play ———- twisted game by night panda, krigarè .
tw: abuse , alcoholism , childhood trauma .
Full Name: Laura Delgado
Nickname: Little Sparrow, Little Bird, Birdie.
Age: 28
Gender & Pronouns: She/her
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual
Occupation: Dancer, choreographer, songwriter, may or may not have a secret onlyfans account ssh.
Born an only child to parents who were barely prepared to take care of themselves, let alone a child as wild-eyed as you, you do not remember the warmth of your mother’s womb or the voice of your father ; you remember sprouting from the earth with murmurs of wind in your heart and the rustling of leaves in your hair, whisked away too soon by the hands of parents who could never begin to comprehend a child like you.
In your earliest memories you wander through the garden , days in the sun, glued to the soil like gum, or hanging your wobbly knees from apple trees. You could feel worms crawling beneath your palms and hear the ground shift and tremble with new life, you never cared much that other children had more than you— you felt each vibration travel through your body like lightening and you danced to its tune like a primal battle song, you had yourself and that had always been enough.
That had never been enough for your mother. She despised what she had to give up, what she left behind, what she could’ve had— she despised every inch of you, every crevice and line. You don’t remember when the bruises started, only that they did, and you had to learn too soon how to lie and how to hide things from people. Now you wish you never did, maybe things would be easier, maybe you wouldn’t feel like something is always missing.
A belt , an iron— you still bear the scars of her creativity. Your father was kind, but feeble, and there was little he could do to intervene with her cruel methods of education. You would set his drink away every night along with the cigarette that hung from his drooling mouth before the flashing tv. When your mother got ill, you still tended to her, and when she died, you somehow still found it in you to cry—in some strange way, she still denied you the last thing you wanted: resolution.
You found solace in yourself and that loneliness made a home of your bones and marrow, when your father was eventually consumed by his habits, you flied away into the night, off to explore the town and out of your nest ; but it was cold, and it was winter, and instead of a warm bed you found a cage.
Things were not easy, nothing was easy —– dancers staved on the street. You were a true terror, not a beauty - but a magnificent creature on that stage; but even though you got your very first lead role, the crumbs you had left to eat were gone. And you were alone. And you couldn’t fly back to the nest. You had to find a way to make money, and quick. You picked up whatever gigs you could find: be it as songwriter, choreographer, dancer, but they still weren’t enough — you knew there were always other ways to make money, even if they weren’t necessarily your dream job, you weren’t exactly in a position to refuse. Anyways, nobody would put two and two together, right?
So you fled to the vultures nests instead, and let them prob the bones clean of flesh; every night was colder than the last, and every lie felt like ash in your tongue . Lying was the real poison, you barely recognized that sweet girl anymore when you looked into a mirror, who was that thing staring back? When it was over and it was done, and you were curled up in silk sheets while the snow peppered white against frosted windows, you realized your pretty feathers were doused in oil, and you were no bird — you were as much a vulture as any of the others.
The poor sparrow had survived winter, after all, but when the snow melted, it saw the golden cage had closed its gate, and it was too late to flee again.