🍒

#𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 ㅤㅤ— ㅤㅤhighly private & selective blog curated by 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙝 featuring CHARLOTTE HAWTHORNE; the girl who has everything and the woman who has NOTHING. touch-starved, aches for companionship. broken at the hands of the wrong man, she spends her days playing pretend, obsessing over displaying the perfect image of FEMININITY to prove she isn't damaged.

mutuals only. triggering & usfw content will be featured. read carrd before interacting

open to: ㅤanyone! | open to non-mutuals based on: ㅤㅤwhat's-wrong-with-me.mp3 | charlie and your muse are together but she senses things aren't going well so she is slowly withering away

someone of her stature has no business knowing what specific brand of bleach works best for blood spills. one would expect her expertise to be in highbrow art or fashion. and while charlie certainly is knowledgeable about said topics, it does not matter. she's been relegated to playing the role of a disgruntled passenger princess, forced to tag along and see him do a shoddy job cleaning after himself just because he refuses to listen. fucked up priorities, since it's not like she's there willingly, but she's learned to pick and choose her battles. and arguing over cleaning products is a nice distraction.

she hates guns. many memories of hers are tainted by them. sometimes, during particularly bad nights, she she shivers as she harks back to the days she lived under the watchful eye of her ex. he was a terrible man, a monster too keen on torturing her. and how he loved guns. the familiar sensation of cold metal against her skin has her mouth tasting of bile. but she is angry too, and uses said fury to shove her fears to the side, tuck all her traumas away and focus on how much she wants to hurt them. and the gun isn't being held against her temple. she finds that comforting. it's charlie who has the power, who, despite trembling hands, could put out the light behind their eyes with one simple move.

charlotte was a lonely creature by nature. kept to herself, barely exchanged words with her neighbor besides a courteous good morning or good afternoon if they happened to cross paths. she knew how big an imposition this was. still, a soaking wet charlie, chattering teeth and all, took refuge in her neighbor's stoop. one hand holding onto her coat—even when that didn't do much to protect her from the cold—while the other knocked on their door. and just as a defeated charlie turned around to leave, the sound of a door opening stopped her on her tracks.