Agatha Marie LeBreun

[Agatha LeBreun]

My paper heart will bleed
This wait for destiny won't do

character name: Agatha Marie LeBreun
significance:
“Latinized version of the Greek name Agathē, from the feminine form of the adjective agathos ‘good, honourable’. This was the name of a Christian saint popular in the Middle Ages; she was a Sicilian martyr of the 3rd century who suffered the fate of having her breasts cut off. According to the traditional iconography, she is depicted holding them on a platter. In some versions they look more like loaves, leading to the custom of blessing bread on her feast day (5 February). The name was revived in the 19th century, but has faded again since.”
Marie was her mother’s middle name, aaand I like ugly names that sound good n.n

age: 19
gender: Female

hair & face:
Perhaps the best way to describe Agatha’s face would be “pixie-like”. It’s small, with refined features that are well-balanced, but have this charming quality. Her nose, for example; it’s long, but slim and adorned by a ring on the right nostril, the tip not really upturned at the end, but with a slight turn that gives it a delicacy that other girls lack. Her eyes are round and brown, framed by short lashes that are more often than not hidden behind a fringe of fake lashes that give her eyes an extra dark accent. It is not unusual for her to change her eye color with the aid of contacts, opting many times for the color blue or gray. Not that she has anything against her natural color, but she likes to ‘glamourize’ her image, as she calls it. Maybe that’s the reason why she likes to keep increasing her tattoo count, or switching her piercings from place. Crowning her eyes, she’s got perfectly plucked eyebrows that arch in confusion whenever she’s bewildered, and are better cared for than any well-loved pet. Aside from her nose, which could easily be the biggest feature on her face (on comparison with the rest of them, of course), we cannot ignore her lips. They wouldn’t be all that note-worthy if it weren’t for the fact that Agatha makes them note-worthy. Painting them all kinds of loud colors, her thin upper lip is compensated with the width of the bottom one, and complimented by the Monroe piercing that she can been seen sporting from time to time. Her forehead is un-marred, but sometimes hidden by side-swept bangs and the width of it is rather unimportant, because there’s nothing remarkable about it. It’s not too wide, nor too narrow—you know how they say that a wide forehead is a true sign of a genius, so if you guide yourself with that, Agatha is no real genius, sadly. Her cheeks are like little apples, so full and red, but they slope down easily to her chin, shaping her face favorably.

Now, her hair. Sweet deities, that thing has a life of its own. Always, always, always shoulder length, its dark and somewhere in-between straight and curly. It just lies there, a mop of messiness if Agatha doesn’t do something with it. Whether curl it or straighten it (which almost never happens), there’s not much to say about it, except that brushing it is a straight pain in the butt. Her hair is something that Agatha almost never touches, because, you know, a girl has to have something sacred in her life; if it’s not her eyes, or her skin, or anything else, why not her hair? The most she’s dared to do with it are bangs, but even those are rare, since they almost always stay the same length. Once upon a time, she used to dye it, but after a nasty case of falling out, she opted for letting it live and breathe on its own. Maybe that’s why she uses beanies, hates and stuff. Now, they just coexist in an amicable understanding—or something like that.

build: Okay, so Agatha loves herself. Really, she does. She’s got a good self-esteem, good grace, poise—all that nice stuff; yet, all of that isn’t really enough to compensate one ugly truth: she’s short. Like, short, short. Maybe it’s not that ugly, you know, but when the majority of your friends are like giants compared to you, you notice it. Agatha is 5’2”, and no matter how much she stretched when she was younger, she was never able to be the same height as everyone else. Of course, she has accepted this over time, and thinks it fits her better anyway; there are also high heels that can help on that particular aspect whenever she’s feeling too low. There are also some benefits to being short, even if they’re kind of few and rare. For example, guys don’t like their women to be too tall. Small and compact is the way to go, because, according to an ex-boyfriend ‘she’s more huggable’ that way. Which, you know, is true. Short people are cuddly, even if she has to modify her own clothing to fit her better more often than not. Also, being short almost always assures you a slender bone structure. On that department, Agatha has to admit she got lucky. Both her parents are on the slender side of the spectrum, and she’s never really had to work to keep her physique. Some track teams here and there, but she’s left it behind as surely as pre-teen acne. Keeping a 98 lbs. weight has never really been much of a problem, although it could also be related to the fact that she’s strictly vegan. Ha, you’ll never know for sure, will you?

other notable physical characteristics: tattoos. Everywhere. It’s a compulsion she can’t get rid of. I don’t even know how many she has.

face claim: hannah beth merjos.

Deity ancestor: Aphrodite, Greek goddess of love, beauty and sexuality. According to Greek poet Hesiod, she was born when Cronus cut off Uranus' genitals and threw them into the sea, and from the aphros (sea foam) arose Aphrodite. Because of her beauty other gods feared that jealousy would interrupt the peace among them and lead to war, and so Zeus married her to Hephaestus, who was not viewed as a threat. Her unhappiness in marriage caused her to frequently seek out the companionship of her lover Ares. Aphrodite also became instrumental in the Eros and Psyche legend, and later was both Adonis' lover and his surrogate mother.

likes:
+Owls
+Clocks
+Night time
+Fame
+Neon lights
+Lava lamps
+Oil painting
+Spray painting
+Ripped jeans
+Nail painting
+Fashion
+Raisins
+Interior design
+Vespas
+Small-venue concerts
+Tattoos
+Boots
+Experimenting with makeup
+Piercings
+Dresses
+Apple cigarettes
+Incense
+Candles
+Weird words
+People giving her cute nicknames
+Vintage everything
+Blogging
+IMing
+Texting
+Writing
+Whining
+Posing for pictures
+Crushing on boys
+Sleeping in
+DIY jewelry/clothing
+Classical music

dislikes:
-Loud music
-Being dragged out of bed
-Alcohol
-Real cigarettes
-Parties
-Feet
-Too many people
-Being pressured
-Being an only child
-Pets in general
-Cows
-Zoos
-Feeling guilty
-The ocean
-School
-The wrong kind of name-calling
-Doing laundry
-Sharing
-Achy muscles
-Dirty rooms
-Sweating
-Lying
-Talking on the phone
-Being left out
-When a guy doesn’t call you when he said he would
-Seeing blurry
-Taking baths
-Mittens
-Being penniless
-Excessive lace
-Keds
-Tacky clothing
-Reading
-Exercising
-Swearing
-When people crack their knuckles
-Gyms
-Cheaters
-Dairy products
-Cars
-Driving
-Camping
-Outdoor activities
-Awkward silences
-Really short hair on girls
-Jump-start conversations

hobbies:
♥ Taking self-portraits or pictures in general. Though she does suck at it.
♥ Designing DIY projects
♥ Remodeling rooms
♥ Hand crafts (like pottery, ceramics, stuff like that)
♥ Piano playing, although she can’t carry a tune even if they paid her

personality:

TRUSTING

She was brought up in a home where nobody lied, nobody hid anything, and there was nothing to be ashamed of. As a result, Agatha believes what most people tell her, and gives her trust away easily. Sure, she grew up in a city that’s full of liars and cheaters, but that hasn’t really jaded her, contrary to the majority of her friends. She trusts people easily, and when they let her down (because it has happened), she shrugs it off. It hurts, and it stings, and it makes her wonder why she keeps doing it, but her mother taught her since she was little that it’s the way of life. There are good people as there are bad people. If you spend your life not trusting them because they could or couldn’t be bad, soon it’ll pass you by, without as much as a bye-bye wave from your part. So yes, Agatha is at fault for believing too much in people. Then again, it’s not something she’s ashamed of. It’s a firm belief of hers that if people trusted more, we would be living in a totally different world. She sets the example, if you will, for how she would like people to trust her when they meet her. Nobody likes to be doing tricks and jumping through hoops in order to get people to consider you worthy of their trust, and Agatha is no exception. Even if she feels the need to share how she feels and what she thinks on most of the subjects anyone could bring up, she understands that not everybody is like that, and respects their times for trust. Each has their own rhythm, right? Patience is a virtue after all. Most of the times, it’s worth it in the end. When it doesn’t prove to be worth it, there’s not much left to do except cry your share and move on. Maybe mope for a couple of days, but hey, that’s jus the way it is, and probably always will be. The funny thing about the people who have let Agatha down is that they’re the ones who cut communication with her, instead of the other way around. One of her friends once commented that it probably was because they felt guilty every time they looked at her, or talked to her. If that’s the reason, Agatha definitely understands. Guilt is something that nobody should live with, no matter the motive for your guilt.

ACTIVE

She loves to do stuff that requires you to be not doing anything at all, like texting, IMing, blogging…but see, Agatha doesn’t like sitting around doing nothing/staying put. She was always enrolled in extra-curricular activities. Painting classes, sketching , photography; the list is endless. Ever since she was little, Agatha was born and raised to be the ‘creative’ kid. Her mother never gave her any idle moments. She figures that it had something to do with the fact that Elena had also been taught to be as useful as possible, and it was her duty as a mother to teach her kid to do or be the same. That was her legacy, if you will. So, if for any period of time she found herself sitting too still without actually doing something, Agatha drove herself—and the people around her—up the wall. She shifted, tapped her feet, her pens, snapped her fingers, rustled her clothes, re-arranged her flop of hair, took out her mirror and re-applied her makeup, drew ridiculous scribbles on her notes…it was an endless list of little tics that surged as soon as she was asked to sit still. Agatha wasn’t made to be ‘sitting still’. Her mother Elena lost track of how many times she’d been called in to Agatha’s schools due to some complaint of her character being ‘too rowdy’ or ‘not paying attention’. Countless psychologists had also paraded in front of both females as they tried to successfully diagnose the girl with ADHD, just to be able to justify the girl’s energy. Maybe that’s why she learned to hate school with ease. The only times she ever felt comfortable in that jail trap was during recess, and even that didn’t last as long as it should. She’s like the Duracell bunny, she keeps going and going and going and…yes, that’s Agatha. Heaven forbid her activity has anything to do with sports, though. Agatha hates feeling fatigued in the way your muscles feel after a workout. She likes the emotional drain you feel after you’ve put your brain to good use, but feeling physically tired? It’s blasphemous. Give her pencils to sketch, paintbrushes to create crappy artwork, pottery to have her shape a horrid vase…anything to keep her outside of gyms, or parks where the typical joggers agglomerate. As a matter of fact, you’d be better off if you just didn’t mention exercise in front of the New Yorker.

OUTSPOKEN

Not in the ‘I-will-interrupt-you-endlessly-in-a-conversation-just-to-prove-that-I-disagree-or-that-I-know-more-whichever-doesn’t-really-matter-because-I’ll-still-be-annoying-as-frick’, but more in the way of ‘I will speak my mind without hesitating if you ask for my opinion, whether we disagree or not’, kind of way. She’s opinionated and likes to base her beliefs on proof. Sometimes it’s not solid proof, but if it’s good enough for Agatha, it should be good enough for the rest of the world. She doesn’t understand why people want to talk on top of others, considering she also believes that if they want your opinion they will ask you for it, and all of this is based around a single concept: Agatha doesn’t like to be rude. She can be, and has been, but when it comes to speaking about one’s beliefs or general conversation, it’s pretty much a bummer when there’s this one person who always wants to talk about his or herself and how not relevant she really is to the conversation. It gets tiring, and Agatha would be horrified if she ever turned into one of those. So, okay, everyone gets you think differently, but there’s no need to give your input in every single thing. It makes you predictable and boring. Having your own thoughts inside your own head aren’t of consequence, she knows, but having your own thoughts out of your head and in everybody’s bored ears doesn’t have a positive impact either. Out of the two evils, Agatha simply chooses the best one. Chances are, if you’re having a decent conversation with someone, they’re interested in what you have to say and they’ll give you an opportunity to say what you have to say. It’s logical. So please, if people would refrain from being dumb, the world would be such a better place.

COLLECTOR

Back home, she used to have this humongous room singly dedicated to whatever she wished to collect. Apparently, it was a tradition started by Nona herself, who had started saving the stamps of the mail she exchanged with her Greek family, and something her father had picked up. Agatha remembers, as a child, how it had perplexed her to know that her father had once been a child too, and with an attitude very similar to hers. It had taken her a couple of minutes, as she sat there on the floor, blinking blankly at her Nona in that immense room, to reconcile the silent and strong image she had of her father with the idea of him being a happy child who raced around the room, placing the different objects he’d collected on his ‘explorations’ on the numerous shelves around the room. But the picture had finally woven itself in her mind, and she had made a resolution to continue that now-tradition—if only to have another link with her father. And so, Agatha’s excursion into the collector’s world started. Stamps, coins, vases, and lately: jewelry. Everything or anything she finds interesting or pretty is a potential starter for a new collection. Now that she’s moved out of home, her exhibition space has been downsized and limited considerably, but that doesn’t stop her. She picks the prettiest, shiniest objects, and those are in display, while the rest she FedExes back home. These rotate constantly, since the mood to renovate strikes often in Agatha’s mind, but fortunately for her, there’s countless of objects to be displayed still.

POP CULTURIST

You would think that a girl with such low tolerance for inactivity would have zero time to be an absolute potato couch and watch TV, but Agatha has a dirty little secret: she’s a sucker for pop culture. She absolutely adores to know random trivia about whatever. Whether soap operas, sitcoms, cartoons, music, slang…Agatha knows it all. How, you ask? Oh, the how doesn’t matter. That’s what she’ll tell you. What matters is the result; and the result? It’s pretty scary. The girl can spout song lyrics of the nineties without so much as batting an eye, list you in alphabetical order (okay, that might be a slight exaggeration) the names of the hot teen starlets of the moment, update you on the latest happenings of your favorite show or simply convince you that it’s absolutely vital for you to see a movie that’s currently playing, because if you don’t, the world will explode; it’s that good. Heck, she’s that good. She’s your go-to girl if you’ve been living under a rock and don’t know who Zac Efron is, or why the frick is a Lady GaGa so famous? When it comes to that kind of stuff, Agatha is absolutely nuts. She doesn’t stand for inactivity unless she’s sitting in front of a good plasma TV, her favorite show playing. Same goes for movies. It’s an endless cycle. Fortunately for her, her mother noticed this early on in her life, and so limited her daughter to one hour of TV a day if she was a good girl; that turned into two hours if she had done particularly well in school, or did a painting that the art teacher praised. Both of those things happened to be rare enough, and so, for the early years in her life, Agatha had to conform herself to one miserable hour of TV. As she grew, and became independent, she kept the routine up, mainly for her sake. The first few days she moved away were spent in front of the TV, zombie eyes forming in her very face without her noticing. She sat there for three days straight, flipping through channels, sitting through one movie, two movies, one soap opera, two shows—an endless list, until a worried friend who’d been phoning her for the last day came over, and upon receiving no answer to her knock, let herself in. Looking at her, and seeing her state, Agatha’s friend marched to the TV, unplugged it and sent Agatha to the shower. Needless to say, after that, Agatha learned to limit herself.

AFFECTIONATE

She was showered with love. Nona, her mom, even her dad on those rare occasions when he was home, they all showed her what love is, and Agatha learned to appreciate it, but take it as a given. This translates way too obviously in the way she handles herself around her friends. Hugs, hand-holding, blown kisses…you name it, Agatha’s probably done it. If a friend of hers has problems with touching, either he or she gets over it soon, or they drift away from Agatha, even if the New Yorker promises that she won’t do it anymore. It never garners any results. She can’t stop it anymore as she could live without breathing. It’s unconscious and automatic. If Agatha loves you, she will demonstrate it. She will hug you, and tell you just how much she loves you. She’ll cuddle with you on a sofa, or ride you piggy-back. Agatha is comfortable in her own skin and it shows. She’s not afraid to express herself whether physically or through any other method. Her friends have learned to accept it, and the ones who haven’t, well, like mentioned, they drift away sooner or later. It’s not that they don’t like her—it’s just that she’s too touchy feely for their likes. She lives thanks to her friends. They’re the wind in her sails, the life force in her veins—all those cliché things? They apply to her friends. Days will go by before Agatha steps back home; not because she’s been partying so hard she doesn’t remember any of it, but because she has no qualms about crashing on a friend’s house. Most of her friends don’t want her to leave. She’s personable like that. She’s easy to talk to. The constant chatter you always hear in the background? That’s her. But not in the annoying way. More like the ‘I can make you comfortable’ way. Even if you’ve just met her, she has this way of making herself seem familiar, easy and accessible. So, she lives on, crashing at friend’s houses regardless of their gender or sexuality—which, speaking of, actually, Agatha’s sexuality has been questioned numerous times because she’s often seen holding hands with her girlfriends, or the posts she makes about them in her blog. She just laughs them off. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s love. Here and in Africa, it’s the same language, the same expression. Agatha just happens to be very fluent in said language.

HEALTH NUT

Because she’s cool like that.

She doesn’t drink, nor does she smokes. She’s also vegan and practices a bit of yoga when she’s in the mood for it. Yes, Agatha could definitely apply for your spoiled rich princess. Except, you know, she’s not exactly filthy rich, and she doesn’t have the attitude of a spoiled princess. It’s just the way she was taught to be. Besides, meat has always been a sensitive topic for her. It’s just not…cool. When she was in elementary (second grade, if she remembers correctly), PETA went to her school for some radical campaigning, and the promo videos weren’t all that…friendly. Needless to say, Agatha was absolutely cured from meat—not that she ate too much of it to begin with, since her mother has always been against it. Her Nona though, she was devastated. Apparently she wasn’t going to be able to cook for her granddaughter. At least not the real meals. Now all the kid wanted to eat was rabbit food. That was the cure for the meat. Now, for the fast food, like the French fries and the soda that, technically, Agatha should’ve still been able to eat, while she was in high school, they saw a documentary called Super Size Me, and that was the cure for her love of French fries and soda. Since then, Agatha has dedicated her life to eating better and staying away from all the crap people put on the market. It’s her body, her rules.

CREATIVE

So, many people blamed her non-existent ADHD for the crazy things she concocted. Paintings, weird scenarios for photographs, outfits that looked as if she’d fallen face first into a store and pulled out with the first combination she’d blindly pulled—all those signs were there. There was also that one time when she even bleached strands of her hair, and Elena got called in because it was too ‘look-at-me’ for them and their policies. Jewelry, strange skirts and hoodies, hair accessories...the likes. She even got an early start in a business as she started selling the accoutrements to her fellow classmates, who were all more than willing to spend their daddy’s hard earned money. Secretly, Elena and her think that’s the real reason why Elena got called in that specific day to the principal’s office, and not Agatha’s crazy bleached hair. They were probably just mad that Agatha had beat them to a very profitable source of income. Apparently they weren’t “ADHD” enough to think about it themselves. But whatever the reason, Agatha always was, and probably will always bear the stamp of torn and painted jeans, with an unruly mop of hair on top. Not that anyone ever questioned that, of course.

ORGANIZED

This girl here? Yep, she’s one of those. The kind that jots down every single appointment in an agenda, carries it around in her purse and pulls it out for whatever reminders. Aside from that, she’s got alarms everywhere on her sidekick to remind her of the things she has to do and the places she has to be, just in case she forgets to sort through her agenda. She’s a flurry of activity that one. She has everything organized, everything in a calendar, and everything in its rightful place. Don’t let it be said that Agatha is not a neat person. Even her room is like a monument to that. She’s neat, orderly, and when it’s not...she starts itching. Thankfully, this orderly disorder only pertains to her, and doesn’t extend to her friends or family members; not even acquaintances. Everyone is safe from it except herself. She can’t help it. She has to keep everything neat. Maybe not shiny or sparkly clean, but at least tidy—it helps her think. If she’s in a messy room, she can’t think properly, and her creativity flow is blocked. If there’s something that annoys Agatha endlessly is not being able to finish a project because her creativity isn’t up to par. So, everything must be neat. There’s an order for everything, a natural flow to things, and who is she to stop that, or block it? Nope, Agatha’s all pro-flowage, even if it does sound rather toxic.

HEARTBREAKER?

More like heartbroken.

Not that this girl has had a lot of experience on the field, but you know, she’s had a couple of bad experiences. Given, she was in junior and high school when they happened, so their validity is still questionable, but to Agatha, they’re sealed into her mind, pressed and trespassed as surely as an unwanted intruder in your home. See, now, to sum it up: Agatha Marie LeBreun crushes a lot; and when I say a lot, I don’t mean three guys in the same school year—oh no. I mean, three guys at a time. Not that’s uncommon for a teenaged girl, yes? But even now, as Agatha moves on to her second year at college, she still hasn’t quite gotten over her teenaged habit. It’s absolutely harmless, of course, because she never acts on said crushes, she just admires (and drools, a little) from afar. Take Demetri, for example. That girl’s liked the guy ever since she saw him for the first time, and that was what…two years ago? Yep, and guess what? She still hasn’t crossed words with him. At the rate she goes, she won’t ever, either. It’s not that she’s shy, and it’s not that she’s uncomfortable around guys, but seriously, past humiliation has made her wary of trying to make any kind of move. In high school, she had this huge crush on this guy called Raiden? And given, she was part of the alternative-whatever crowd back then, and he—well, he wasn’t, but come on, nobody deserves the kind of treatment the jerk gave her. Okay, so she told a so-called friend that she liked him, and you know, in high school secrets aren’t really secrets unless you know very well who you’re sharing them with, and, sadly, Agatha is not the best judge of that. She told the wrong so-called friend about her crush, and well…it was soon all over the place. This girl was crushing on a really, really hot guy, and hot guy? Yeah, he wasn’t interested. Which, you know, wouldn’t have bummed Agatha (much) if he’d been nice about it. But no, he had to go ahead and be the typical high school jerk, and make a big production of going out of his way on the school cafeteria just to tell her what, exactly, he thought of her. Talk about idiots? Yeah, Raiden’s your go-to guy. At least where Agatha is concerned. Needless to say, it all ended in one huge sad mess, and that was the last drop that cured Agatha of her loving need for her crushes to know she liked them, just on the measly hope they liked her back. See, she’s lovable, but apparently guys aren’t attracted to her. Or you know, something along those lines.

Whatever.


character’s parents:
Richard LeBreun – 42 years old – workaholic – businessman – formal – ambitious
Elena Marie Chandler – 37 years old – creative – house wife – relaxed
siblings: N/A
other family members of note: Nona (paternal grandmother) 88 years old – wild – crazy – affectionate – spoiler – forever young
history:
Agatha remembers way too little about her childhood. Way too little that at the same time is way too much. She knows she was born on a hot day of June, and she knows that her parents were very happy about it—at least his dad sounded very happy over the phone—and she knows that she was a very happy child. That’s about as relevant as it will get with her life. Nona was always there to help her mother whenever she was struggling with ‘this willful child’, and they all grew together in different ways. Only eighteen, Elena Chandler was but a child when she had Agatha, and while it was a constant struggle to be a decent mother to a child that was so full of promise, she always had the constant backup of Nona. On a house full of estrogen, Agatha couldn’t have been any happier. She was well-attended to, and had so much fun that most of the days she couldn’t breathe from laughing so hard. She learned how to love, and she learned how to care for others. Agatha learned to place family above all, and learned lessons that her father had nothing to do with. Actually, what she remembers of him are vague recollections of a somber-faced guy who would walk into the house well past ten o’clock at night, loosen his tie and leave his briefcase at the foot of his bed. Her mother would hurry to his side, offer murmured, comforting words and hushed love, and if Agatha was seen, she was sent to bed. There were nights, though, there were nights when she wasn’t, and Agatha wasn’t sure what to make of those nights. They were filled with humanity, reality, and a person she wasn’t sure she’d even known. Her father had always been there on school plays, her horrid, piano recitals, her showcases—everywhere that mattered, he was there; a silent, but pleased figure that clapped at the right moments and shook hands with the right people. He gave her birthday presents, threw her the best kiddy parties and, as she grew older, shifted his presents appropriately. He was the one at fault for her sudden inspiration in jewelry, gifting her first pair of pendants. Time didn’t make things any different, though. Sure, the gifts shifted accordingly, and Agatha always liked them, but as she grew older, she wondered if she always loved them because of who was giving them to her, or because she truly liked what was being presented. Maybe that was just another of the mysteries of life. Oh, she was never found wanting in any sense. She didn’t feel abandoned, and she never felt unwanted. Not once in her life did Agatha cry from sadness related to her family. As a matter of fact, Agatha hardly cried at all. Nona always said that crying was just the salty, liquid form of cowardice. If she wanted to knock forward a couple, she was free to go ahead—she’d just have to recover alone. LeBreun women are strong. LeBreun women are willful and plow ahead, because sadness? It’s just there to stop you in your dreams.

Nona always knows best.

Nona, aka Marcella Callis before she set foot on the free lands of America, came from a long line of strong, sturdy women that had hardened with the passage of time and hardships. Her only goal was to make money to send back home. Apparently Greece didn’t have enough money to support her family of ten. Seven brothers and two haggard parents that couldn’t make ends meet, no matter how much they fasted so their kids could have at least two decent meals a day. No, things were never easy. If things couldn’t be worse, then the least she could do was to try and make them right, right? And off to America she’d sailed, her spirits high, her English low, and her money none. She’d stepped out of the boat with a determined attitude and a glint in her eye. She was going to make it in this world of white, upside down frowning faces. She was going to make New York hers. No, perfection couldn’t be achieved overnight, but soon, Marcella had managed to book an interview on one of those skyscrapers that shivered every time the sky rumbled. Who knew that almost no English but a bright smile and quick-fire Greek could land you a job? As a secretary no less. And so, history began to write itself for Marcella. She made just enough money to cover her basic needs, and left little to send home. Try as she might, it just seemed impossible to gather enough money to make a difference. Which was why Marcella thought she’d make the best break in her life when she met Roland LeBreun and a torrid affair begun—such with no precedents in her life. It was everything a romance should be: intense, passionate, and real. Marcella’s heart didn’t stand a chance. He came from a stable family, worked in the same place she’d become a secretary, and adored her. As the saying went, she’d struck gold—and the rest is history. The pair married, had lots of kids and Marcella Callis (now LeBreun) couldn’t really know a better life. Sure, she still had to keep working, and sure, things hadn’t been so easy, even with someone backing her up, but when you’re with someone you love, there’s nothing that’s unreachable. At least that’s what Nona keeps telling Agatha; poor girl, she’s lost all kinds of faith in love. Then again, that’s kind of what happens when you try and it ends on disaster. Oh well, at least Agatha was raised to know that there’s more to life than that, no matter how Nona insists that it’s a vital part of it. Agatha thinks it’s easy for her to say that. After all, she lived a full and plentiful life beside her ‘Richard’ before he died. Agatha just has failed attempts at something she’s not sure even exists just yet. Not that she hasn’t had enough proof that love exists, considering the examples Nona and her parents have set, but maybe that’s not enough. Sure, Nona lived the dream, and sure, her parents knew from the moment they met that they were meant for each other, but that doesn’t mean much, does it?

Richard and Elena LeBreun: a fairy tale in the making. Both NYC-ers, both with goals in life, both students—both so very different. It makes something about ‘opposites attract’ and ‘not a chance in hell’ combine and the impossible happen. Elena was a fresh out of high school kid, who still had stars in her eyes, and Richard was a seasoned graduated-from-college-guy who had stories to tell and stars to take down from the sky. It was instant attraction, instant chemistry—instant everything. He was driven, determined and so forbidden; she was young and up for everything. How did they meet? “Fate,” her mother used to whisper to her at nights, when a little Agatha begged to hear once again the love story that seemed so surreal. A combination of fate and a little spark of luck. Isn’t that the ideal recipe for perfection? And perfection it seemed—probably still seems, Agatha wouldn’t really know. It’s been a while since she last visited home. Elena Chandler had been visiting her sisters at their college, taking a personalized tour to see her new school come the fall, and Richard LeBreun had happened in the picture. Something along the lines of him being her sisters’ Economics teacher—or something about her sisters crushing on him. Tall, dark, handsome—half-Greek! They’d stayed up talking until the early hours of the morning upon their first meeting. There never seemed to be enough words to share, enough sentiments to express. The excitement, the thrill of the attraction—it had never happened to them. And just like that, Elena had fallen for a stranger that had become the center of her existence in scarce hours. Maybe it was the illusion of the first love; maybe it was the impossibility of their ages; maybe it was their youth—but Elena went to college on the fall three months pregnant. It didn’t take long before it began to show, a month or two at the most, and while her determination to finish her studies was admirable, it was more than obvious that it wasn’t going to happen. Richard was a teacher, she was a student. Combinations like that were not allowed. Either she dropped out of school, or he was fired by the council. Real life isn’t compatible with fairy tales, see. Their joy was dampened, but not for long. They had love; there wasn’t anything that could stop them. He was going to marry her, make her happy, make her his—permanently. Four and a half months later, Agatha Marie LeBreun was born, and Richard quit his poorly-paid job to make more money on Wall Street, unconsciously evolving into the quiet, serious man that Agatha would remember as her father, forever. Richard worked hard, extra hours were budgeted every week—and Elena took all of this quietly, submissively. She knew Richard was doing all of this for her, for them, his family. The least she could do was try to be understanding and wait for him with open arms every single day of the week. Keep Agatha quiet and well-mannered, the house clean and tidy—give him something to be proud of. After all they had been through to keep Agatha, it wouldn’t be fair if Elena didn’t try her very best to be simply perfect. The perfect wife; the perfect mother to a little girl that was a blessing from the gods.

Quite literally.

See, Elena Chandler had almost had a miscarriage. On the fourth month of pregnancy, there had been some kind of complications. She’d still been attending school, see, and the stress of everything, her family pressuring her, her peers looking at her weirdly, and the council putting some more strain in…it had set her on edge. Dizzy spells, nausea and way too constant morning sickness that by now should be non-existent in her pregnancy caused her to worry, but she brushed it aside. She credited it as nerves and nothing else. There were other things to worry about than a hypochondriac arrest. Some other real things to worry about. Like exams, and how Richard seemed to look haggard every night and how—yes, it could be set aside for later. Except, you know, with these type of things, there really is no ‘later’, and Elena found out the hard way. Well, they found out the hard way. It was at night, after a particularly stressful day, Elena and Richard had fought about the pettiest things, and had gone to bed angry at each other—even if at night they inevitably drifted together in their sleep, his hand resting across her belly, her head resting on his left arm. They would’ve been the picture of perfect home life…if Richard hadn’t awoken with a start and a yell as he felt something start dripping beside him. Scrambling, turning on the light, horrified, he stared, and continued to stare until he snapped out of it and shook Elena awake. There’s nothing more worrying when your almost wife is pregnant than sheets stained with blood. That night, they rushed to the hospital, Richard murmuring litanies to God, to the gods, to anyone who would listen up there and could help in something that chilled him to the bone to even consider. On the way there, Elena moaned how she was sorry she hadn’t told him all the other symptoms that made Richard go even whiter, grip the steering wheel tighter and press the pedal harder. Both remember that night as clearly as if it had happened the day before. Richard tries to bury it in his work, in the long hours he spends at the office, and Elena—Elena just waits for her husband to come home, just as he came to her that night when she needed him the most. She was rushed to a room, as Richard was told to painfully stay in the waiting room.

Before the doctor came to her bedside late at night (or was it early in the morning), Elena knew. She knew she’d lost her. She wasn’t kicking like she used to and, and, she just knew. A mother always knows when there really isn’t much to do. The confirmation the doctor gave her only served to open the floodgates for her tears. Curled in fetal position, hands protectively covering her belly, Elena cried and cried for what seemed like an eternity. She was gone. Her little girl was gone, and Richard was going to hate her. She’d seen it in his eyes, the horror he’d felt when she’d sobbingly confessed to all those things she had brushed aside as nothing. He loved her, she knew—but she also knew that if he found out that this baby was never to be born, things would never be the same between them. She wasn’t even sure if there would be a ‘them’ after all of this. That only made her sob harder. She had to get her back. She had to get her back, and have her kick inside her belly again and—she would do anything. She did everything. In her desperation, she called out to God, to anyone who would listen, just like Richard had, that she was willing to do anything if only they would give her her girl back. If only for a second chance to love and to cherish the little girl she knew would be born healthily. Nona—what was it that Nona always said? There were gods, gods who sometimes graced mortals with their presence, with gifts and blessings. Elena had squeezed her eyes shut and pleaded.

She’d been asleep, maybe lulled by the own jagged sobs, or maybe induced by something else, when the nurse walked in to her room. Softly, she pushed the blankets back, uncovered her left arm, checked her pulse and stared at her long and hard. There was a slight rustle as Elena shifted in her sleep, but there was no other noise in the place, except for the air purifier. The nurse had long, brown hair and startlingly blue eyes. She was lithe, tall, and upon second inspection, didn’t really look like a nurse. There was just something too…shimmery about her. As she stared at Elena, her expression changed, and a smirk appeared on her red, red lips. There could be some hope after all. It seemed like she untied a couple of strands of hair and as she let her hand fall down from her head, they weren’t strands of hair at all, but a blood-red ribbon that smelled of spring and flowers. Softly, she reached for Elena and tied the ribbon around her wrist, careful not to disturb her in her sleep. “Wish granted,” she murmured as she stuck a needle into the IV and carefully injected its contents to it. Then, she left without a word, leaving no trace of her presence, except for the strong smell of flowers after a rainy night. Next morning, Elena was discharged from the hospital, rosy cheeked and with a miraculous full recovery; not to mention, a healthy child underway. She doesn’t like to remember that dreadful night at the hospital. At times, she pretends it never happened; because after all these years, Elena has never been able to fully understand how it happened, how Richard never found out what the doctor had told her, and how that same doctor, perplexed, had announced with an incredulous voice, her recovery. Nevertheless, she was grateful. Grateful for the gift the gods had granted her—and up to this day, she has kept her word. She has been the best mother, wife and daughter in law anybody could ever ask for. Thing is, she’s not entirely sure if Richard came home after that lonesome night on the hospital. He’s still with her, still beside her every night and Elena knows that if things hadn’t been remedied so unbelievably, things would be worse. No, not worse, because they’re fine now—just wrong.

Of course, Agatha doesn’t know this, and probably never will. The probabilities of her finding out have decreased dramatically ever since she left home to live on her own, and Elena doesn’t have many memories of that night. Just the promises she whispered feverishly against her pillow, and that red, red ribbon tied around her wrist, that no matter how many times she’s tried to cut it off or get rid of it—she can’t. Obviously Agatha still keeps in touch, even visits Nona on Astoria from time to time, but Agatha was the kind of girl who doesn’t look back on things, or even people, no matter how much she loves them. She wants to prove herself, she wants to be someone in life, and she wants to commit her own mistakes, no matter how painful said mistakes have proven to be in the course of her short, nineteen years of existence. Manhattan, born n’ raised. That’s something Agatha can boast of, and in many ways, it has influenced her life. From her family life, to the schools she attended and happened to be ‘the most creative child’, and the most problematic too. There’s just this energy that she can never suppress, the need to express whatever she’s thinking, whatever she’s feeling. It has produced some sweet awful paintings that had disturbed her mother and Nona greatly when the teachers showed it to them, but Elena not once grounded her, not once was she forbidden from her paintings, and not once has Agatha ever really known restrictions. It had made her a free spirit, sure, but it has also made for some very uncomfortable experiences. Still, she has survived, and probably will keep on doing as time goes by, and she keeps growing the only way she knows how: freely.

username: Letty!
gender: Female
age: I be older and wiser
other characters you play: uuh, Zeus?

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[Freyja]

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lyke dur. (: