was   something   else.   because   he   had   made   her   feel   something   so   extraordinary   and   not   been   man   enough   to   stick   around   when   she   showed   that   ugly   side   of   her.   whatever   it   was,   it   made   her   harsh.

vii.   what   she   hated   most   of   all   about   it,   though,   was   that   it   gave   her   family   a   minor   window   back   into   her   life.   bette   was   careful,   she   never   allowed   her   mother   to   be   around   dafne   on   her   own,   concerned   she   would   project   the   same   self-image   issues   and   general   loathing   onto   her   granddaughter   that   she'd   tried   to   project   onto   bette   herself,   but   they   were   back   regardless.   when   you'd   revolved   your   life   around   a   man,   sometimes   all   you   wanted   was   your   mom   and   dad…   even   bette   dutton   was   guilty   of   vulnerability   every   now   and   again.

viii.   turns   out   she   got   that   tiny   sentimental   streak   from   the   same   place   she   got   that   tough,   take   no   prisoners   attitude   –   her   father.   he   had   kept   an   eye   on   her   over   the   years   and,   when   he   found   out   she   had   arrived   in   wicklow   ridge,   bought   a   garage   and   all   the   land   it   was   on   for   her.   for   the   inheritance   she'd   never   received.   the   plan   was   for   them   to   work   it   together,   for   it   to   be   the   olive   branch   they'd   always   needed   for   them   to   finally   come   together   as   father   and   daughter   and   see   each   other   like   they   hadn't   before.   the   last   time   they   spoke,   bette   and   her   father   were   discussing   plans   to   build   a   bar   on   the   lot,   giving   bette   a   legacy   of   her   own.   the   next   morning   he   passed   away.

ix.   grief   is   a   bizarre   and   strange   thing   to   grapple   with   when   you're   someone   like   bette,   even   moreso   when   it's   someone   she   barely   had   a   relationship   with…   yet   she   still   mourned   the   potential   they   never   had.   instead   of   properly   grieving,   she   poured   her   heart   and   soul   into   the   pit   road,   and   didn't   allow   herself   even   a   single   second   to   think   about   who   was   missing   on   the   day   the   bar   opened.   that   tends   to   be   her   modus   operandi   now   –   keep   your   life   chaotic,   keep   it   wild,   keep   it   loud,   and   it   won't   ever   get   quiet   enough   for   you   to   remember   all   the   things   you're   trying   to   forget.

x.   dafne   is   now   six   and   the   pit   road   has   been   thriving   for   a   few   years   and   everything   seems   to   have   fallen   into   place.   the   problem   is,   with   a   mundane   life   comes   quiet,   and   that's   the   last   thing   bette   wants.   she   isn't   sure   what   her   next   move   is   but   she   knows   she   can   feel   her   skin   itch.   when   putting   whiskey   in   her   coffee   and   having   meaningless   one-night   stands   no   longer   hit   the   spot,   what   comes   next?   maybe   it   really   is   time   she   builds   a   dutton   empire   of   her   own.

★                       headcanons.

*      face   claim   ,   margot   robbie   .   race   ,   white   .   ethnicity   ,  french   ,   english   ,   german   .   hair   ,   naturally   brunette   but   bleaches   it   blonde   ,   usually   down   with   a   slight   wave   just   past   her   shoulders   or   up   in   a   well   -   done   bun   .   eyes   ,   blue   ,   cat   -   like   eyes   .   height   ,   five   foot   six   inches   .   voice   ,   slight   vocal   fry   with   a   more   monotone   sound   ,   minor   french   accent   that   gets   stronger   whenever   she's   excited   .   usual   expression   ,   an   unwavering   smile   (   notably   known   for   not   reaching   her   eyes   )   .   tattoos   ,   none   .   allergies   ,   bees   ,   lavender   .  

*      biological   father   ,   francis   von   doren   .occupation   ,   hotelier   and   resort   owner   .   biological   mother   ,   vivian   deville   -   von  doren   .occupation   ,   housewife   ,   socialite   . brother   ,  utp   von   doren   .occupation   ,   utp   .   pet(s)   ,   two   fluffy   ragdoll   cats   named   birk   and   bella   .   financial   class   ,   upper   class   :   generational   wealth   .   notable   family   members   ,   jean   -   claude   deville   (   great   -   great   grandfather   ,   heir   to   the   deville   estates   )   ,   william   von   doren   (   great   -   great   grandfather   ,   founder   of   von   doren   hotels   &   resorts   )   ,   samantha   von   doren   -   martin   (   cousin   ,   american   politician   )   .

𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴 : background . . . access granted .

the  von  doren's  ,  a  family  rooted  in  prestige  across  new  england  ---  estate  tycoons  ,  a  pension  for  excess  ,  a  reputation  of  excellence  .  francis  and  vivian  were  loving  parents  :  giving  and  present  or  was  it  manipulative  and  overbearing  ? 

a  fear  of  disapproval  and  judgement  from  other's  ,  it's  ingrained  at  a  young  age  .  some  call  it  trauma  ,  you  call  it  a  familial  curse  ...  stepford  smiles  ,  fear  of  imperfection  ,  spirit  crushing  expectations  ,  conditional  love  .  to  be  the  best  meant  to  receive  the  best  ...  this  was  your  foundation  :  your  legacy  .     

women  are  to  be  seen  ,  appreciated  even  but  never  too  vocal  ,  too  loud  ,  your  mother  tells  you  early  on  .  be  a  mannequin  ,  noelle  ,  never  take  a  single  step  out  of  line  .  and  you  never  did  .  the  perfect  daughter  .  trotted  out  for  all  too  see  how  well  francis  and  vivian  had  raised  their  only  daughter  .  soon  your  only  worth  lays  in  the  superficial  :  what  you  have  to  offer  ,  what  you  can  do  to  make  other's  feel  better  .  your  cup  always  left  empty  as  you  fill  everyone  else's  around  you  .   

life  becomes  a  valley  of  landmines  made  solely  to  see  if  you'll  falter  ,  if  you'll  disappoint  .  you  don't  .  determined  to  be  everything  you've  been  taught  to  be  .  convinced  your  happiness  is  found  within  other's  ,  so  much  so  ,  you  begin  to  believe  it  .  your  smile  brighter  ,  more  infectious  ,  yet  it  never  reaches  your  eyes  .  darling  ,  even  a  stranger  willing  to  look  just  an  inch  past  the  surface  can  see  how  unhappy  you  are  .  yet  ,  you  fool  the  lot  of  them  and  perhaps  that's  where  you  find  your  joy  ? 

valedictorian  .  miss  congeniality  .  a  true  beauty  queen  ,  it's  sickening  ...  what  more  could  you  do  to  exude  perfection  .  never  enough  ,  though  .  another  goal  always  set  in  succession  .  exhaustion  decays  in  your  core  ,  yet  you  remain  pure  and  bright  as  ever  .  foundation  remains  unshaken  ,  for  now  . 

a  decade  passes  ,  conneticut  greens  surround  a  well  deserved  estate  bought  from  hard  work  (  generational  wealth  )  .  in  the  distance  you  can  hear  a  woman  crying  .  muffled  by  shower  droplets  so  no  one  endures  your  pain  ,  you  smile  even  bigger  in  public  now  ,  so  no  one  asks  questions  .  yet  they  still  come  :  what  are  you  waiting  for  ?  you'd  make  an  unbelievable  mother  ...  if  only  it  were  that  easy  .  overtime  it  sounds  less  like  a  compliment  ,  more  like  a  threat  .  you  run  away  ,  husband  in  tow  like  a  ball  -  and  -  chain  you  can't  let  free  :  but  who  is  the  ball  and  who  is  the  chain  ,  really  ? 

the  veil  ,  a  lifetime  facade  ,  finally  dissolving  as  you  stare  into  the  mirror  .  no  true  accolades  that  make  you  feel  whole  .  no  true  impact  on  the  world  around  you  .  a  lifetime  concerned  with  some  legacy  has  rendered  you  forgettable  .  a  change  must  be  made  ,  will  be  made  .  a  new  environment  ,  a  new  approach  leads  somewhere  :  a  purpose  .  to  help  ,  to  feel  needed  .  it's  not  what's  expected  of  you  ,  not  what  those  presumed  to  be  in  your  corner  care  to  see  but  it's  for  you  ---  selfish  ,  for  the  first  time  in  your  life  .  it  feels  good  .

𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽𝚂  : miscelaneous . . . access granted .

was  born  in  boston  ,  massachusetts  where  her  and  her  family  lived  for  the  first  five  years  of  her  life  before  moving  just  outside  paris  ,  france  for  one  of  her  father's  business  ventures  .  while  they  vacationed  in  new  england  she  hadn't  returned  to  the  states  until  college  ---  where  she  attended  conneticut  college  and  later  yale  univeristy  for  her  masters  in  clinical  mental  health  counseling  . 

growing  up  she  was  pushed  to  do  anything  that  made  her  seem  more  alurring  as  a  woman  and  inevitably  that  led  her  into  the  pageant  world  ,  at  age  21  she  became  miss  france  and  competed  in  miss  world  where  she  came  in  third  place  .  no  one  had  any  inkling  she  was  phased  even  slightly  by  the  loss  but  one  of  her  biggest  kept  secrets  is  she  fell  into  a  pretty  dark  place  for  a  couple  years  following  .  although  she's  kept  a  foot  in  the  pageant  world  ,  it's  not  lost  on  anyone  that  as  the  years  have  gone  on  her  presents  becomes  smaller  and  smaller  . 

an  incredible  baker  .  noelle  is  known  to  be  incredibly  neighborly  ,  a  home  packed  box  of  goodie's  with  personalized  notes  made  once  a  week  for  those  she  deems  to  need  a  little  pick  me  up  and  whenever  she  has  some  extra  she  tens  to  drop  some  off  to  the  fire  station  or  at  different  wards  in  the  family  clinic  . 

known connections ( so far! aka, ones people around town might know ) emilio "milo" flores, ex husband. maisie flores, daughter (15).  orientation, availability bisexual & not actively looking for anything. she's rather burnt out on all things romance. prominent traits clever, resentful, tenacious, untrusting, logical, merciless, gutsy, calculating, unfazed, attentive, stubborn, poised, bold. twinnies, kinnies, etc wendy byrde ( ozark ), nancy wheeler ( stranger things ), katniss everdeen ( thg ), gerri kellman ( succession ), naomi lapaglia ( the wolf of wall street ), honey best ( the incredibles ), sasha williams ( the walking dead ), the angriest dog in the world by david lynch, mama bears, the warm and quiet glow of the rising sun, stray cats with sharp claws, and the dull ache of a lingering bruise.

helena's story doesn't have a pleasant start. her father was a hateful, selfish, abrasive son of a bitch. her mother was checked out of life, resigned to taking the path of least resistance, and intent on making sure helly chose it, too. it didn't stick, of course. helena was a ball of fire: full of life, energy, and a dogged determination to fight.

her childhood is marked by screaming matches, slammed doors, and going it alone. there isn't anything anyone can tell her that she hasn't already heard before; nothing anyone can do that will scare her. it made her strong, a hyper - independent and bold woman, but it also made her deeply resentful. if they were her parents, why couldn't they be her parents? why did she, the child, have to be the strong one?

unsurprisingly, her father couldn't hold down a job, and he insisted on dragging them from place to place between stints. the constant moving was difficult at first, but her life had always been unstable, and so she eventually grew used to being untethered. in a way, it was kind of freeing ( #copium ). she was a free bird, flying from place to place, doing and being whatever she pleased. she would be gone in a year anyway, so who cared what anyone thought of her? helly marched through this world like she owned it and no one could tell her otherwise.

she was fifteen when they moved to wicklow ridge. loath as she was to admit it, she loved it ( which she hated because she knew that would make moving even worse ). once the first year was up, she was fully ready to hear the news that they'd be leaving again, only for it to never come. they stayed for another year more, and then another, and another still. for once, it seemed the sauer bunch had finally settled.

by the time high school graduation came around, helly was itching to leave. she didn't know what she wanted to do just yet, but she knew she wanted to pursue something stable. she went to a state school and eventually landed on... accounting. yeah. was she expecting that? no. but she liked it well enough — liked anything that would prevent her from living the same life her parents had. she saved her electives to explore things that truly interested her, like photography, history, art, and literature. she practically lived in that library.

helena had been looking for work near her school after graduation when she got a call from her mom saying she was getting a divorce. her mom, who had always bowed her head and gone along with everything her father said. her mom, who had never been on her own before. her mom, who had finally apologized for never taking her side. blindsided, and less resistant to the idea of going back home now that her father was out of the picture, helly tentatively decided she'd return to help her out, see if anyone was hiring in the meantime.

not long after, one fateful trip to the book nook brought emilio flores into her life. part of her would like to be romantic and say the next two decades of her life were a blissful blur, but that would be inaccurate. it wasn't a blur. helena remembers everything with crystal clarity: their exciting start, blissful middle, and explosive end. helena loved being his wife, and she loved being a mother — two things she had always been so terrified of, so sure that they would never be meant for her. she loved him and the life they'd made for themselves up until the cracks grew too large and it all shattered at their feet.

infidelity. helena couldn't believe it. she still can't. it never made sense to her. she was a beautiful, smart, and capable woman. she always put her family first, always supported them in everything they did. she was the mother of his child. for god's sake, she was helena fucking flores sauer. she was not the kind of woman you cheated on. ... or so she once thought.

all too aware that this was not something you came back from, helena promptly called it quits once he confessed. she had been a fool to stay for as long as she had, hopeful to the point of delusion that they would get through this eventually, and she wouldn't continue to put her daughter through that. she couldn't.

their divorce was finalized a year ago, and helena has been living in a haze since then. half of her life, who she thought she was and could be — all of it went down the drain just like that. it's like childhood all over again: being untethered, being angry, being forced to fake it till she makes it. she keeps her head held high for her daughter, for herself, and moves like everything is perfectly fine. like she hasn't failed at this: being a mother, a wife, a woman worth wanting. like she isn't terrified of fucking things up for maisie. like she isn't a bird who trembles atop its perch, the cage door ripped off its hinges. everything is fine. it isn't, and hasn't been for a long time, but she has to pretend like it is. she has to.

personality helena is a free bird. she says what she means, does what she wants, and yields to no one. her mind is always whirling, eyes always seeing more than she lets on. she's purposeful in everything she does — never careless, especially not with others. she can be a teasing little shit or a callous bitch, just depends on you ( but she hates having to be an ice queen, so please don't make her 💔 ). serves mama bear mommy realness and will mother you without meaning to. would sooner eat her own hand than let anyone see her bleed / likes vulnerability in others while hiding her own. born to be a ride or die, forced to master detachment. other tidbits carries herself with the grace of a cat. talks a smidgen low and slow, forcing you to listen good. out-bitches judgy parents on local facebook groups because fuck 'em. applied for the finance officer gig six months ago like thirty minutes before the deadline thinking she wasn't actually going to get it. did indeed get it. has the kind of gaze you can feel. always dolled up and you will never catch her with chipped polish. an amateur photographer who enjoys taking pictures of the people and things she loves. has her daddy's temper. actually likes a good chatterbox and welcomes infodumps. shortie. spoils her daughter because she can. has a wicked sweet tooth. definitely is not repressing all of her emotions regarding her divorce only for them to show in other ways, like weight loss, sleepless nights, and stress.

WANTED CONNECTIONS  —

FRIENDS! all of the friends. best friends / girlfriends. friends she lost in the divorce. friends that she did not lose in the divorce but it's different now. high school friends ( she was a social butterfly, but mostly hung out with the ne'er-do-wells ). college friends. unlikely friends. friends who are more like siblings. friends who are reconnecting. friends who drifted apart. new friends / blossoming friendships. people who randomly shared a vulnerable or intimate moment once and they're not really friends but that shit was so #real it kind of feels like they're not not friends.

fellow parents and / or divorcees!

milf enthusiasts wya? 🫦🙏 is she looking for anything? no. but! i think she can have a little treat anyway. maybe. what this would mean or look like is 100% muse and vibe dependent. doesn't even have to be anything fr. could be an almost something. an animal awareness that they haven't acted on. a friendly outing that felt a little more than friendly. something she alleges was a lapse in judgment and will never happen again ( ok ms girl... ). lonely people being a little less lonely together. idk! open to anyone.

mentor / mentee type relationship. maybe your muse is on the younger side and helena acts like a supportive figure to them? be prepared for some tough love, though. honestly, they don't even have to be younger. anyone is welcome to apply. it'd be nice to focus on someone else's problems instead of her own.

someone she always sees around town, whether it's at everwood café, crystal springs, miss glamourpuss, or something like that.

STAGE ONE : STATISTICS.

full name: anchalee srisuwan     nicknames:  ana , cat , swan ( by ex, don't call her that she will start having a breakdown ) …   age: thirty2    date of birth:   january ninth.      gender:  cis woman.      pronouns:  she  +  her sexuality:  bisexual,  kinsey  four   place of birth:  bangkok,  thailand       current residency: a  cozy  two-bedroom  studio  apartment  in  wicklow,  vermont.  one  bedroom,  the  one  furthest  down  the  hall, has  its  door  firmly  shut  and  is  covered  in  a  layer  of  dust.  it  hasn’t  been  touched  since  five  years  ago  and  cat  doesn’t  like  anybody  trying  to  pry  into  the  details  of  exactly  who  used  to  live  there.  rest  assured,  there  are  no  dead  bodies  in  there.  she’s  not  exactly  the  murdering  type.  gives  out  the  most  candy  on  halloween  night  in  her  neighborhood.     occupation:   kindridge  counseling  center  licensed  therapist  at  wicklow  ridge  family  clinic.  formerly  a  surgeon  at  some  huge  hospital  in   a   big  city.  nobody’s  quite  sure  how  she  got  her  license  but  she  does  her  job  well  enough.   

education: has  a  degree  in  medicine  and  was  a  former  surgeon.  spent  two  years  in   community  college  due  to  financial  issues.     languages spoken:  speaks  fluent  english  and  thai.         skills:  analyzing  people  unprompted  ,  being  off-putting ,  true  master  of  work  /  at  home  persona ,  has  eyesight  like  a  hawk,  being  a  nonchalant  perfectionist  because  it  never  works  out  when  she  puts  effort  into  things.  religion:   still  attends  church  once  every  few  sundays  -  converted  to  catholicism  at  twenty-one  when  she  moved  to  america  at  the  request  of  another.  there’s  a  dusty  bible  laying  on  her  dining  table  but  it  hasn’t  been  touched  in  years  and  a  wooden  cross  hanging  on  the  wall  -  but  they  weren’t  put  up  for  her.  mainly  still  practices  out  of  something  resembling  grief. 

tw for mentions of death, car accidents (kinda) & drunk driving.

mother:  deceased,  died  a  few  months  after  ana  was  born  -  grandmother  said  it  was  from  heartbreak.  bullshit,  but  she  hasn’t  managed  to  gather  up  the  courage  to  ask  the  truth.   father:  bastard,  left  home  one  day  and  never  came  back.  didn’t  even  bother  to  pack  up  his  backs.  grandmother  said  she  never  liked  him,  that  mother  was  a  fool  to  fall  in  love  with  him.  nobody  in  the  family  cares  if  he’s  dead  or  not.  siblings:  oldest  brother ;  (  wanted  connection )  lost  contact  with  him  after  anchalee  and  malai both  moved  to  america  - only  five  years  later  did  he  receive  a  phone call  from  a  tired,  tired  voice  telling  him  that  hansawee  was  dead.  an  accident.  cat  isn’t  quite  sure  when  exactly  he  moved  to  wicklow  and  has  never  bothered  to  ask,  because  she  doesn’t  talk  to  him  anymore.  at  most,  a  prolonged  glance  at  the  supermarket  when  passing  by.  makes  sure  to  always  walk  a  bit  faster  when  she  sees  him.  twin  sister ;  deceased -  anchalee’s  closest  friend.  it  was  her,  malai’s  idea  to  move  to  america,  her  idea  to  start  going  to  church  every  sunday  and  her  idea  to  move  into  the  apartment  that  ana  vaguely  haunts  nowadays.  got  hit  by  a drunk  driver  five  years  after  they  both  moved  to  wicklow  and  died  from  her  injuries.    children:  none.  

STAGE TWO: BIOGRAPHY.

tw warning for mentions of death, car accidents (kinda) , drunk driving, mentions of being on medication (antidepressants).

SHE STARTS GENTLE. soft spoken girl, hands always folded neatly in lap and legs both firmly planted on ground. the type that one doesn't look at a second time. not belonging but not eye-catchingly sticking out. the subway station's announcement blares that they are at their stop. the twins leave. nothing changes. nobody looks up from their phone. nobody cares. that night, she announces to malai that she got a job at the general hospital. they're both happy. everything's fine.

they are no longer in new york city, but in a small city called wicklow in vermont. VERMONT IS BORING. she gets a job at the local family clinic. days and nights melt together until it all slows down with a halting screech. a late night phone call, and the man on the line tells her that her sister is in the hospital. she got hit by a drunk driver. she's in critical condition. the moment the man stops speaking she presses the hang up button and rushes for the door. gets her shoes on and doesn't even bother to get into the car, just runs out of the door and into the cool night air.

the receptionist looks at her like she's a dead person walking. she doesn't care. words come spilling out, my twin was hit by a drunk driver and i need to find her before she dies. her name is malai srisuwan. m-a-l-a-i s-r-i-s-u-w-a-n. they point her to a room. she starts sprinting. the receptionist yells no running and anachalee resists the urge to give her the middle finger. hands grip the doorknob and twist, hard. and there is malai - cat's closest friend, confidant, the person she's trusted and grew up beside for her entire life.

malai dies shortly after. the funeral is small. a few friends of malai's, anchalee can recognize. somebody send her flowers. they rot in the living room. one sent her a card that sat on the dining table for at least a month before getting touched. neighbor knocks on her door and offers brownies. she accepts, bowing and eats a piece before throwing the rest in the fridge. sobs in the living room sometimes, shuts the room to malai's door and never opens it again. sobs in the hallway. doesn't show up at work for two months but isn't fired because she's the most competent therapist they have probably. after six months the physiatrist gives her antidepressants and anchalee accepts them.

it's been years. everything is fine now. anchalee smiles more now. everything is fine.

tba probably i wrote this in twenty minutes so im sorry.

STAGE THREE: WANTED CONNECTIONS.

EX-GIRLFRIEND, antagonistic / weirdly romantic, thirty to thirty-five. creator of the nickname swan, on-and-off enemies with benefits (both say this and yet they both have feelings that linger). ended horribly after anchalee was in a spiral a few years back. that's all. pls give me her.