𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑬𝑵𝑶𝑭𝑽𝑰𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑺 ⸻ “ underneath her love, there's a blade lost inside her mind, it's a maze she's a disaster, i can't look away . she's got her venom in my veins, liquor on her lips, digging in her fangs feels just like a kiss, she don't need nobody, she's my cold blooded bitch . ”
› 𝖻𝗂𝗈𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐲 ✶ written & loved by lia.
was that BRIAR OSRIC CALDWELL i just saw over at AMBER LOUNGE ? you know, the TWENTY AND EIGHT year old PODCAST HOST that’s been around willow glen for TWENTY AND EIGHT YEARS. people around town say they can somehow both be VAIN and IMPULSIVE, but if you were to ask them, they’d probably say they’re more like VELVET VOICES AFTER MIDNIGHT, RED ON AIR SIGNS GLOWING IN DARK STUDIOS, HALF-EMPTY WHISKEY GLASSES, TANGLED HEADPHONE WIRES AND CONFESSIONS WHISPERED LIKE CRIMES THROUGH STATIC. the town sure has been rumbling about them lately, apparently they WENT BACK TO LIVE WITH THEIR MOTHER . . . but who knows if that’s true, i guess i’ll just have to stop by WILLOW HEIGHTS and find out !
while her voice on air is velvety and composed, the radio booth is her sanctuary of chaos. she keeps a hidden stash of high-end clove cigarettes (which she only smokes when the mic is off) and has taped old polaroids of her time in new york to the underside of the desk—places she can only see if she’s hiding from the world.
briar refuses to dress like a local. even for a grocery run, she wears her "new york armour": oversized black blazers, gold hoop earrings, and a specific shade of dark plum lipstick that looks like a bruise. it’s her way of reminding the townspeople that she is a visitor, even if she’s been back for months.
the sensory triggers:
the sound of ice: the sound of ice clinking in a glass doesn't make her think of a party; it makes her freeze. it’s the sound of her father’s nightly ritual before the shouting started.
the smell of lavender: her mother uses lavender laundry detergent. to briar, the scent represents "the apology that never came"—a soft smell masking a hard life.
she and her brother have a "no-questions-asked" policy. every friday night, her brother drives her to a spot outside the town limits where they sit on the tailgate of his truck in total silence. he doesn't ask about her failed auditions, and she doesn't ask about how he managed to stay sane while she was gone. he’s the only person who knows she actually hates the taste of whiskey—she only drinks it because it fits the "tragic artist" trope she’s built for herself.
hidden under her bed in her childhood room is a box of half-finished screenplays. one of them is a scathing, thinly-veiled satire of willow glen. she writes a few lines every time someone at the supermarket gives her a "pitying" look, but she’s terrified that if she finishes it, she’ll have no excuse to stay—or no excuse to leave.
she uses her radio slot to play "subversive" music that she knows would make the local church elders uncomfortable, but she does it with such a sweet, intellectual justification that they don't know how to complain. she views her playlist as a slow-acting poison meant to wake up the town’s youth.
she occasionally receives anonymous letters at the station from people who only feel "seen" when she’s talking at 2:00 am. she never replies to them, but she keeps them in her glove box. they are the only things that make her feel like her "performance" as a broadcaster actually matters.
every morning, she and her mother share a pot of coffee. they speak exclusively about the weather, the school, or the neighbours. it is a highly choreographed dance of avoiding the elephant in the room: the fact that briar is her mother's greatest heartbreak, and her mother is briar's greatest cautionary tale.
