BIOGRAPHY.

content warning(s): childhood abandonment, death^001. you were born an accident, something that wasn't wanted, nor viewed as divine intervention. you don't know much of your parents, nor about your lineage — words around town is that they fled, shock-laden and pale as they packed up their stuff into a car, dropping you off on the steps of the sheriff's station before their exhaust was heard all the way down the highway. all of the social workers have said that it was nothing to be ashamed of, offering their two cents that you were too young to understand, always asserting that it was the town that drove them away, not you. if so, then why'd they leave you here ? why didn't they take you with them ?^002. you went to your paternal grandparents, a much older couple, already in their sixties when you were just beginning your life. they were the type to keep to themselves in their small mobile home in the outskirts of marrow, rarely interacting with outside life unless it was for groceries or to yell at the bank teller. something about the town made them fearful, but they didn't have the means to leave — the distance made them antisocial, so much that their fear rubbed off on you for a bit, too.^003. they passed just shy of your thirteenth birthday, both in quick succession, their own medical strife they both succumbed to. part of you felt relieved, happy for them even — they finally made it out of marrow, didn't they ? again, they left you alone, squatting with the pocket change and savings stuffed into the mattress until social services finally found out. you ended up in foster care, a home of five, to which you werre the eldest by a slim margin. you haven't seen so many personalities in one place — the politics of siblinghood you never got. all of a sudden, you became their mediator, a natural talent, you were told. life went on as such, eventually all of you were adopted by your foster parent, a lottery win for abandoned kids in this town, it seemed, but it never got any easier.^004. adulthood eventually snuck up on you, your eighteenth birthday was nothing different than the last — you were still here, after all. no prospects, no big university offers, just marrow and your family and the diner you used as a second home. you've been working there since it was legal for you to - starting with elbows deep in dishwater and eventually graduating to a waitressing position, with your wages and tips enough to get you a private basement room in a community house. it wasn't far from your family - they still needed you, and they still do.^005. waking up with a migraine and a bad case of cotton mouth one summer morning seemed to reroute your entire life. people look at you differently, even your siblings, and especially your parents. they keep their distance, backing away as you say hello and drop off groceries, even though that's what you've always done. you don't know what's going on, you don't know how to deal with being shunned and unwanted, all you know is to be needed, sought out for. it doesn't help that you feel colder now, even despite the blistering humidity of a new england summer. you have a new mark on your forehead, too, something you can't scrub off and trust me, you've tried.

miscellaneous headcannons.

BIOGRAPHY.

content warning(s): death^001. science was your religion — everything had a force behind it, perhaps not tangible, but known. poetry was formulaic, magic was math, rules were set in stone when the universe began. it's what made life comfortable, the stability in prediction and probability. for years, it worked. it had worked for generations of your family, so why stop with you ? nothing was out of line throughout your whole life, toe-in-toe with the clear path paved for you, modeled after your parents and their forebears.^002. despite it all, your imagination ran rampant, aiming to peel back the full expanse of the human condition. psychology was just enough for you to feel rebellious, walking the tight rope between fact and fantasy. neuroscience was too stuffy, with shirts buttoned too high and hands that remained too still. so you went for it: psychoanalysis, the dreams all in their jungian glory.^003. you fell in love with it enough to come back for another round of schooling , graduating with an m.s., eventually scoring the dream of a small job at a private school as a mental health consultant at a school just an hour out of town. it was there where you met them, your eventual life partner, a teacher, your everything, whom you had vowed to continue this cycle with — the formula of doing, of living, that must be repeated. childlike wonder came flooding back with the stories they'd tell, the passion behind his eyes with every term that comes, allowing him to share the beauty of curiosity with new faces every year.^004. married at twenty eight, widowed at thirty. it all crashed ... none of this was supposed to happen. it didn't, hadn't happened to anyone you knew, so why you ? the clear winner of the cursed lottery, plucked out by fate. that was when the night terrors started coming in, grotesque reminders of cold hands and the irritating frequency of a flatline. a brain that resists treatment is a bitch of a feat, something that has dwindled you into a hopeless, blabbering shell. grief still comes in waves, big and billowing, settling upon the sand with a loud crash. people look at you like you're insane for it, like your misery should be tucked away like everyone else's, 'cause that'd make you stronger. you're soft in the way that a bruise is.^005. now that they're back, now that everyone is back, it's inexplicable — something seen as a miracle and a blessing in another universe, twisted into something grotesque. your loved ones, not limited to your partner, all-enveloping in its madness have also resurrected friends, coworkers, other family, all whose funerals you attended in your best clothing. your closet has gone black with the amount of death, and now you walk the streets as some wraith, stuck in a limbo of flesh and blood but now with the mindlessness of someone departed, an academic turned into something that has anything but.

miscellaneous headcannons.

BIOGRAPHY.

content warning(s): mentions of blood and slight graphic imagery.^001. the upper middle class of 1800s mexico city provided allegra and their twin brother, anthony, a rather comfortable upbringing. their father, a banker — while not a prominent name by any means, his earnings were well enough to keep the family afloat. their mother, a homemaker and an artist, though not professionally, an inspiration nonetheless. they both received a very classical upbringing, with their parents easily catching onto their affinity for music — opera singers in their respective rights, alongside the general education in the humanities and sciences of the time.^002. the two began as child performers, a duo act, usually getting cast in smaller ensemble roles within their local opera and theatre houses. their passion for the art was infallible, something that couldn't be shattered nor grown out of. as they aged, they eventually graduated into more adult ensemble roles, but felt as if they were destined for more — they wanted nothing but to stand center stage and for allegra, the opportunity to shine just as much as their counterparts. her rebellious streak grew strong, soon finding themselves performing part-time at the city's official opera house, and the other time, an earlier form of what would soon become known as a cabaret club. there, the stage was her own.^003. life continued on. but in their twenty fourth year of life, she and their brother were offered to join a traveling camarata group as their lead singers, another duo act offered, as they would travel around europe and perform for private patrons — whether it be balls, parties, or other soirées, they would be there. the leader of the group, the maestro, was never someone allegra got along with, at least not more so than an amicable, professional relationship. but her brother ? the two were tethered together — he'd easily won the maestro's favor, something bordering on obsession.^004. they had garnered enough success to be shipped overseas — their first show, the ball amongst the sprawling campus owned by a wealthy american tycoon, living in upstate new york. allegra doesn't remember much between their departure from italy and the actual gala itself. they describe it as being blinded by rage, the cold sting of betrayal that has left a seam over her heart. while preferential treatment was not lost to her, it had gone too far when she learned that the maestro, all this time, had been giving anthony a larger sum of payments in comparison to she, overheard all the while he was pitching her brother's name to a partygoer interested in their talents. he wanted anthony to flourish as a soloist and their brother's support of such an idea had her in hysterics.^005. next thing they knew, they were in the washroom of father romero's current home, peeling away the tattered ballgown she wore that night's performance, body scarred with the indentations of where the corset restrained her torso. under the cool stream of water, she was born anew, watching as their body — one eternal, now — had washed away the blood of herself, father romero's, and the remains of wild game she had feasted upon while in the forest for three weeks. once a primadonna, turned into a feral child, and then reborn again.

miscellaneous headcannons.