(isabela merced, cis-female, she/her) Someone said they saw LUZ RIVERA around Rift Valley the night of Miles Logan’s murder. People are wondering if they had something to do with it. The 25 year old claims to be INTERVIEWING A DOG SHELTER EMPLOYEE at the time of the murder. They are said to be ENTHUSIASTIC, which can play to their innocence until you consider they are also FICKLE. But who knows if they are telling the truth? Rumor has it, they ARE NOT a witness in the investigation. Regardless, the CIVILIAN who happens to be a JOURNALIST is a suspect, but so is everyone else.
info .
name: luz maria rivera nickname(s): lu date of birth: september 10th, 2001 age: twenty-five place of birth: washington, d.c.
gender: cis-female pronouns: she/her sexuality: pansexual
occupation: journalist education: highschool graduate affiliation: n/a
aesthetics: scattered papers on a table with specks of sunlight dancing over them, fingers stained with the ink of a ballpoint pen, unruly hair that whips around while dancing wildly to music in a room, a watery smile and a brave face when confronted with something heartbreaking, falling asleep at the desk in the middle of the night, koala cuddling someone as the big spoon soundtrack: the view between villages by noah kahan positive traits: enthusiastic, gentle, spontaneous, creative, resourceful negative traits: fickle, avoidant, people-pleaser, self-destructive, compulsive
height: 5'2 eye color: hazel hair color: dark brown notable features: tattoo of a crumbling pillar down her spine
bio .
( tw: domestic violence / abuse )
you're born on a particularly odd autumn day, and perhaps that is what sets the course for your life.
you might not be a difficult child, but you're a whirlwind. the middle child of three daughters, you're your mother's favorite from the moment you draw your first breath, and it's not the compliment you would like it to be. it's not so bad then, but it turns so sour so quickly the older you grow. it turns sour and stormy, much like the day of your birth, when a clear, sunny sky gathered clouds and flooded the streets of washington, d.c.
every interaction that starts to go more in your favor than in your sisters' leaves you wondering if they're starting to resent you for it. every raised hand, every thrown object that misses you with an aim so bad you don't know whether or not it is unintentional. it glides off this invisible barrier that seems to exist around you, and finds its way to your older sister, most of all. it's rarely you, though, and when it is, you can count on being comforted by the very person who is responsible for your tears in the first place.
your mother should love you, and she does; just not in a way you deserve.
it frightens you, the thought of being hated by your sisters. so, when your mother gets angry, you go to comfort them. you do whatever you can to make them smile through the tears, to get a watery giggle out of them when the sobs subside. even though your heart is racing when the house threatens to burst at the seams with raised voices that echo in your head, even though your hands get shaky and trembly and you try to hide the wobble in your own voice when you come up with ridiculous little jokes to ease the tension and sadness.
when you get older and a little braver, you stop making trying to ease the tension your priority, and you try to become a shield. this impenetrable force that repels cups and plates and mean words from reaching the people you love. and it works, most of the time, but you come to realize that if you become upset, so does your mother. and that is something you don't know how to handle. don't look at me like that, she says, and when you avert your gaze she bursts into tears. oh baby, my sweet baby, she cries, and the only thing that placates her is if you present her with the peaceoffer of your perfectly practiced smile that hides your insincerity as much as it betrays it. it calms her, to see what she so desperately seems to need from you. and when she hugs you, you hate yourself for holding onto her a little too tightly as if you can steal some comfort from her for yourself.
your mother should know you, and she does; just not in any way you don't need to practice in front of the mirror first.
during school, you begin to realize that you have a way with words. reading is an escape for you, and so is writing, but right alongside comes the realization that you're mighty stubborn, too. you know how chase a story, how to get what you want with charming smiles and choice words, even though sometimes you babble so much that your foot ends up in your mouth. above all, you want to do something that sets you apart, that gets your recognized and into the sort of circles where the stories stop being about rescued kittens a teen who gets the name of a fastfood chain tattooed to get a free lifetime supply. where the stories start to be about intrigue, danger and the sort of things that, when exposed, hit the world like a meteor.
you're stubborn and ambitious and maybe you're selfish like someone you don't want to particularly credit for it.
it's because of that selfishness that everything goes wonderfully right, and then so horrifyingly wrong. because you lied; you twist words and leave just enough truth in your story to have any of the people who'd do no more than shallow digging confirm it. because you lied; a senator is fired and almost arrested. you oversimplify a story about city funding to a point where it spirals out of control the more people see it and put their own spin on it. and soon enough, it's no longer just your story but you're the start and that's easily traceable by the people who try with some purpose.
you don't want to be anything like your mother but you're afraid that you have inherited her cowardice.
before any real consequence can come to you, you leave.
you pack your bags and leave the house you grew up in and the people you grew up with and it's so still and dark that it feels more like leaving behind a dollhouse with some dolls you loved more than others. it doesn't feel quite real yet, but once you're states away, it will hit you. the itch to pick up the phone and hear the voices of your sisters will never leave you, and the question if they hate you now as much as they hate your mother will remain unanswered.
at some point, you end up in rift valley and you have no immediate plans to leave. you start working again as a journalist at a news station and you vow to yourself to be a little more honest this time, even though you keep itching to write something exciting. and when people start to turn up dead, you start to believe that maybe, in a twisted and warped way, you're getting your wish.
you smile and laugh and charm and even though it feels less heavy these days, sometimes the dark clouds cover you like a blanket. you try to make people happy in a constant effort to become the person you want to be instead of who you always fear you were born to be.
wanted connections .
tba.
