Quincy Wren

✧Coming Out of My Cage✧

✧ For the monster that didn't swallow me. I'm coming for your crown. ✧

  • Joined February 2018
  • Member of Hufflepuff
  • 0 House Points
  • 1st Year
  • Norway

Backstory

Quincy had always been the odd one out in her family, even from the beginning, an occurrence that boded no good for her. The young girl's dreamy, eclectic nature clashed terribly with that of her family, all of which were power hungry Slytherins with a pure blood mentality that the dreamy girl could never subscribe to, a fact that her family took to heart in the cruelest of ways. The youngest of seven children, Quincy was subjected to abuse by her brothers and fathers for years as a result of her "defect", the pain she was forced into used as a sort of "purging", to force the girl to be the way they wanted. Other than forever emotionally scarring her however, Quincy's family was unable to change her unique nature and as a result disowned her for all intents and purposes albeit abuse on certain occasions when she was sorted into Hufflepuff at Hogwarts. From that time on Quincy basically raised herself, fostering her dreamy, gentle nature that was often hidden by her more excitable, impulsive emotions, which had a tendency to get her into trouble. The deep emotional pain and scarring she felt was hidden by a more impulsive, quirky nature that led the dreamy girl headfirst into a series of scrapes that gave her the reputation of an eclectic, daredevil girl who was up for anything at anytime.

Name: Quincy Helena Wren
Age:16
Year:6
Looks: Caramel hair, absinthe eyes, light freckles, ivory skin. Five foot seven with a willowy figure.
Personality: Curious, risk taker, flirty, a little (read a lot) crazy, party girl, eccentric, dreamy.

To be a writer is to be a thief. I steal people, places, feelings - entire lives and make off with them, carrying them away into the night. To write is to steal, and I have plundered you and all the world; every day and every fragment of reality.

Always pity the thinkers, for we are cursed with our own imaginations.

I don't feel much pain, got a knife in my back and a bullet in my brain, and one long prescription saying clinically insane.

Please don't forget me and all the things we did, because people are temporary and it really sucks. I just want to be important to someone.

I'm well acquainted with demons that live in my head - they beg me to write them so they'll never die when I'm dead.

I'm free and I'm young and I can feel none of it.

If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy I could have won.

I was a daisy fresh girl, now look at what you've done to me.

What the fuck is this aesthetic anyways?





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