👡🎞⏳ ━━ IN WHICH brandy monroe had an air of vintage drenched in perfume on the right side of her neck, rouge painted on her cheeks, and a classic love for percy jackson.
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In which brandy slowly...
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ANNABETH HAD TOLD BRANDY MONROE NOT TO MAN-SPREAD IN HER WHITE, MONOGRAMMED, FISHNET TIGHTS. Swollen lips in glittering rouge because she bit them relentlessly, another one of her 'unladylike' habits she had picked up on another rotation on Earth.
Cursing herself, she closed her legs before falling to her back, moving to lay flat on her stomach as she tossed all of her pin curls to one side of her head, leaning one elbow on her bed to prop herself up. The pink fabric of her miniskirt fell lower to her thighs as she lifted her feet in the air toying with her socks while chewing on her pink pen. The right of her neck, which was enchanted by French perfume, was decorated with glistering pearls, weighing her head down but she wouldn't have it any other way.
Brandy loved romanticizing her life, for that was all she had.
She breathed down on the stationery paper in front of her. Another 'pining love letter' Annabeth likes to call them. Brandy calls it therapeutic. It's as harmless as writing down reminders on the flesh of her fingers, ink smudged by oil always reminded her to feed her goldfish or to return Annabeth's encyclopedias. The whole thing is an excuse, though. Her memory is untouched, she remembers everything except for the night she got cursed. She can recall the pain though. She remembers her cranium shattering the glass mirror and the feeling of her brain bleed. It haunts her but she remembers it all and ends up crying about it later. Writing on her skin gave her a sense of productivity. Having the pen in her hand steadied her heavy heart. As it goes, she likes to write down all of her burnt-out, yet confusing feelings for her past, past lovers. The one she was writing for currently was her old tutor's son, Robert Wheatly. The bastard that broke her heart, used it for fame before stomping it into tear-covered soil.
Her mother, Erato, one of the Greek Muses and Goddess of lyrical and love poetry taught her how to twist words into an ameliorate. Medicine to keep Brandy from sinking into an endless pool of despair. She stared down at the blush pink paper and groaned at the words. They sickened her. Writing about Robby's kisses didn't relieve her heart, it only made it worst. Sometimes, she would think that maybe her mother was actually Melpomene because her life truly was a Greek tragedy.
A fist knocked on the Roman wood. two-one-one. Annabeth. Her chocolate shake in human form just walked through the door, lighting up the room tenfold and saving her from drowning in the pitying words she was writing and the ink smudged on the side of her hand. Her face was red like she had just run all the way to the big house from Half-blood hill and Brandy automatically grew suspicious. Annabeth only runs when she claims it's the best possible battle strategy. When all else fails, run.
