SERPENS.

they call you the keeper of snakes, queen of whispers; you're their deus ex machina; you, the most terribly beautiful of ticking time-bombs. AMIRAH BOTROS. XVII.

[amirahbotros]

𝗗𝗘𝗨𝗦 𝗘𝗫 𝗠𝗔𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗔

𝐚𝐠𝐞 - twenty-seven || 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬 - she/her || 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 - los angeles, ca, usa || 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 - soraya (née maibe) botros, mother; ilyas botros, father || 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 - single || 𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 - united nations translator & official press release editor

introduction //

skeleton

full application

condensed biography, bulleted 

exploration //

pinterest board

playlist

dynamics // 

established + wanted connections 

[satyriconmp3]

Boyish, Japanese Breakfast

[lauraharricrs]

Steve Carell as Mitch Kessler in The Morning Show ( 2019 - )

[imaanhammamblog]

[themakeupbrush]

Imaan Hammam at the 2022 Met Gala

[amirahbotros]

VINDICTA

VIOLENTIA​

INFAMIA

There’s a certain truth in all that Amirah says. He admires her for that, the way that she weaves words like spun gold and turns patchwork half-lies into beautiful tapestries. It’s an art form and Amirah has perfected the delicate nuances of such an intricate craft. Yes, he admires her, but in the same breath he fears her.

She turns to him, a look of knowing caught in the center of her gaze. 

“For what my word is worth, I am an attorney, and I’m not in the habit of incriminating myself, nor others when none of us are legally being charged with a crime.” It’s the truth, he didn’t say much to the detective, but he wonders if anyone else would have. He looks at Genevieve and wonders if their shared bond among the immortal made a difference in her reply.

“I do, however, have something I wish to speak with you about in private. A quid pro quo so to speak. This is not to say however that I do not trust, or wish for the rest of you to be involved, but as this is a rather personal matter,” his attention is drawn to the doorway, a look of faux longing settles neatly onto his countenance, “I believe the other party would be more comfortable with someone they know.”

Geneviève studies August carefully as he speaks, keeping her posture aligned and trying not to move, to fidget, or to behave in any way that might seem suspicious or nervous to any current people in her company.

It doesn’t surprise her in the least that he’s kept his lips firmly sealed to Domingo. Sanctimonious he may be at times, sure, but she would never say August isn’t admirably canny.

Once he’d finished, she coughs slightly, and attempts to follow suit, “Sorry to disappoint, Amirah dear, but I didn’t give our new friend anything to chew on either. You should know by now,” she says, with a sickly sweet, smug smile, “whatever you think of me, I’m not so monstrous as to sell out every single one of my friends like that. However much I might be entertained by the drama of doing such a thing, there’s no chance.”

“Dreadfully boring, isn’t it?” she says with a giggle. “Protecting each other.”

Though, of course, she’d never considered doing anything else.

“What about you, though?” she says, creeping slowly towards Amirah until their faces are centimetres apart. “Did you tell him anything?”

“Come on, it’s only fair if you asked us. Fess up, and then we can have some fun with this autopsy business.”

Was there anything in it? That was the question. It wasn’t strange for Amirah to enter into a dramatic bluff, after all.

Collateral damage. 

Nikhil had no intention of doing something as foolish as giving anything at all useful to the police, but he was just as certain that saying that would do little to convince Amirah. All too often, since he has arrived here, has he found himself backed into corners, making concessions. It wears on him, and yet the autopsy is simply too valuable a resource to let slip through his fingers. Knowledge is power, Amirah knows it. He knows it. 

“You have a deal,” Nikhil says, matter of fact, and slips his phone from his back pocket. Sure to angle himself to conceal the screen from the group, he types a simple, two sentence text message. A secret he’s kept for years, a night never once spoken of aloud. Not entirely damning, but enough that it should satisfy her, if only for it’s value in gossip. Amirah will have questions. Depending on the value of the autopsy report, he might even deign to give her answers. 

nikhil: I slept with Julian de Cervantes. 

He waits for the telltale sound of a text notification, and then slips his phone back into his pocket. “That should suffice,” he says, looking to Amirah with the slightest raise of an eyebrow. 

“Now, the autopsy report?”

There is something undoubtedly intoxicating about the way all three of her comrades lay themselves verbally prostrate at the altar that is Amirah Botros. She watches with veiled interested as August, predictably, affirms his tight-lippedness; she, of course, expects no less from the prodigal son. A well-manicured brow arches, however, at the second part—a promise of drama and delectable heartbreak, she’s sure, if only in exchange for a bit of her own relational woes. This is a deal the Devil does not mind making. “Well, of course, Mr. Levésque,” she agrees, not sparing the others a passing glance—that is, until Geneviève slinks closer to her face, pressing and accusatory.

Doesn’t she know that a cornered viper will strike?

The woman does not balk. In fact, she smiles—dagger-sharp and all-too-knowing. She leans in closer, her curls brushing against the other’s cheek as she whispers in her ear, her own tone adopting the same sickly sweet tone, “What, darling, are you worried I let your little cat out of the bag? The end of our escape room was quite a treat, if I do say so myself.” Amirah lingers for a half-second more before pulling away, leaning back against the bench with a near-playful air about her—a cat toying with mice. “Don’t be so ridiculous, Gen—your secret’s safe with me.” Conspiratorially, she winks. “All of your secrets are safe with me. Haven’t they always been?” She regards the group in earnest, brown hues scanning each and every face, daring them to tell her she’s wrong. 

They were all...relatively unscathed, no? At least they were alive.

And then comes Nikhil’s agreement, the voice of promise and clarity. She waits with bated breath for him to whisper in her ear like Hector once did in their game of Aut Veritas Aut Mort, how they all did in college so many moons ago, but he whips out his phone, sends a text. She doesn’t bother to hide the satisfaction that blossoms across her visage as she retrieves her own to read the damning text. She begins to think of all the ways she could warp this one text to a grandiose story, one to perhaps rival that of Nazrin and her beloved best friend, if need be. Nikhil has given her tinder, ripe for burning—she need only light the flame, if pressed. But, until then, she will sit with his confession and hold it close so as to lord over him. “Very well,” she purrs, ‘loving’ the message before tucking her phone back into her purse.

“Look here,” Amirah says, motioning to the flowers that grow near the base of the bench, the path, around where they all linger. “I know we’ve a resident botanist in our midst—” a quick look to Geneviève “—but I took the liberty of doing some research of my own. Our escape room namesakes: amaryllis, lily of the valley, hemlock, and nightshade.” She rattles the list of fauna off, pointing to each flower as they’re named. In the next motion, she unlocks the iPad, reads from the screen: “‘J. De Cervantes suffered head trauma to the left side of his temple and abrasions on his face and hands, indicative of a physical altercation. Forensic toxicology reports indicate that he was also suffering from a drug overdose with extremely high levels of alcohol, methamphetamines, cocaine, and opiates.’” As was to be expected, of course. The Botros woman continues, “‘Toxicology reports also reveal high levels of alkaloids in the liver and kidneys.’ 

“...I don’t think it’s a coincidence that these poisonous, alkaloid-producing flowers are grown here in the De Cervantes greenhouse, nor do I believe Viviana bestowed those names upon our escape room groups by happenstance.” She scowls at the notion, releasing the unlocked iPad from her grasp so that the others may finally look.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if this is the new information upon which they’re building their case--that Viviana and the detective believe one of us poisoned her beloved son.”

[mossyshadows]

Past a certain point, you stop being able to go home. At this point, when you have got this far from where you were from, the thread snaps. The narrative breaks. And you are forced, pastless, motherless, selfless, to invent yourself anew.

The Four Generations of Chang E - Zen Cho

[weusedtobegiants]

But I like the old themes, temptation, vengeance, hate.

Alice Notley, from Certain Magical Acts

[castlesinspain-deactivated20240]

[gorgonwoman]

Apocalypse Logic, Elissa Washuta

[feral-ballad]

Yves Olade, Belovéd

[cerbeerus]

[antigonick]

“IPHIGENIA : I shall wash blood with blood to get rid of the defilement—”

— Euripides, Iphigenia Among the Taurians (tr. by Anne Carson)

[amirahbotros]

putitonmydash​:

Imaan Hammam (@imaanhammam)

[filmcentral]

[amirahbotros]

filmcentral​:

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU 1999 | dir. Gil Junger

[ahcedia]

I HAVE ALWAYS FELT ASHAMED AT BEING WITNESSED IN THE ACT OF WANTING SOMETHING I COULD NOT HAVE.

THURSDAY, JULY 01.          CASTILO DE CERVANTES GROUNDS — late afternoon.                    //     @amirahbotros

Soundarya has spent the afternoon fighting the urge to ball her hands into tight fists. The hands are terribly expressive, see, and nothing exemplifies this quite like the fist. In a fist, the hand conceals, grasps, contains—it’s a signifier of something sequestered within, begging the observer to coax it open and reveal the pearl of emotion hidden within. 

A hand does not make a fist unless it has something to hold, and Soundarya has nothing to hide. Not from the detective, not from her friends, not from herself. Certainly not from Amirah Botros, who has perhaps already seen the worst of her, and … well. Soundarya supposes she won’t make that mistake again.

(Had it really only been sixteen days since they arrived at Julian’s home? Had it really only been five years since Verdamme?)

The smart thing would do would be to avoid the other woman, to engage the hunter from the safety of the pack, but Soundarya’s always been a touch foolish when Amirah’s involved.

“Amirah,” she greets, quiet as the breeze, “Good afternoon.” For a moment, the conversation masquerades as a vignette from another life—some other summer, where Julian’s alive and this thing between them isn’t … precipitous. Or maybe it still is. Maybe that’s a constant between them. Soundarya isn’t sure she wants to know. “It’s funny to see you here, actually.” Her hands are still at her sides, open, ostensibly unguarded. “I was just thinking about how the gardens seem … unchanged, from the last time we were here.” Unlike everything else. But that would be heavy-handed, wouldn’t it?

[amirahbotros]

Amirah, she murmurs. Good afternoon.

In another world, she imagines this: Daya, unmarred by the sharing of a years-old secret that was never Amirah’s to tell, anyway. She thinks of how Daya, realistically, would have been one of the few she kept in repeated contact with; as close to a best friend as she’s ever had, well, it would make sense that Amirah would wish to keep her in her inner circle... But, it is not another world, and the distance between them speaks volumes. Amirah, Soundarya greets--not Mimi, not Mirah. It shouldn’t smart. And yet...

Amirah looks over her shoulder, casting the Sunar woman a quick look before turning to face her fully. The hum that passes through her nose is amicable, if not a bit restrained; for the first time in what feels like eons, the viper’s fangs are not bared, dripping with poison and she is not poised to strike. Rather, she is soothed enough to be stalled to waiting, to genuine conversation--and that was the part of Daya that drew her in back during their time at Verdamme, wasn’t it? 

“Doesn’t surprise me. What Viviana wants, Viviana gets. It’s probably easier to keep it one way than to change it.” If the De Cervantes matriarch wanted the gardens to remain as they did all those years ago, then the gardens would remain as they did all those years ago. Amirah gives her newfound company a once-over, dark brown hues scrutinizing as she ends her inspection at Soundarya’s eyes.

“But you know, it’s funny... The same thing you said about the gardens could be said about you, Soundarya.” In spite of the bridge she readily burned five years ago, despite her unforgiving and terrible suspicions, Amirah cannot help the way in which the other’s name softens the edge of her tone. She hopes Daya doesn’t notice, and continues speaking so as to prevent any comment if she did, “You seem to be just as...Skittish now as you were then.” A brow arches, accusatory. 

Can you honestly tell me differently? 

[amirahbotros]

𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚

𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚

In the Garden of Eden, man was doomed to tragedy. It was God’s divine love that gave human’s the ability to sin, to freely choose the hell of their own making, and in doing so man was fated to perdition. St. Augstine foretold that it is not evil which plagues man’s mind, but it is the absence of good which condemns man. 

August bites into a pear and lets the sweet sticky residue fall to his chin. It glistens under the eternal sunshine of the world’s spotlight, and drips onto his shirt. He’s reminded of the saint’s first sinful act: the stealing of a fruit.

“I could if you said it convincingly enough. Unfortunately, I do not believe you were gifted the same talent our former friends were given,” the pear hangs loosely in his hand, “But then again, I’ve been wrong before. I don’t suppose any of you know why Ms. Botros has gathered us here?”

Geneviève almost laughed when the text sounded its distinctive “ping!” in her pocket. They were becoming almost ritualistic, these things. Fear for your life a bit, escape a room with Amirah and August –then, just like clockwork, have one or the other of them light up your phone for a secret meeting.

At least this time, the setting was a little nicer.

She scans everyone’s faces, waiting with bated breath for Amirah to explain herself. She’s pleased to find that she almost feels comfortable with them all now – August the pious, Amirah, the queen of snakes, and Nikhil, her old rival. 

“Sorry, August,” she says, looking down at her feet. “Your guess is as good as mine. At this point, it could be anything. She could tell us that Nik here has been faking his language prowess this whole time and is pre-literate. Or she could be about to say that I had a three-month affair with Stephen Fry back in junior year. Who the hell knows what she’d have to say about you.”

“Whatever it is, Amirah, it better be good, all right? You’ve got a willing audience, but come on. You’re …you. It better be ruthless and dripping with intrigue, or we’ll be gravely disappointed, got it?”

She’s almost at the point of smiling, before genuine fear stops her.

“I have something of pertinent interest to everyone--but you all, in particular.” Her dark brown gaze moves to appraise them all--August and Geneviève, her tentative comrades despite the secrets that shackle them together, and Nikhil, the whip-quick mind that commandeered even Julian’s tempestuous adoration. It was quite a crew the viper had assembled-- the last prodigal son, the art dealer, and the chess-master--and they waited now for her word to set them alight. Would she deign to give a spark, or damn them to ignorance and darkness? She likes to think Julian would have been proud.

Were the matters not so grave, she thinks she’d have held them in suspension just a bit longer, but she knows of the target etched on her back after her interview with Detective Domingo.

Amirah clears her throat, stilettoed-nails clicking the iPad’s screen off as she allows it to fall in view of the three--without information, and yet...“I have access to his original autopsy report.” She doesn’t elaborate beyond that--no clues as to how, or why, or for how long she’s had it. None of it’s important, nor is it being offered. “...I want to share it with you, because there’s more in it than has been released and I think it would be better for you all to know then myself and Domingo in light of these last few days, but I can’t do so without some sort of assurance.

“Geneviève, August--I know the detective wasn’t so kind as to only offer me the chance to say something off the record. I want to know what you told him, if anything.” She smiles, and it’s nearly genuine. This is, perhaps, the kindest thing she’s done for them yet. “Anything you say to me will be off the record and protected under the highest level of confidentiality. I don’t take well to liars, either.” She will not hesitate to throw them to the wolves, should she find out she was duped in a moment of her generosity.

“And, Nikhil,” Amirah says, turning to him, “I understand that you’ve not yet spoken to the determined detective, leaving you the opportunity to offer him something off-of-the-record.” It is clear she believes that anything is off-the-record for as far as she can throw Rafael--which is to say, not even an inch. “I want something to assure that our knowledge of this won’t find its way to the investigation. And if it does, well, I want something with which I can ensure I can return the favor. You know, collateral damage.” Reassurance, at its finest: assured destruction. 

“So, what is it?”