|Brielle is not the one that is (ouverte) wrote,|
@ 2013-12-24 07:11:00
|Turn out the lights |
Set yourself on fire
Are you 18 or over?: I do believe so!
Alter’s source work, author and character: OC.
Character Journal name: ~ouverte
Character Name: Brielle Félicienne Maheu.
Character Age: 28.
Character Played By: Melissa George
Character History and Personality: Its important to understand that none of this matters now. Hers was a life depreciated in value. With photos turned facedown in dresser drawers, talents carved off of the hook and into her bones, memories smashed into the quintessence of dust. One could map the decay of Brielle's life in so much paper. Exhibit A, B, C, & D: obituaries, polaroids, medical records, and front page news. Evidence was easy to burn, but she crammed it in close against her cracked ribs at night or tucked it into the satin lining of vintage traincases.
She can look upon her childhood with neither warmth not resentment. It seems like a stable, monochrome plateau when lined up against the angry red blot of later years. Her childhood should bring to mind a bright sun and sugarstained smiles born in the salt towers of sandcastles, but it doesn't. She was once surrounded by cool blue water and flourescent birds of paradise, but the recollection today is flat and gray. A strange wasteland where things happened but nothing mattered(not really). She was never taught how to sate the dragon or perfect a false smile under duress, nor how to defend herself or harbor selfishness.. so what good did these formative years bring to the rest of her life?
Her parents are shadowy figures in old photographs that she lost along the way. Memories that she thinks she can get back if she squints her eyes and hopes real hard. It doesn't quite work though, she's only now realizing. Although she suspects it might not be worth it, and maybe her imagination is better served for nameless things that never transpired. She's dreamed up a trip to the Grand Canyon, so beautiful. She's thought her way through summer fields and drive-in theaters, daisychains that might never have really gotten made, and lemon icebox pie that her momma never made again after daddy died. Or maybe her mother did once, she can't quite remember. The truth doesn't matter much anyway; Brielle sometimes pretends it got made every Sunday, and sometimes pretends it never got made at all. She's still not sure which version is more comforting.
Its the same way Brielle pretends that she never was a very good dancer, that she never wanted children, that she never loved Luke Henry. Each one a dream that was hard to hold onto in the end of things, and each one she had to let go eventually.
Brielle married David during her second year at Julliard. She was barely twenty, young enough to believe in the fairytale of it all when he showed up with truckloads of white roses, when he took her to Paris, when he swore that he loved her more than anything in the world. In his own way, she supposes he did.
It was why she dropped out of school. David refused to have her work, and she never could quite explain to him enough so that he understood that her dancing was more than just work. He promised that she could take private lessons anywhere in the city, but argued that a structured school environment was too demanding of her time now that she was married. She supposed he was right, and she canceled her classes that spring.
It happened so slowly that she didn't quite see it for what it was, maybe she just didn't want to. Like tartar built up over time, obscuring the decay. For the better part of a year, Brielle attended independent dance classes at studios and companies a few times a week. But maybe that was still too demanding of her time, maybe she should concentrate on one instructor, one class. Maybe she shouldn't venture into the city at all, maybe an instructor could come to her, teach in the living room with the vaulted ceilings. Brielle tried to explain that the brownstone didn't have the right kind of floors for dance, no mirrors or ballet bars against the walls. But it seemed important to David, and she didn't want him to be unhappy, so she agreed.
There weren't anymore white roses, no more trips to Paris. Stimuli faded out of Brielle's life as David found graduating reasons for her to not need to leave the house. Groceries got delivered, he had a sun room built for her on the south wall so that she could enjoy the afternoon without needing to go to the park. David made it all seem so reasonable, so justified, and Brielle began to feel ridiculous for arguing with want of anything different. She could see that he was doing this only for her, that he loved her. Self-doubt began to creep in. The more that Brielle began to feel that something was not right, the more she believed it to be rooted within herself.
When David snapped for the first time, he broke three of her ribs. The next day, the white roses were back, and when she healed, he took her back to Paris. It became a very strange cycle of abuse, one that Brielle had isolated herself inside like a bunker. She had no friends in the city, no family. It'd been ensured for a very long time that she would have no foundation for herself, no connections but him. No money, no car, no phone. The only time he took her anywhere was when she needed to go to the emergency room. Fractured wrist, broken jaw, miscarriage, miscarriage, miscarriage.
When Brielle ran, she didn't look back. She ensured that there was nothing to go back to in case she got cold feet and rushed home before David returned from work. She burnt their home down in a high noon summer, and she headed down through Pennsylvania with a purse full of jewelry that she pawned along the way. That's how she met Luke, late night at a lonely motel where they seemed to be the only two people who didn't quite belong there. Each one with scars that told stories that didn't quite need to be asked about. Love made her stick around a few weeks longer than was wise, until eventually they both pushed on in their own directions. Brielle went West, then North. Alaska and back down again. By the time she settled back in Las Vegas, she'd been running for a year. It seemed safe to stop and take a breath.
But nothing was safe, and nothing gold could stay. She'd learned that real quick when she was reunited with Luke, only to discover that he was now in love with her cousin, and the two had a child. All three of them got tangled up in the hotel where reality wasn't quite as pinned down as it'd been before. She'd still not entirely sure of what went down on the night that David came to find her. When the smoke cleared, David was dead. Eyewitnesses put Brielle at the scene(along with two unnamed, although highly suspected accomplices). Explaining the hotel or the journals wasn't really possible, and implicating the man she loved wasn't either, so she confessed not long after being arrested.
The first degree murder was eventually bumped down to manslaughter by the prosecution when they began to get protests from women's groups around the country who were arguing self defense in light of so much abuse. When she went to prison, the letters didn't stop. The petitions doubled and tripled. Politicians spoke out on her behalf. Until finally, some two years later, Brielle was acquitted of murder. Given time served on an involuntary charge, and cast back into the world with wide eyes and no real certainty on where she stands.
The fact that there's a new journal is slightly worrying, although she supposes that at least this one is in French.
Journal/Key: Journal. The key hangs from a necklace.
Mutation: Upon the fall-out of Marvel shenanigans, Brielle is taking on a genetic mutation from the Marvel Door. The trauma of the situation caused Brielle to manifest her mutant powers. The trauma caused Brielle's personality to splinter, with the alter ego Nora controlling this psionic power.
L'homme qu'elle aime: aneternity
Partenaires dans le crime: Other mutants with an evil streak. Lets take down the x-men, bitches.
Victimes: Speaks for itself. Need a villain? Nora has an open docket.