nelly agassi, the bedroom
Do you think when are kids are older they’re going to think our vintage vintage (ie film) photos of us are cool and that we were so hot when we were younger? Or will they think we’re lame as hell and wtf are those zoomer quality photos? I have no clue what the future of the planet looks like. Black mirror low key scares me for that reason. Like what kind of hyper reality is that. Also what if I become delusional when I’m older what if I get dementia and my brain dies before I do? God isn’t that sad. What if we had kids together wouldn’t that be fucking nuts? I’m kind of scared. Is that normal? What’s a normal amount of scared? Are we going to play music in our house all the time? What kind of hipster trash doctor parents are we going to be? Who amongst our friends will our kids get to grow up around? We’ll take them on vacations to different cities and they’ll meet our friends and see how loved they are (and also what shits we were). Are you going to burn the whole incense stick every time we light one? I’ll be thinking about how we could be so much more economical with our incense use. Will we take turns making breakfast? What about picking up groceries? Will you still cuddle me at night sometimes (permitting my snores don’t become unbearable). Spoil the grandkids? The dogs?? Oh god the dogs! Listen give me a reason not to imagine a wild life for us, I swear I’ll do it. I’ll conjure it up and scare myself in and out of it like a yo-yo. One day we’ll look up and life will just have happened to us and the decades past will feel as if they were some vivid dream. Will it be the two of us together, talking about it in the morning, over coffee?
I still believe in us believe in universe but I have to work on myself.
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NAME: Diego Castillo
BIRTHDAY: July 7th, 1975
GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis male, he/him
BIRTHPLACE: Santiago, Chile
OCCUPATION: Chef at Rosie’s Diner
FACE CLAIM: Pedro Pascal
Diego never really figured out what being an adult was on his own terms. Sure, he graduated high school, and he went into college (after dropping out, as was his college girlfriend’s idea once she’d graduated), and he helped start up a store for office supplies that eventually became a huge chain across the western Americas, but for most of those years it seemed more like he was along for the ride instead of steering himself through. Even when he married said college girlfriend– who had also become his business partner by then– it hadn’t necessarily been because he wanted marriage, but because it was expected of him at age thirty.
He went through the motions without argument, comforted by the notion that his and his wife’s success meant that he was doing something right. With enough money coming in for them to live comfortably, Diego was told by family and friends that he must have it all, and that he must be so damn lucky. Unspoken went the fact that he was rigid about his life decisions, rigid about his schedules, and rigid about pouring everything into work and his health and other such society-decided useful things as his wife did.
“To succeed,” Diego’s father told him at his deathbed, “means to always want more and to work for it.”
So he’d followed this philosophy unflinchingly.
It didn’t occur to him, really, that he was lacking in anything. At least not until (after continuous urging from both his mother and his parents-in-law to give them grandchildren) his twin daughters were born eight years into his marriage. It was with their birth, and the fact that he found himself wanting to spend more time with them instead of working, or attending meetings, or finding new partners, or going to the gym, or going on seminars, or attending conferences, that he realised… well, maybe he wanted something else.
Slowly, gradually, Diego had begun to pull away from the things that deemed him “successful”. Over the years his hours at the office and helping run the business decreased, and over the years the nanny ended up working less and less because Diego was staying home more and more. Though he felt guilty as his wife’s work began to pile up in exchange for his having more personal family time, he found his passion for running their business dwindling, too. Hobbies that had left him after his father passed were suddenly coming back to him, and Diego had forgotten what it was like to have more than a few hours every month to indulge in them.
Eventually his wife could take no more of his crumbling interest in the business, and Diego himself had come to the startling realisation that just because he was successful and married and had two children didn’t mean that he had everything he wanted. He did not “have it all”. He was not “so damn lucky”. He’d been following the skeleton of stereotypical American success, but none of that made him nearly as happy as making cookies with his little girls in their too big kitchen.
It had been a mutual decision for Diego and his wife to divorce, in the end. Months of escalating, frequent arguments had culminated in the confession that his wife no longer felt like his wife, and Diego found himself unable to argue when so much of their being together had been because of their business partnership. He still loved her, but not so much that marriage was necessary, and when she agreed with his sentiment, they both knew what to do.
Despite the fact so much of Diego’s life had been shaped around concepts he was taught to want instead of actually wanting, he made the first impulse decision of his adult life and moved from the bustling city to the town his sister lived in, selling all his shares with the company he helped found in some attempt to wash himself clean and start anew. So unused to living without the next thirty years of his life planned out ahead of him, and afraid that he’d changed the course of his life too late (he was forty-five, for Christ’s sake), Diego now struggles to find some new definition of “normal”. On the bright side, though, at least he has his daughters with him– in a joint legal custody situation, yes, but with his ex-wife so busy they’re with him more often than the opposite.
It feels absurd to try navigating the world at his age, and there’s a lot yet that Diego has to discover. Fortunately, his daughters are his touchstone and with them, he can face anything.
NAME: Iman Broderick
BIRTHDAY: December 16th, 1992
GENDER/PRONOUNS: Female, she/her
BIRTHPLACE: Mystic, Connecticut
FACE CLAIM: Summer Bishil
Trigger Warnings: Mentions of a mental breakdown, abandonment, slight violence and toxic relationship.
She had a sharpness about her that was often associated with ferality, the primal defense of all creatures to first protect self. Despite having different mother’s, Miguel Broderick had instilled into all of his children that they were all to love each other just the same ― yet, without a mother figure to show her the same amount of affection that Iman grew up watching her older siblings have… it was hard to relate. The last born child of the Broderick brood, Iman had often felt overlooked; with a brother who was a huge success in the medical field and a sister who was seen as superior in more than just her natural beauty, there hadn’t been much attention left for the youngest child. Their father had his hands full with celebrating the two oldest while she was left to watch from the sidelines ― different from them; not quite family though blood was shared. Growing up, Iman often wanted to ask her father why he was so lenient with her unlike the two that came before her, but she didn’t quite have the heart to hear the truth. Perhaps, in his mind, he had been doing Iman a favor; the shoes that she was left to fill were big after all ― would they really be able to strike lightening thrice? But the fact that she was abandoned at a young age made him pity her somewhat. She had heard him over the phone once, talking to his older sister in Spanish, the words still engrained into her mind this day: Me siento mal por ella. Even at a young age, it was something that Iman had never felt comfortable with. Maybe it was inherited from the mother she had never known, but her pride refused for her to accept such a reality.
Despite not being full blooded siblings, Nora and Isaiah had gone out of their way to accept her. There were many a days when Iman found herself in their company, being looked after, attached although the obvious difference in their parentage. Iman often observed them as their mother ― her father’s first love ― would scoop them up, showing them a level of closeness that Iman had never received regardless of having a father that had tried his best. Perhaps his lack of attention toward his youngest daughter had to do with the fact that he was a single parent; working many hours and too tired to give her the attention that she had rightfully deserved yet, in Iman’s mind, she had felt undervalued every time Miguel had rushed off to his elder children, smile broad and genuine while she was left to watch him embrace her siblings from the background, not quite understanding the jealously that filled her. Iman kept quite though ― the last thing she wanted was to become even more of burden.
As she grew it was startling to her father at times ― the pointed desire and selfish acquisition of Iman’s wants. It was a harsh balance which settled roughly within a child. Consequently, if one glanced through a looking glass at the young girl, they would see a mean spirit already settling in her features and expressions but the guilt of such emotions kept them at bay for years. Naturally, when someone spent their whole life bottling their negative emotions instead of understanding them, well, said emotions would eventually morph into resentment and anger. It was Iman’s burden to carry, the monkey on her back that seemed to take up more space in her heart and head every time her own accomplishments had been acknowledged with nothing but a simple “good job.” The lack of effort and festivity had been what had always gotten under her skin; that level of acknowledgement that seemed to be reserved only for Nora and Isaiah ― celebrations that their own mother had pushed for. All Iman craved was to be seen, to be good enough but it seemed to elude her despite her best efforts.
Out of the three children, Iman had been the most serious for sure ― and fiercely independent as well. She was a bossy child, making choices that she didn’t fully understand but that had impressed even her father from time to time. She had pushed herself to try new things in an attempt to find what she would be able to outshine her siblings at; and eventually, at the age of eight, she found just that. Ballet was supposed to be just another thing to keep her away from home, and yet, it had been the one practice that she found herself eager to do. It had overcame her obsession with changing her family’s perception of her. When she danced, she did it for herself. Especially throughout the years. Ballet belonged to her and her only, the driving force behind every perfectly coordinated and practiced move, her passion and peace. Naturally, she excelled ― Iman never had been a lazy child; determined and absolute in whatever she chose to pursue, her peers often revered her and she took it in stride. Confident, she would say. Arrogant, others would proclaim.
The chip on her shoulder did nothing to help matters but, quite simply, Iman didn’t care about anything or anyone else. She was her first priority, after all.
By the time Iman was starting High school, Isaiah had been long gone and Nora had ran off to Los Angeles to chase her Hollywood dream. Yet, despite always feeling alone, Iman became even more aware of the lack of laughter and people at the dinner table. Even despite the rivalry of which she created in her own head, she did love her older brother and sister ― but the fact that she had been left behind was still jarring. As a means of distraction and escape, Iman took up more hobbies to keep her away from home. When she wasn’t dancing, she was leading debates and/or participating in The Arts. Her days became carefully constructed and she planned everything to the T ― of course, ballet reigned supreme in her heart.
Though her extracurriculars were used more as an escape, they looked great on all of her college applications ― and after many auditions in various schools centered on dance, Iman was on cloud nine when she received her acceptance letter to Juilliard. Following in her siblings footsteps and eager to escape Mystic Iman found herself in the dorms the following year, dedicating all of her time to her passion. As time went on, Iman continued to push herself, landing a spot in New York’s ballet company. Though quite a lot of work, building a life in New York had been worthwhile and her personality had blossomed further: a strong willed, stubborn, prideful young woman who was unafraid to speak her truth no matter how nasty it sounded. Iman grew to have a tongue of blades, bold and still in control of her emotions, she never stood down or backed away from those things which challenged her, from friends turned enemies to strangers on the street; there was a lack of filter ― only barb. This caused many of the other dancers to dislike her, but she had been used to people’s jealousy concerning her skill and, when worse came to worse, her sugary sweet manipulation facade always worked wonders.
With suck work ethic and dedication, it was no surprise when Iman began to land starring roles that had belonged to the Prima Ballerina who was forced to retire due to injury before her. It had been her dream to perform at Lincoln Center as the star, and eventually, despite fulfilling her ultimate goal she couldn’t deny that there was a feeling of emptiness that still lingered within her. The build up of repressed emotions that plagued her turned to immense anger, one that she recognized from childhood, and she continued to run away from the feeling simmering within, ready to damn near burst. Such exposure had caused her workload to double, she pushed herself further to “perfection” while juggling a secret affair with her art director that was toxic on most days, and filled with extreme highs on the best of days. Icarus flew to close to the sun. Still she felt as if she would crack, her facade slowly crumbling. It was the news of her grandmother’s passing that caused her to finally lose it ― the one person she had been herself around. The only other person that had shown her helped to raise and understand her. Yet, upon hearing that it was Nora who inherited Sugar Daddy’s, Iman found herself suffering a mental breakdown that was extremely worrisome. With her stay at a facility kept under wraps and paid out of pocket by her art director, Iman was forced to “deal” with her issues while remaining mostly idle, something she didn’t do well with. She refused calls from her father and siblings, denying herself the chance to lean on them for support ― the last thing she needed was for them to find out and pity her.
Life took a drastic change for the worst after learning her understudy would instead be performing Swan Lake, the dream role that Iman had been training for. Upon confronting her secret lover and boss, she became violent and, after their affair was outed due to her rampant rage ( in which she screamed and physically attacked with such a fury ), Iman found herself out of a job and blacklisted. With nowhere else to lick her wounds she ended up back in Mystic under the guise of “taking a break” when in all reality she had no idea what she would be able to do to make things right. Only back for a week, she resides back in her old room in her father’s house. Most days she keeps up a schedule despite her depression; other’s found her locked away in her room for a couple of days.
Though being back with her father is comforting at best, she finds herself tolerating him at most. Especially with Nora back in the picture, Miguel’s most darling daughter. Iman felt that jealousy and resentment rise up in her once more, uncontrollable and so ugly. Cognizant of this she did her best to avoid her elder sister and most people of the town who tended to ask too many questions, if only to distract herself from the sheer emptiness that laid within her being.
Aww. Why Violet?
You’re quite nosy, Morgan.
I was told it was my mother’s fav Have you ever taken the time to stop and really look at the color? Especially as it occurs in nature. It’s intoxicating, really.
NAME: Mercy Williams
BIRTHDAY: April 17th, 1994
GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis female, she/her
BIRTHPLACE: Mystic, Connecticut
OCCUPATION: Bartender at The 401
FACE CLAIM: Zoey Deutch
Trigger Warnings: Drunk driving, car accident, death, alcohol abuse, violence.
Mystic, Connecticut. The town in America that Mercy had always loved to hate. There hasn’t always been such bitter feelings about the place, though. Life just had a way of changing a poor girl’s perspective. From a father who left when life got hard to a mother who could barely take care of herself, let alone her child, it was no wonder Mercy grew so much resentment.
The tale of the Williams family was beautiful, average, but beautiful and seemed to be the kind of love that everyone wished to have. Her father and mother grew up together in Madison, their fates practically being tied since birth—they were best friends long before they could even say the words. They hung nearly every single day from elementary school to high school until finally becoming sweethearts ( just as everyone hoped ) and from then on, it was your basic love story. High school sweethearts, to husband and wife, ending in parents of two—yes, two – beautiful kids named Robert and Mercy Williams; born two years apart. What more could anyone ask for? For a whole it seemed like everything was continuing that ‘perfect’ reputation that they had.
Robert Williams instantly became a popular name around the neighborhood and it was mainly due to his basketball skills. That, and he was the kind of guy that everyone wanted to be around. He was funny, caring, protective and did his part to befriend everyone. Mercy, on the other hand, was just your typical child— sweet as could be and had a heart made of gold. She maintained her grades well, went to church every Sunday and was known for always having a small on her face. She was never on the same popularity level as her brother. The only reason anyone really knew who she was, it was because they knew of her brother. Unlike him, she preferred to keep her head low and out of the spotlight. Always preferring the company of one of her few friends or the books she had rented from the library; never really being the one who loved the attention.
Mercy was honestly content with the way things were until the day she wasn’t. She was seventeen when it happened. Her brother had just returned home from his first year in college, getting the opportunity to travel all the way to California due to his scholarship, and Mercy could remember just how excited she was to see him home—the first time the two had ever been apart for so long. Robert told stories upon stories about the city, about his school, about his new friends and Mercy soaked it all in. She loved to hear about it, loved to listen. It’d been like taking an adventure without ever leaving her home—which there was never no intent to do. It was her brother that forced the idea about seeing the world in her head and despite her constantly saying no, it never stopped him from trying to push her to venture out. Not then, obviously, but some day in the future. There was a life outside of Mystic and he would’ve been damned if his own sister never got to see it because to him, she deserved more than this small town.
His smile was the last thing to be imprinted in Mercy’s mind on that Friday because it was the last time she’d ever get to see him smile again. To make a long, sad story short – he, Mercy and his friends got into a car accident that night. They had all been drinking, their car hit another and everyone involved died on impact aside from Mercy.
The Williams’ household was never the same after that and with obvious reasons. Devastated by the loss of their oldest son her mother became numb to the world and her father? Well, he left. Four months after the loss of Bobby, he divorced his wife and took off. Never to be seen or heard from again. Her mother’s depression was eating away at her and before long, alcohol became the woman’s coping mechanism. The bottles soon becoming the shoulders to lean on. And Mercy? She seemed to find herself in more trouble than anyone would ever count. Hanging with the wrong crowds, sneaking out, smoking, drinking before she was even legal. She was a mess and it got to the point where her closest friend could no longer recognize her. Mercy didn’t know it at the time, but it was a cry for help. She was losing her mind, acting out with the hopes that her mother would actually see her, see the pain she, too, was going through. She became the talk of the town, parents not wanting their own children hang around her and do you think her mother noticed? Obviously not, or she just pretended like she didn’t.
By the time she was twenty-one years old, Mercy grew sick and tired of being within the punching bag for her mother’s drunken and hurtful words — it wasn’t her fault. No matter how many times her mother tried to point fingers at Mercy and blame her for the destruction that become the William’s household . One night, she had snapped. Mercy said some pretty awful things that night, so awful that it earned her a slap in the face from her mother; the final straw. Her only daughter left home that night, packed up all of her things and booked it—having enough money saved up to be able to do just that. She didn’t know where she was going, what she was going to do when she figured it out, she was just done. Mercy was leaving and never coming back. Her brother was right, there was more than the town life and she was finally going to see it for herself. She ghosted the town, the people and proceeded to live her life as if Connecticut never existed.
Never once did Mercy ever expect to find herself returning to Mystic, but one phone call changed that almost immediately. Her mother had passed away a month ago and they were finally able to get in contact with Mercy after so long. Everything her mother had fell into the hands of Mercy— debt and a mess included. She has no intentions of staying in Mystic. None. The only thing on her mind is getting the backed up bills paid, fixing the disaster her mother called a home fixed up and selling it. Nothing more, nothing less. Mercy only prays she can get it done sooner rather than later, but knows deep down that’s wishful thinking; especially on a bartender salary.