Nickname: Aimee
Age: Twenty-one years old // September 18th, 1993 // Virgo // INFJ
Gender: Female
Physical Description: Aimee has one of those faces that either ruined your grade school life because of the litter of freckles all about it, or in the case of Amelia Grace Scott, it provided a unique canvas for photography modelling. Piercings align both ears. Her body adorns various tattoos in both conventional and non-conventional places. She honors an anchor and wheel for stability and guidance. The sun and the moon, right beneath her right arm. Finally,a small piece for her little sister above her heart.
Personality: In grade-school, Aimee was described by a plethora of adjective. Fake. Manipulative. Perfectionist. Flake. Flighty. Passionate. Insightful.
But who is she really?
If she knew, she would tell you. Aimee finds herself in an ever-long journey of self-discovery that she wished was over the moment she started. When you're growing up, wanting friends and people to like you is only natural. Being herself was too awkward, so she conformed and adapted to the person people liked. In later years, that turned in to manipulation to make people like her. In the final year of high school, she realized that everything she'd built herself up to be was nothing like who she wanted to be in the future. She had one of those revelations that everyone gets (or should): High School ends. When it did, when the glamour and popularity fled, so did her spirits and confidence. All she was left with was a depressing sense of self and a pair of parents who wondered what went wrong with their promising daughter.
With the idea being that she couldn't figure out who she was until she was stripped of all of the extra stuff, Aimee left home. Got out of town. She makes decisions on an impulse, or she doesn't make them at all because she'd think herself to death if she considered all the possibilities. She found what she likes (photography and art in general) and continues to pursue it, despite the growing notion that it will make jack shit for cash. She keeps to herself nowadays, not only to keep people at bay, but also because she's still discovering who she is to anyone to even let someone in. The sensitive parts of her couldn't handle thinking she was one thing, such as caring and kind and considerate, only to find out that someone can prove to her she's not the front she puts out.
In the end, she thinks far too much of what everyone else thinks, and it clouds her ability to think about what she cares for.
A Brief History: Aimee has been disconnected as a 'runaway' from her high-standards, socialite family since she was eighteen. For three years, she has traveled as a minimalist with a backpack through the Gulf Coast from Florida to Texas. She landed in Cobailaville as a photographer and model after having made a living off modelling for various small-time, just-out-of-grade-school photographers. She attends the local University.
Describe what happened on the open-house you attended that made your character take the plunge and become a tenant?
Privilege was something Aimee was born in to, from the color of her skin, to the dollar amount in her bank account. Even in her running away, she's spoken to her parents on three different occasions. In this, they insisted three times.
1) Come home. - Well, that wasn't going to happen. She'd come to far and that wasn't about to change.
2) Get a phone. - They wanted to check in on her, sure, but Aimee denied them even this for more reasons than one. She held a personal grudge against cell phones. The smart phones of today had great quality cameras, which gave every joe-schmoe the idea they didn't need to bother with paying for quality photography when they could simply selfie their way to fame on Instagram. In addition, people in a crowd never looked up from the damn things. Her final reason would be that it had more options on it than she knew what to do with, being old fashioned at heart.
3) Keep her debit card to her family account. - It was an account all her own that her parents put money in, despite her up and leaving and rarely speaking to them. Even after all of this, they seemed to want her alive and well, so they continually put money in the fund in hopes she'd use it. While Aimee had kept her hands off the money save for emergencies - the girl was luckily well-learned in finances - she felt no problem using this as a down payment for a place on Wicker Hill.
Wicker House. What a name. She caught the ad in the newspaper at the local cafe off the square near campus. While she wasn't a huge coffee drinker, Aimee loved a good cup of tea and didn't have a place of her own to make it for herself.
Well, until now.
Ad in hand, Aimee hiked her backpack up on her shoulders and made her way up the drive to the aged house on the hill. It was aged, but the house itself had obviously had some renovations done over the years. What was once a house of the 20th, or maybe even 19th century by the looks of it, was now mage stronger with the bricks and stone relayed, reinforced. The glass was old, but it was thick and she noticed the reinforced panels along their sides. The trees that walked the drive up from the entrance at the gate (the land was obviously a couple of acres in total) were trimmed and neatly cared for in contrast to the 'forest' that seemed to grow just beyond the house's perch.
Ms. Burns greeted her at the stairs to the front porch, her expression not quite a smile, but rather a look of pity. It made sense, Aimee thought. Only those in desperate need were the most likely to trust a shady ad in the paper promising a low rent for a nice place. She probably saw Aimee's backpack and assumed her homeless, which while it wasn't technically false, she wasn't as helpless as the appearance let on. But she'd play the part, for certain.
"Welcome to Wicker House."
Aimee nodded, noting the other people already inside the house for the open day. Maybe three or four, but none of them seemed to know each other. Maybe that would be the charm on the whole thing... Experiencing a close-quartered apartment scenario, but in actuality being roommates. Did she trust people enough to share a home with them?
No. Not a home. This was just a temporary situation.
"Thank you.. Are you Mrs. Watters? I'm Aimee." She extended her hand to the elderly woman dressed in the sort of dress-suit only a grandmother would think was still in style.
"Ahh, no. Just the housekeeper, Ms. Burns." She paused a moment, holding up a hand, "Don't fret. Mrs. Watters is just simply unavailable, so I take care of the arrangements for her. Would you like to join the others and see the house?"
Aimee nodded, rolling her shoulders underneath the straps of her backpack to ease the strain that had built there.
From the grandiose curtains and paper on the walls to the polished banisters and door frames that were laced in lemon from dusting, Aimee was overwhelmed by the cleanliness and repair of the old home. The kitchen was the size prepared for a full staff of workers - likely a home used when slavery was 'a thing'. The dining room hosted a table prepared for twelve in rich mahogany and chairs to match. The entire house was furnished in a style that looked as old as the house, but anyone with an eye could tell it was recently bought - likely from one of those faux-antic furniture shops.
Dutifully, Ms. Burns showed the first floor, room-by-room, until she entered the master bedroom. "This is the largest of the rooms. They're all pre-furnished, and we'd prefer it if you didn't actually remove or replace any of the pieces. Not the major things, that is." Aimee nodded. "But you can rearrange the room how you see fit. Careful of the floors for scratches."
Aimee nodded so much she felt like a bobble head until she walked through the door way to the master bathroom. It was about the size of the dining room she'd been in moments ago. A shower, a claw tub. A sink designed for His and Hers. A bench in the center made of wood help fresh towels. "Wow. This is all so much."
"It is. Do you want to see the upstairs? Six rooms. Two bathrooms. Third floor is just open space to be decided by the rest of the residents together."
"Yeah, absolutely."
And so Ms. Burns took her hand gently in her frail fingers, leading Aimee up the stairs to the second floor. Each room was relatively identical, furnished with a queen-sized bed, a dresser, a bedside table on either end. Some had closets. Some had a large wardrobe closet. Some had vanities. At the end of the day, though, they were all basically the same size and live able if you needed solitude from living in such a space with six other people at minimum. Two bathrooms were at the end of each hall way, completely identical with large garden baths that also hosted shower heads above them in the case you wanted to make it in and out instead of luxury with bubbles.
The third floor was as Ms. Burns had said, a large open room the width and length of the house. Two sides were closed in as the shape of the roof was made, but there also seemed to be a draw string in a square, indicating an attic existed. "Nothing to worry with up there. Spare furniture and old baubles from Mrs. Watters' chhildhood. Aimee simply nodded in compliance as they made their way back to the bottom floor.
"There is also.. a basement." Ms. Burns began to speak, stopping Aimee in her tracks as she'd headed for the door. She'd seen enough and was almost certain the price would be too costly for her, yet something draw her to Ms. Burns in the way that piqued a person's curiosity at a freak show. It was morbid, but it was there.
"Oh? Anything down there?"
"Oh, just the past residents." Ms. Burns joked, cracking a smile. Aimee shrugged, laughing with her softly.
"Show me."
Ms. Burns didn't join her when she descended the flight of stairs. The room was black until Aimee pulled the string at the base of the stairs. The entire place lit up like a ballroom. It appeared like a photo-shoot, draped over long pieces of wood with various backgrounds, solid colors, and photo-booth sequences. The place was set up with extensive cameras on a long table, all for the picking. Aimee found herself reaching a hand out, striding over to the table to examine the cameras. She gasped at the latest model of her favorite brand, chuckling softly. "This is amazing."
"Isn't it?" A hand rested on her shoulder, a whisper in her ear. It felt like a feather, and then all at once weighed her and shoved her in to the ground.
Blinking in the darkness, Aimee woke up to a dark, empty room. The floor beneath her was cemented, the walls smelling of a damp, lifeless air. Sitting up slowly, seeing nothing, she lifted her hand through what felt like dust to brush hair from out of her face. "Hello?"
No one answered.
It took her no time at all to gather her footing with a pounding headache. She was shivering and the whole place smelled an unimaginable foul stench. Eventually, through what felt like rooms with open door frames, she felt her way along the walls to the stair case again. The drawstring hung from the rafter just above her, but she didn't bother. One by one, she took the steps and tried to recall what had just happened. Nothing came to mind.
Whatever was down there, Aimee didn't speak of. Whatever it was, it persuaded her to look Ms. Burns straight in the eyes and claim, "I'll take it. West room, end of the hall upstairs."
Ms. Burns smiled with nostalgia. "Ahh. We called that one Black Bird."
"Black Bird sounds great."
