♱ you 𝖕𝖔𝖔𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌. you sweet, 𝖒𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖑𝖆𝖒𝖇. ♱
𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐋𝐉𝐈𝐍
❝ 𝐈 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝, 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞. Born into a religious doomsday cult 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐄𝐝𝐞𝐧 in the north of england and raised to confuse fear with holiness and obedience with love, she learned very early how to become quiet, careful and easy to overlook, the sort of child who folded her hands before being told to and spoke softly enough to never invite punishment twice. there is something captivating about Rosemary even now, though most people struggle to explain what exactly it is. perhaps it is the way she watches others too closely while revealing almost nothing of herself in return, or the strange contradiction of her softness; white lace veils folded beside bloody knifes, honey and violet perfume lingering beneath the scent of old books and cigarettes, kindness that feels genuine and rehearsed all at once – every version of herself has been curated down to the smallest detail.
❝ 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐮𝐩, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐢𝐧. 𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤, 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧. Before cairo, before gemstones, antique collections and private buyers wealthy enough not to ask questions, there had been 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐬 – a hallucinogenic drug derived from moonflowers and worshipped within the cult as something divine. Rosemary once believed in it with frightening sincerity. perhaps she still believes in parts of it now. faith never fully leaves a person raised inside it. neither does fear. blooming motherhood fractured that life apart quietly rather than violently. not through revelation, but through clarity. information slipped from her hands in fragments until the foundation beneath the cult finally began to collapse, and by the time authorities reached its center, Rosemary had already disappeared beyond their reach with blood money hidden neatly beneath a new life.
Now she exists somewhere between devotion and deception, emotionally restrained, elegant to the point of intimidation, deeply observant, soft-spoken, impossible to fully read; a gold cross still resting against bare collarbone. a wife. a mother to four. an antiques dealer with a weakness for everything that glitters and gleams. a woman who still prays before sleep and still does not entirely know whether God ever truly abandoned her, or whether she was the one who left first.
𝐌𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞.
(Mutuals only, highly selective, MDNI, inspired by Far Cry 5, 𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭)
