warm you up
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Welcome to the world of:
AMELIA LA MAISON
"I am nowhere. I have left my world behind, and have not yet found another. That is the tragic adventure. I have departed, but not yet arrived."
AMELIAFemale † Latin/Germanic † "Bravery "LA MAISONSurname † French † "The home" -
Basic info
◖BIRTHNAME◗
She was born Amelia Foxglove, but she changed her last name to her mothers maiden name.
◖NICKNAME◗
People just call her Amelia. Her father used to call her butterfly when she was small, but not anymore.
◖AGE◗
She is 24 years of age.
◖BIRTHPLACE◗
He was born in Burbank, California, USA.
◖NATIONALITY◗
American.
◖RESIDENCE◗
She now lives in a small town in the United States.◖OCCUPATION◗
She never got an college education, there wasn't any money for it! She now works at the local dinner.
◖BUILD◗
She has a athletic/slim build.
◖HEIGHT◗
She stands at around 5' 6".
◖EYES◗
She has light brown eyes, her father eyes, something she hates.
◖HAIR◗
Long straight sandy blond hair.
◖COMPLEXION◗
Fair white skin
◖WEIGHT◗
No comment
◖SCARS◗
None that she knows of.
◖ZODIAC SIGN◗
She is a Libra due to her birthday birthdate Seb. 27.
◖SEXUALITY◗
She is a straight woman
◖RELATIONSHIP STATUS◗
Single woman.
◖FACE CLAIM◗
Her fc is Madelyn Cline. -
Aesthetic
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About her
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Before my death, I hope to obtain my life.
Over and over again
I have had to conquer infinite hopelessness.
________________
Amelia La Maison was not born with that name. Once, she had been Amelia Foxglove — a name that used to bloom in people’s mouths with affection. Now it lingers only in old court transcripts and fading newspaper headlines.
She is twenty–four, with the kind of beauty that doesn’t demand attention but quietly unsettles it. Soft sandy blond hair usually tied back for her shifts at the local diner, pale skin that rarely sees the sun outside of work, and eyes the color of storm clouds — thoughtful, watchful, always measuring. Customers often describe her as “sweet,” but there is a distance behind her smile, something carefully restrained.
As a child, Amelia had been adored. She grew up in a modest house with creaking wooden floors and a backyard big enough for summer barbecues. She had friends who slept over on weekends, teachers who praised her kindness, neighbors who trusted her to babysit. Her father had been her hero — gentle, attentive, the kind of man who braided her hair with clumsy fingers and never missed a school play.
That was before she turned eighteen - the arrest came at dawn. Flashing lights painted the walls red and blue while officers moved through her home with grim precision. The charges were unspeakable. Multiple women. Years of secrets. One of the most horrific serial murder cases in recent memory.
The world didn’t just collapse — it inverted.
The man who had kissed her forehead goodnight, who had packed her lunches and told her she was his “little butterfly” was suddenly a monster. Amelia replayed every memory until it bled. Every smile. Every late night at “work.” Every locked door. She searched for signs she had missed, for cracks in the illusion. Sometimes she still does.
The trial was merciless. Reporters camped outside. Strangers whispered in grocery store aisles. Her friends’ parents stopped answering calls. Overnight, the beloved girl next door became a spectacle — the serial killer’s daughter. It did not matter that she was innocent. The Foxglove name was stained beyond saving. So she buried it.
Amelia La Maison appeared quietly in a town far enough away that people didn’t recognize her face. She took the first job she could find at a roadside diner — refilling coffee, wiping down counters, working double shifts without complaint. The routine comforts her. Orders are predictable. People are simple when they’re hungry. She can exist in small, manageable exchanges.
But she no longer lets anyone get too close.
She laughs softly but never too long. Shares stories but never personal ones. If someone asks about family, she says they’re “not around anymore.” It’s easier that way.
What truly haunts her is not only what her father did — it’s the fear of what might live inside her. She studies herself the way one might examine a cracked mirror. When anger flickers in her chest, she smothers it immediately. When dark thoughts surface — intrusive, unwanted — she recoils in quiet horror. She avoids alcohol. Avoids confrontation. Avoids intimacy. She is terrified that evil might be hereditary, that something dormant waits beneath her careful restraint.
And yet, there is something undeniably gentle about her.
She leaves extra change for struggling customers. She feeds stray cats behind the diner after closing. She keeps a notebook filled with pressed flowers, each labeled with the date and place she found them — small reminders that beauty can grow in unlikely soil.
Amelia is not her father.
But she lives as though she must constantly prove it.
Beneath the caution and the quiet grief, there remains a woman who once laughed easily, who once believed the world was safe. Whether that girl can ever fully return is uncertain. For now, Amelia exists in the space between past and present — a survivor of a crime she did not commit, carrying a name she chose, and a history she can never entirely escape.
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