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“You say you want to be king - so when I burn your kingdom down, I’ll make sure you’re still chained to the throne.”

— ‘this queen is not a pawn in your arsenal’(d.s.)

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Femme Fatale Aesthetic

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Gone Girl (2014) dir. David Fincher

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Marsella Rea — born in 1996 — Mexico

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“Even monsters need someone at their side.”

—

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“I wish the world would go away.”

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My heart was always a war, bloodied beats asking for a respite, in the arms of a knifelike cold.

Channing M

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━ 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘.

full name andrea salomé juno leire cortes

nicknames / aliases dubbed by several monikers in passing, though very few have stuck. juno leire cortes━the name she would make known to the unfortunate lives of the men who kidnapped her when she was but a girl. darling━the name comes easily from her father, though only mentioned in passing by her mother.

date of birth july 6th, 2002

age eighteen ( 18 )

nationality mexican

race indigenous mexican

sex & gender female

sexuality homosexual

romantic orientation panromantic

pronouns she / her

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━ 𝐀𝐌 𝐈 𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍? 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐒𝐊.

positive personality traits astute. independent. calculated. dexterous.

negative personality traits aloof. domineering. cynical. self-serving.

general disposition salomé is as regal as the deity she was named after and twice the leader. a glimmer of something keen dances across her face, lithe limbs stretching towards the sunlight. an intelligence lingers in every word she speaks, rich and palpable. they all look to her for wisdom. for guidance. for comfort. a proud sense of worth keeps her chin held high as you figure out how to destroy those in her way. she will pounce when she's ready and eat them whole. their empires won’t burn, oh no. she will hand them over to those who deserve them. the worthy.

greatest strength natural leader. her lessons in the art of war begin young. the cortes’ approach to raising children is more akin to breeding racehorses, or greyhounds. salomé is seven, still petal-soft and tender in the supple, pliable parts of her heart. in their playground kingdom━for everything the light touches is their dominion, the blank canvas for their adventures━taunting and tussling is par for the course.

greatest weakness unempathetic. at first, it feels cruel, the constant games and competitions, the ubiquitous score-keeping of someone winning and someone losing. it bleeds through everything━the expected academic excellence, the cavalcade of sporting achievements, dining room table conversations steeped with more repressed hostility than the cold war, parties trip-wired like minefields. salomé learns fast, she learns how to evolve. and what feels like cold-blooded ruthlessness soon becomes a thrilling gratification. too bad she hasn't much care for the empires she's conquered to get what she wants.

likes leftover fries dipped in a milkshake melting away at its edges. long walks with friends. sitting in a warm, comfortable silence. the taste of alcohol on another person’s lips. ‘recreational’ drug use & abuse. perhaps smoking more than she should in a single session. playing her music a little too loud while driving.

dislikes cooking literally anything at all—it’s the bane of her existence. bad drivers, as she is a speed demon at heart and curses anyone who decided to let old people behind the wheel was a sound idea. mushrooms . . must i say more? small talk with strangers. being imposed on. prevailing, no matter the circumstance.

fears mirrors. in most instances, she does her very best to evade starring at herself too long in the mirror as she only sees her mother's reflection.

personal beliefs / values lapsed catholic. loyalty above all else.

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━ 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒.

general appearance perhaps a testament to her mixed lineage, the young woman adorns features mirroring both halves of said heritage. a truly divine, feminal form incarnate, this reflection bears a distinct semblance of her mother’s own in her days of long passed youth. both of which are framed by feathered brows that so happen to be intricately arched to form her usual impassive glare, the woman hosts two, dimly shone hues of a russet shade, peppered by flecks of gold with unspoken malice burning behind them. medical history history of vigor spans far more than she'd ever admit openly. her body is a warzone. yes, blood has been spilled here. a warning: it has never been her own.

height 5'8"

weight 128 lbs.

blood type ab positive

prescriptions lithium for her manic depression that she more often than not refuses to take, clozpine to ease her psychosis.

medical conditions iron deficiency anemia, nightmare disorder

addictions

• 𝐀𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄  she lives for cheap thrills. it's something that came to her naturally, even as a young girl. that low humming in your ears and that thumping in your ribs when you prevail against—there’s nothing better.

• 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 to feel and forget—those are her reasons. initially partaking in her early adolescence, it seems salomé has befallen to the grasp of alcoholism as a means of self-medication. she’s traded her valium for vodka.

mental illnesses

• 𝐁𝐈𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 & 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐈𝐀-𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 the story of a girl who exited the womb and entered war. the daughter of the red command, she's known nothing more than neverending battle. not only with rivals of her father, but with herself. thus, the princess threatens to bring her own kingdom to its knees.

program wildfire—the girl could set the world ablaze and call it rain. let's just say she braved a storm and has been entrusted in the care of the facility, though her current treatment lies stagnant.

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" you know those movies where the picture just starts to slow down . . . and melt? then catch fire? well, that's culiacán. " like the center of the eye of a storm, salomé arrives in the midst of bedlam. in media res. war is four years into the blood feud and colloseum games of waging battle against pestilence and famine on two fronts. two weeks before salomé is due, a cataclysm rocks the cortes household, sending marco and gabrielle at each other’s throats with mouths full of sound and fury. in the midst of war, in the midst of tempestuous, volatile, imperishable love, salomé is born. did they ever tell you that giving birth is like going into battle? the blood-soaked armour, the sweat and bellowing screams, the pure, animal instinct for survival. to live. to give life. to laugh in the face of death and claw your own mortality from his palms. gabrielle nearly dies in the operating theatre giving birth to salomé. and in a flurry of gunpowder and burning metal, marco steps onto a scene of utter carnage — from one battleground to another.

she comes into the world already a natural killer. she leaves a scar, four inches long, across the sutured war front of her mother’s stomach. she fought so hard to live, the doctors say, they had to cut her out just so her mother wouldn’t die in the attempt. there are words for what happened to her mother now, professional diagnoses: postpartum depression. gabrielle cortes spits out the words, tears apart every brochure and meaningful glance they try to give her, the grief weighing on her equal parts veined with a wordless kind of rage. she carves a fortress out of towering indifference and simmering resentment, shutting herself out from the world, and her family with it. there are logical, medical explanations for what happened to her. the reality, of course, is somewhat harder to stomach.

but she is the first girl, and the first daughter, and in spite of her mother’s near-death experience, she is her father’s first and only daughter. she is beloved by marco the moment he lays eyes on her, the moment he takes her into his arms, his coat beneath the scrubs speckled indistinctly with blood and possible brain matter. his darling little girl. in the first few weeks gabrielle starves her of love, it’s marco that wakes three times a night to feed her, nurse her, hush her cries and tears. it is marco that loves her something fierce; it is marco who promises her the world and whispers empire into the crown of her hair. even as she grows and grows, flourishing from child, to girl, to woman, this is the one thing that never changes. she is her father’s daughter, a consummate daddy’s girl. his violence in her blood, his saturnine view of the world and the role their family has to play in it. it’s almost funny—a great, cosmic joke that the old man in the sky has been playing on them since salomé was born amidst havoc and deathlessness—how much salomé looks like her. the woman who gave life to her. the gold of her stains her every feature, regal and kissed as if by the divine.

current events to hear her tell it, you would be forgiven for thinking salomé is an only child. but no, remember, she came in media res. she was the middle, the culmination. before her, there was remus. an odd name, no? why not romulus? why not rome, the very name of empire and heart of modern civilisation? because, salomé would always think to herself, a half-moon smile tucked into the corners of her mouth, even though he was the first child, he was born to come second. he was the first attempt, the model of prometheus and the first draft of homo sapiens pre-evolution. the same way eve came after adam. a progression.

but no, it’s not fair to call him only prototype. even they were children, once. violently spoiled and overindulged by any common plebian’s wildest imagination, but children nonetheless. those months at the summer palace when they would paint the hallways of their family estate with their laughter, those were magic. back when they were still young enough to smell of sunshine and naivety, the sweat-slick heat of the air clinging to their skin like bliss. moments trapped in amber glass, forever suspended in time and distant memory. she prefers it that way. they all do. the memories fade, the same way grand relics of the past are encased in glass for display at a museum — beautiful, and obsolete. perfectly preserved. and in her own way, salomé couldn’t imagine a world without remus’ shadow. what point would there be of victory if there was no one to be the vanquished?

maybe that’s a question better saved for darling saint. the baby of the family, the beloved. to this day, she harbours a lingering suspicion her mother named her youngest partially out of spite. her little saint, as opposed to her devil of a daughter that nearly tore her body asunder. in their youth, salomé adores saint the way a child can love a doll for a week and abandon it the next. he was, still is, so very entertaining to rile up. like a jack-in-the-box always coiled tightly in rage and spiralling impulse. he coaxes out the feral, girl-fury in her, the child buried amongst the wreckage of their home howling soundlessly to be heard. they fight like wolves, her and her brother. with teeth and fists and claws, answering rage with rage. you don’t blame starving dogs for tearing each other to pieces in the ring when they don’t know any other way to be fed. in the cortes household, survival is tearing out the throat of your enemy before they could sink their teeth into yours. only now has she stepped away from this war, bloodied yet unscathed.

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Kinfolk - June 2020

Model: Marsella Rea for @Select Models London

Photographer: Romain Laprade

Styling: Camille Josephine Teissere

Art Director: Christian Moller Andersen