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“I will not surrender
I never learned to lose a fight
I´m afraid I´ll have to end ya
Now
You better run or else I just might.”
This edit is dedicated to the slasher OCs that my moots have made! They’re all badass and as tough as nails, but I still wanna scoop ‘em all up and give ‘em a hug🥹💖 also can y’all tell I’m loving making these??? It’s so fun and very satisfying
Music edit under the cut
Darrell Todd belongs to @coppasulfate
Damon “Red” Herring belongs to @cries-in-latino
Cylas Keir belongs to @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better
Scarlet belongs to @kalid-raven
Art belongs to @cries-in-latino and @kalid-raven
Dividers by: firefly-graphics
“I see sirens spinning around through my eyelids
As he begs and he pleads just like I did
Is this what my life is? Restless and silent
Where all I can do is survive.”
CW: Mentions of abuse/neglect/attempted assault, graphic descriptions of violence/blood/murder, and all sorts of angst
Samara James
Age: 28 Height: 5’8” Occupation: Unknown
Sexuality: Bisexual (not experienced with anything romantic, but honestly, she’d love to be loved— she doesn’t care who it is, she’d protect them fiercely and love them intensely)
Appearance
Physical Description: Samara is white and has pale skin with scars scattered around her body. She has freckles peppered on her face from being in the sun often. Depending on how hard it is to ‘take care of’ certain victims, she may even have bruises. Her eyes are dark green with circles underneath them. She has a little bit of a baby face, so people mistake her for a younger girl, or even perceive her as ‘less of a threat’.
Her figure is slim and rectangular and she’s somewhat toned. Killing and hitchhiking is a lot of work and has kept her in decent shape. Something noticeable about her is that she hardly smiles, and when she does, it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s a very reserved, deeply unhappy person, so cherish the moments when her smiles are wide and her eyes are sparkling.
Hair: She has shoulder blade length hair that is dyed jet black. Her natural color was mousy brown, but she didn’t feel it suited her. She doesn’t do much to style it other than pulling it back in a bun or a ponytail. On the off chance she’s able to dress up, she’d make an attempt to curl it or something.
Scars: She has several scars, some more faded than others, but the most noticeable one she has is on her neck. It starts in the center of her throat and nearly reaching her left ear. It’s not often others see this scar since she hides it with a scarf or a turtleneck sweater. She prefers to keep it out of sight due to the memories attached to it.
Style: Samara’s wardrobe is small and it consists of a lot of black. It doesn’t stain as easily, plus she just prefers the darker look. Some of her clothes were thrifted since she didn’t want to ruin brand new clothes, plus it was significantly cheaper. If she were to ever settle and ‘retire’, I imagine she’d want to experiment and wear new colors, perhaps even more makeup too.
“I'm on the Highway to Hell
Highway to Hell
Don't stop me.”
Personality
Samara is very hard to read, as she is stoic and rather shut off when it comes to ‘feelings’. If there were a term to fit her, it would be ‘emotional constipation’. Show her enough warmth and kindness, it may be possible to coax her into a healthier habit of expressing her emotions (be prepared for a breakdown, though).
She’s spent the majority, if not all, of her life with a survival mindset since she grew up with little and continues to live with minimal resources and belongings. Because of this, she is resourceful and able to adapt to whatever the situation may call for. She’s also quite observant of her surroundings, the behavior of others, and she’s able to notice the finer details most would miss. New haircut? New outfit? Maybe even a new nail color? She’ll notice. It’s a helpful trait to have with her… ‘hobby’.
She very rarely expresses real emotions, so she comes across as even-keeled and dry when it comes to humor. The rare times she may become expressive is during a kill, after, or even while singing. Singing has become as much of a release as killing has, so she often hums to herself and makes time for karaoke bars (she’s a sucker for them).
“Look at me and tell me who I am,
Why I am, what I am.
Will I survive?
Who will give a damn,
If no one knows who I am?”
Samara’s Story
Samara’s life growing up was less than ideal, with very little money and a useless father who preferred the company of booze over his own daughter. With what little money they had, her father blew it on his spiraling addiction to fuel his frequent weekend binges. Meanwhile, Samara sought refuge in the old treehouse in the backyard, where she often spent the night to avoid the drunken rambles and rants from her father.
On the occasion that he was at work, Samara would often go out and explore the forest beyond the backyard. Nature was her playground and she’d often pretend to be a princess on an adventure, or even a witch looking for her cottage buried in the depths of the trees. She had quite the active imagination and it was often exercised outside when her nose wasn’t in a book or when she wasn’t focused on schoolwork. Her father, when he was rarely sober, would scold her and accuse her of being lazy, of not trying hard enough— even when she was getting all A’s, it was never enough to please him.
While she was young, the two didn’t argue much since she was off on her adventures and often lost in a daydream. But as she got older, the more often the two butt heads. She grew resentful of his ways, of how he reeked of booze and didn’t lift a damn finger when a bottle was in his hand. She was busting her ass at school and taking care of the house, all the while he’d watch her like a hawk; waiting for the moment she screwed up so he could criticize and belittle her.
The snide comments, the broken promises, and his drunken stupors all piled up on her. And the day she'd finally had enough was when she graduated high school.
He wasn’t there.
Seeing other families with smiling faces and showering the graduates with words of pride poured salt into her old, festering wounds and left her raw from the inside and it gnawed away at what little strength she had left while she drove home. By the time she opened the front door, she had tears in her eyes and a fire in her heart.
“You weren’t there!” She screamed at the half-conscious man sprawled across the couch. She took her cap off and tossed it to the floor, even though she longed to chuck it at his stupid head. “You promised me, damn you!”
See, the thing about fire is that, when not controlled, it will spread. And spread it did as she screamed her frustrations at the top of her lungs, the sparks of her words igniting the dry, dead grass of her father’s soul.
He’d never been physical. The worst of the abuse she endured was verbal and mental, but that night… That night was different. Samara couldn’t recall it, as it had grown fuzzy in her mind, but she could remember what she felt. Her eyes burned from tears, her cheek throbbed with a fresh bruise, and her chest was cold— what anger setting her alight long extinguished and frozen over. The one clear thing she remembered was a single thought that repeated like a broken record.
‘I have to get out of here.’
She wasted no time packing what belongings would fit in her backpack and that night, she left her father behind to be a miserable drunk all alone. While she didn’t have a car, she had a different plan. She’d overheard some kids at school talk about hitchhiking. Catching a free ride with a stranger didn’t seem like too bad of an idea to her at the time, and for a while, it proved to be a positive experience.
Samara travelled across a few states for a few days with different people, learning new things about the areas they were headed to, and even hearing all sorts of fun stories. She didn’t realize that she’d simply been lucky since the people who had picked her up were kind, so she foolishly assumed that everyone would have good intentions.
Until she met him.
He was an older man, maybe in his fifties, with graying hairy and a friendly, toothy grin. He offered her assistance on a muggy summer evening, fretting over her health with concern that she had mistaken as genuine. She climbed into the passenger seat and set her bag between her feet as he talked about his daughter, who was around her age, and how she looked a lot like her. The warning signs were so clear now, but then, she thought he was acting as any typical father would— bragging about his daughter and her accomplishments. She let him go on and on about this daughter of his, feeling a nagging pull of jealousy on her heart. She’d never heard her father say such things about her, so it was nice to hear it from this man. She felt at ease in his presence.
That is, until he took an odd turn. Rather than staying on the road to the city, he’d taken a turn on a beaten off path surrounded by tall trees.
“Excuse me, sir,” She spoke softly, “I believe you’re going the wrong way.”
He glanced over to her with a look in his eyes that made her skin prickle with unease, “I know a shortcut, sweetheart.”
The nickname brought a frown to her lips as she returned her gaze to the path in front of them as they disappeared deeper into the depth of the dark forest.
“Sir, I really don’t think-“ The man, in a flash, pulled a blade from his seat and pressed the razor sharp edge against the left side of her neck. “Shut the fuck up.” His happy-go-lucky demeanor grew cold and distant.
If her heart thundered any harder against her ribcage, she feared it would explode. All sorts of possibilities flooded her mind as the edge of his blade dug into her skin from his firm grip. What would become of her? What would be left of her when he had his way with her? Would she ever be found?
No, she thought, she wouldn’t be found. The only person who knew she left was her father and she doubted he cared for her whereabouts, and he sure as hell wouldn’t care for her fate. Somehow, that thought stung more than the knife sinking in deeper as the path became bumpy, threatening to slice her open with a wrong breath or movement. The only chance she would have was if she fought back.
As they hit yet another bump in the path, the blade dug deeper and bit into her skin. With a cry, her fingers flew up to his wrist and shoved the knife away, tearing a shallow, yet jagged line across the left side of her neck.
With adrenaline coursing through her veins, she unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door. She threw herself from the moving vehicle and hit the ground with a thud, rolling through the underbrush from the momentum at a dizzying speed. By the time she had slowed to a stop, the car’s brakes squealed as it jerked to a halt.
“Fuck…” She grumbled as she pushed herself up to stand on wobbly knees. A familiar thought urged her to run off into the trees to lose the angry man chasing her.
‘I have to get out of here.’
“Help!” She screamed into the dark, but she got no response. “Someone, please!” Her cries were unheard, ignored, and left unanswered as she pumped her arms to force her legs to move faster. She couldn’t tell if the pounding sound thundering in her ears belonged to her racing heart or the man closing in.
The weight of something behind her collided with her, knocking the breath from her burning lungs, as it— as he— tackled her to the ground. They rolled, getting limbs tangled with each other, until they stopped. He was on top of her and the knife he possessed was barely out of her reach, the blade glistening in the faint moonlight.
His large calloused hands closed around her throat as his fingers sunk into her skin with a bruising grip. She reached for the handle of the knife and her fingers desperately searched the dirt for it, urging it to move closer as she grasped handfuls of dirt.
The man’s eyes were dark as he tried to squeeze the life out of her. He wore a sneer upon his lips that formed ugly lines in his skin. “I’m gonna have fun with you…” He growled out.
Her fingertips grazed the handle of the knife as her vision began to spot, inky blotches hiding his face from her as she curled her fingers around her the last chance of survival.
She shoved the blade through the front of his throat with what strength she had left in her shaky muscles, but it was enough. He sputtered and coughed as she pulled the knife back out, blood pouring from the fresh wound and dripping onto her in heavy, hot gushes. He released her from his grip and clutched at his neck to stem the blood flow.
With fresh air in her lungs, she had a rush of newfound strength. And she planned to use it. She rolled the man onto his back and straddled him as she raised the knife again, only to plunge it into the center of his chest.
“Fuck you!” She rasped as hot tears trailed down her cheeks.
She stabbed him again, and again, and again. Even when he’d stopped gurgling, stopped breathing, until the only thing she could hear was her own ragged breaths and the squelching of the knife sinking into his flesh. His chest and abdomen had gone red, soaking up every drop of blood she spilled. The stickiness of it coated her hands, dotted her face, and stained her own clothes.
Once the energy had been sapped from her muscles, her arms fell limply to her sides as a wave of emotions crashed upon her. It was quick, overwhelming, consuming her like a starved predator with a fresh kill. A scream ripped from her throat, primal and filled with agony.
She would never be the same after tonight.
“Broken lines across my mirror
Show my face, all red and bruised
And though I screamed and I screamed
Well, no one came running
No, I wasn’t saved, I wasn’t safe from you.”
Present Day
Ten years later, Samara has grown and learned from that awful night. She swore she would never be caught vulnerable and defenseless against a stranger with the wrong intentions ever again. But, she also swore something else.
She wouldn’t let it happen to anyone else, either.
The experience had shaken her— not the murder, but the events leading up to it. The fear she felt, that heavy weight of doom in her stomach, and being choked within an inch of her life haunted her in the darkest hours of the night. But the killing part? She didn’t know why, but… there was something very thrilling about it. She felt like she had power for once in her life and that rush it gave her grew into an addiction.
So now, years after the incident that changed her for good, she continues to hitchhike and waits for someone to step out of line like he did. Only, this time, she had a knife of her own at the ready and she wasn’t afraid to strike.
“Lay my head under the water
Aloud, I pray for calmer seas
And when I wake from this dream
With chains all around me
No, I've never been, I've never been free.”
A/N: Hello, everyone! Meet my darling slasher OC, Samara James! She’s become quite the killer and may be looking to branch out beyond hitchhiking👀 I have been working on this bio for hours because I love her so much! I have a few other posts coming for her, including an “Incorrect Quotes” and a Headcanons post! I hope y’all like her!
I will also be adding her to the OC asks! So, if y’all have questions, she’s now an option!
She’s looking forward to making friends, whether they be slashers or not. Don’t worry, she won’t bite she just stabs and slashes-!
Tag List: @cries-in-latino, @rottent33th, @allthingsblood, @the-pinstriped-hood
Divider by: firefly-graphics
Tainted
CW: Mentions of blood & wounds, wound care (may be inaccurate), dark & violent thoughts, typical slasher darkness/graphic violence pretty much
Summary: Samara doesn’t like to feel things, but someone gets under her skin for the first and possibly the last time.
Timing: I picture this taking place a few years after Samara first started killing, so I’m thinking she’s around 20-21ish (I changed her actual age to 28 for story reasons!)
Word Count: 2k
Samara never knew what her favorite color was— that is, until she saw Julie’s eyes.
Blue. Like the sky during summer, deep and warm and welcoming. And like the ocean, they pulled her in. She was helplessly caught in the captivating whirlpools of her eyes, but she didn’t try to fight back. Maybe, just maybe, she’d let herself drown in them to feel something.
Samara’s gaze was locked on the mirror across from her, watching as Julie inspected the gash in her shoulder. A broken bottle was to blame for the new wound that’d surely scar. No doubt some drunken fool tossed it to the road to dispose of it. Littering… She should add that to the evergrowing list of ‘reasons to kill’. Rather than focusing on the simmering anger in her chest, she stared at the blonde in the reflection.
Her light brows were knit together as her gentle fingers expertly checked the wound. In her concentration, she was chewing on her full lower lip, turning it a deep shade of red. She’d pulled her hair back to keep it from obscuring her vision, yet a few wavy, golden tendrils slipped from the claw clip nestled at the base of her skull, framing her heart-shaped face. At first glance, she seemed to be unaware of Samara’s scrutiny, but the subtle flush across the tops of her cheekbones said otherwise.
‘Beautiful,’ Samara thought, ‘A living, breathing masterpiece.’ If she’d been an artist, Julie would’ve been her muse, making her fingers itch to replicate her essence in whatever material she could find. But the only art she was familiar with was that of her craft; the art of death.
Julie brought things out of the depths of Sam’s soul that, quite honestly, scared the shit out of her. She should feel vulnerable sitting here, with her sweater bunched around her neck and the expanse of her back exposed to someone. But with that someone being Julie, she felt anything but. Dare she say she felt… at ease around the other woman.
Damn her for making her feel this way.
“Well,” Julie sighed as she lifted her eyes to meet with Sam’s in the mirror, her beautiful lips rolled into a fine line, “Good news and bad news.”
“Am I gonna live, doc?” Sam joked in her signature dry way.
Julie laughed, sounding like wind chimes in the summer breeze. “Good news is that I don’t see any glass in there.”
Sam raised her brow, awaiting the bad news.
“Bad news…” Julie wrinkled her nose. “You’ll need stitches.”
Fuckin’ great…
“S’that somethin’ you can do?”
Julie rubbed her cheek in thought as her eyes studied the wound. “I mean… I can, I just…”
“What?” Samara asked with a tilt of her head.
Those blue eyes, damn them, returned to hers with a concern that made her gut twist.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Julie admitted softly. “I don’t have anything to numb you for the procedure.”
Samara had to lower her head for a moment. While stitches would suck, it wasn’t the impending pain that had her all out of sorts. It was what Julie had said.
She didn’t want to hurt her. That was a first in a while.
“I have some alcohol, if that helps?”
She felt the warmth of Julie’s fingers rest against her back, causing the muscles to instinctively tense underneath the gentle touch.
“No,” Samara refused stubbornly, “I’ll be fine.”
She saw Julie shake her head in the mirror before rummaging through the first aid kit on the table. “You’re out of your mind, Sam…” The blonde mumbled.
‘If only she knew,’ Samara thought.
Would Julie still blush from her intense gaze if she knew she’d stared into someone’s eyes as they died by her hand tonight? Would she still treat her gently if she knew of the brutality she was capable of?
She doubted it. But, why the hell did it matter anyway? Being with anyone, Julie especially, would spell disaster. They’d find out who— no, what— she was and they’d be horrified. She’d seen that look before, swirling in dozens of eyes as they realized their final moments were near, but that never fazed her.
But in Julie’s eyes? That would sting far more than a needle through flesh, glass tearing through muscle, or the burn from the alcohol wipe spreading through the agitated edges of her wound.
Samara dropped her head again to hide the wince that twisted her features. To Julie, it may seem like the stitches were getting to her. But it was the emotional revelation that brought Samara down and kicked her right in the ass.
She cared about Julie. Like, she cared. She was hopelessly infatuated with a woman she only saw when she was at her worst— covered in blood and her tongue stained with bitterness and anger. She was welcome in her home, her private sanctuary, where the colors adorning the walls spoke of her gentle nature, and the smell of the fresh flowers on the table hinted at her love for gardening.
She often spoke of how the flowers were doing, how she’d have to nurse them back to health when they wilted every now and then. She’d speak to them, sing to them, and whisper well wishes to bring them back to life. Funny, she thought, to be jealous of a plant because of Julie’s nurturing ways. As if she could fit in amongst the vibrant, lively variety of flowers in the garden… She would be the weeds smothering the roots of Julie’s beloved garden, choking it until it became lifeless and lost its color, leaving the petals dried and dead.
“There.” Julie taped the gauze pad in place to protect the wound. “All better.”
Samara was pulled from her thoughts of creeping through the soil by Julie’s voice. While she packed away the contents of the first aid kit, Samara carefully pulled her sweater back on. It had been ruined by the glass, but she’d worry about the rip later. Slowly, she turned around in the dining chair, only to find Julie was already facing her.
“Thank you, Julie.”
A smile pulled at her reddened lips. “Don’t mention it— What’s that?” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she stepped closer, standing between Samara’s legs as her fingers came up to her face. Her heart stopped as Julie’s fingertips brushed her hair from her forehead.
“Looks like you have some dried blood right here...” Warm fingertips grazed over her skin, bringing a shaky sigh from her lips. A war raged on in Samara’s head. One side longed to lean forward and bury her face into Julie’s neck, where her perfumed skin would be warm and inviting. The other side, however, wished to rip herself away from this new, unfamiliar touch and make a mad dash for the front door. The delicate, sweet florals mixed with the warmth of sandalwood of her perfume invaded her senses and helped her decide.
She lifted her hands from her lap and gently grasped Julie’s wrists as she titled her head up to meet her gaze.
Those eyes of hers… always so expressive. Anticipation and longing danced in the deep blue to the thundering beats of their hearts.
Julie’s lips were parted, soft breaths escaping in pants as she gravitated closer to Samara. They met in the middle, foreheads pressed against each other as they inhaled and exhaled the other’s breath. Through half-lidded eyes, Samara could see the bright pink of a blush on Julie’s cheeks, rivaling the dahlias in the backyard. Her fingers curled tighter around the blonde’s wrists as she tilted her head slowly, their lips barely brushing-
A knock at the door made Julie flinch and pull away, much to Samara’s dismay. Her mouth still tingled from the grazing of their lips and the blonde’s warmth lingered on her fingers.
“Sorry, one moment…” Julie’s voice was barely a whisper as she avoided meeting Samara’s eyes. One moment, they’d been close, sharing breaths, sharing warmth… Her eyes were burning holes into Julie’s back as she pulled the front door open, revealing a man on the other side.
Oh.
“Hey, baby!” He greeted with a grin as he reached for Julie, pulling her into an embrace.
Oh.
Samara’s fingers curled into her palms as she watched the couple at the door. Anger flooded her chest in a rush, warming her like freshly spilled blood did. The way he held her, with no hesitation and more familiarity than she was comfortable with, made her skin crawl as if needles were dancing across her skin; prickling and threatening to pierce her all over.
She could kill him. She should kill him. It wasn’t fair that he could touch her freely, unapologetically, and without the fear of tainting the beautiful thing that Julie was. Samara had only touched her wrists, but she was convinced that a stain had been left behind from her awful, bloodstained hands. Her jaw clenched tight enough that she feared her teeth would shatter.
His brown eyes met with hers as he held Julie, curiosity wrinkling his brows at her deadly glare. Suddenly uneasy, he pulled away from his girlfriend and asked under his breath, “Who’s that?”
Samara slowly stood and grabbed her jacket draped across the back of the chair. She shrugged it on and ignored the tugging sensation of the sutures holding her skin together— if only it could keep her from unraveling on the inside, too.
Julie turned to the side to look between her boyfriend and Samara. “She’s just-“
“Leaving.” Samara interjected coldly. “I was just leaving.”
“Sam, wait!”
She didn’t. She made a beeline for the back door and nearly tore the damned thing from its hinges as she yanked it open. The cool air of the night did little to ease the burning in her veins. She wanted to wreck the whole backyard, to uproot Julie’s precious flowers like she had done with her heart. But even as Julie held Samara’s heart in her gentle hands after ripping it from her chest, she still couldn’t bring herself to stoop so low.
“Samara, please!” Julie’s voice called to her as she felt fingers curl into the sleeve of her leather jacket. She jerked her arm from her and spun around to face the shorter woman.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” She hissed through her clenched teeth.
The moonlight illuminated Julie’s face, shadows accentuated the lines of the frown she wore and made her tears sparkle like fine diamonds as they welled up in her eyes.
A masterpiece. A fucking masterpiece, she was.
“I’m sorry…” Julie’s voice trembled. “But… what happened a few minutes ago, that was…”
She didn’t dare speak. She didn’t trust herself to while the acrid taste of poison coated her tongue.
“It was a mistake.”
A cold, sharp laugh sounded from her throat before she could think to stop it. That word… That fucking word had followed her like a goddamned shadow ever since she was born. It sounded bitter and hateful coming from her father as he threw it in her face, swearing up and down through his drunken haze that he had never intended to have a kid and wished he never did. It hurt, sure, but he was an angry drunk, and an asshole.
But for Julie to use the same word now, with regret laced through her angelic voice, brought on a pain she’d never felt. She might as well have stabbed Samara in the chest and twisted the blade to rip her heart to shreds. To dismiss their near kiss as nothing but a mistake— How fitting. Of course, this was what she deserved for being so foolish. Since when had a demon, filled with darkness and crafted through tragedy, been able to love an angel who could be radiant enough to make every shadow disappear?
She shook her head as she turned on her heel and walked away, trying her damnedest to ignore the sniffles that sounded behind her. Julie would be fine, with a boyfriend inside who could comfort her and make her forget such a mistake…
The darkness of the night awaited Samara with open arms and she melted into it, embracing the shadows and becoming one with them. Right where she belonged.
A/N: Here’s a little short for Samara that I couldn’t get out of my head! I’ve had it written for a while, just needed to edit it before posting. I’m such a sucker for characters getting patched up by someone they find cute😭 Sorry for the ending being kinda sad, but I promise Samara will have some happiness soon! Sure, Julie was pretty, but there’s other people out there for Samara— perhaps someone we all already know👀
Anyway, I hope y’all enjoyed it! I also would like to say that I’m working on the Ambrose story and the name of it is “You Call It Chaos, We Call It Family”. So, be ready for some craziness to ensue from Jason and Merry’s POV!
Taglist: @kalid-raven, @cries-in-latino, @the-pinstriped-hood, @rottent33th, @allthingsblood
Dividers by firefly-graphics
“Ooh, tell me what the hell I’ve done
Can I stop at one?
Or have I just begun?”
“Take out the bodies that live
Oh, lord, it gets me high
I think I’m gonna get my fill
Of taking lives.”
••••••••••••••••••••••
“Aren’t you ever worried about people with the wrong intentions?” The man asked, glancing over her figure. “I mean, you’re a beautiful girl… What if a killer picked you up?”
She snickered, the tone dark and far from humorous. Her fingers curled around the handle of her blade in her jacket pocket. “No, I’m not worried… After all, what are the odds of two killers being in a car at the same time?”
••••••••••••••••••••••
Yes, it’s like that joke but it was the inspiration, sorry not sorry
“The pain of it all, the rise and the fall
I see it all in you
Now everyday I find myself say
"I want to get lost in you"
I'm nothing without you.”
Based off of @kalid-raven’s AU story and our headcanons about these two💜
Music edit under cut
Dividers by: firefly-graphics
Tell me why when I try to write a fluffy fic, it gets all dark and depressing?😭 Am I incapable of giving my characters happiness? Maybe. I love them, I do, I swear-
(Actual lines from the fic I’m working on)
“His acridity was like the fog that hung thick in the air, blocking the fading rays of sun, successfully hiding any warmth and light from Samara’s life. It allowed the cool damp air to seep into her pores and settle in her marrow to ensure that she’d always remember how insignificant she would be— to him and the world beyond the yellow, nicotine-stained walls of their home… If one could even call it that.”
Headcanons for Samara James
CW: Mentions of PTSD, sleep terrors, and killing
🔪She has sleep terrors! She has battled this since leaving home, often dreaming of past abuse and the first kill she had— While the first murder was freeing, the events that led up to it were traumatic. That fight for life or death, not knowing if she could push herself to do it, and his face… That sickening grin, the way his clammy hands choked her, and the knife slide into his throat… PTSD can be a bitch.
🔪She is a singer, but not classically trained. While she can sing softer melodies, she much prefers a more heavy rock approach with vocal fry and screaming since, well, she’s filled with anger :D She’s just an angry lil thing and finds singing to be a good way to let out some frustration. If I had to say what her voice sounds like, I imagine it’s similar to this.
🔪As mentioned in her introduction post, she is a sucker for karaoke of any kind. When she was little, she would sing along to her favorite Disney movies, so singing karaoke reminds her of those times.
🔪While she does travel often to see new sights and kill creeps along the way, deep down, she wants to find a ‘home’. She doesn’t need a grand house or lots of money, she just wants security and peace. But as the old saying goes… There’s no rest for the wicked. She’s stuck in an endless loop of ‘if I don’t do this, then who will?’ and feels deeply responsible for getting rid of the creeps that prey on the innocent.
🔪Affection? What’s that?? She’s a touch starved, clueless baby when it comes to any kind touch, action, or any term of endearment. She is one of those people that, when touched gently, she will still flinch and lean away. Not only because of past experiences, but because she has gone nearly her whole life without gentleness and her brain has convinced her that any touch = bad.
🔪With that being said, Samara is… not the best when it comes to comforting others. She’s a bit awkward with emotions and anything to do with them, so if a friend is crying or upset, she will probably just pat their back a few times while muttering “There, there…” She would be the type to suggest trying murder to cope since it works for her, but she understands not everyone wants to go to such extremes.
🔪She still loves to read, but doesn’t have much time to pick up a book now due to her constantly being on the move. On the occasion that she’s staying at a motel or a tent she carries with her, she’ll pull out a comfort book she carries around. She feels like, if her life had taken a different turn, she would’ve liked to be a writer.
🔪She sends postcards from different places she’s been with short scribbled messages like ‘this place is hot as hell’ or even a simple ‘this place fuckin’ sucks’. There will be rare instances, though, where she may something nicer along the lines of ‘thought you’d like this’ or ‘this made me think of you’.
🔪She is dead to the world in the morning unless she’s had some sort of caffeine, preferably coffee. She doesn’t care if it’s sweet, with or without cream, or anything— she just wants a cup of coffee and would literally kill for it.
🔪However, she’s not much of a breakfast person. Give her some coffee and toast and she’s set until lunch.
A/N:This is just some stuff off the top of my head, so it’s all for now! I hope y’all enjoy!
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