priscilla sheppard {district f o u r} done

Money makes the world go 'round. Power is importance. Beauty is everything. These are the words that have been beaten into my mind since birth, since my mother forced father to her with one, crying child. She knew that it would bind them in a way that nothing else could, and therein she became the wealthy Marie Sheppard, eye candy to the elderly Andrew and heir to his great inheritance. 

Father loved me more than mother ever would. Even if his hair was greying. He found time to cradle me within wrinkled arms in his last moments. Mom says I curled into him, calmer than I'd ever been and let him lull me to sleep before his heart gave out. She's made it clear that love was never something she felt for the old man, but that was the only time she'd ever cried in her adult years. 

He left a fortune in his wake, ensuring a cozy life for his widow and child. I was spoiled and entitled, the mirror image of my mother when she too was young. Her family, however, never had the money to support her greed. Mother gave me all she was willing, which honestly wasn't much. She cared for me about as much as she cared for dad, often leaving me locked in my room while partying late at night. 

When I turned twelve, she began my lessons. An apathetic mother became a strict dictator, controlling every aspect of my life. She intended to make me the perfect girl she felt she wasn't. Marie would do anything to ensure such. 

I can still remember the rules she beat into me.

One: You must never be seen talking to the poor. 

Mother treated that word as if it were worse than any profane name. It meant you were worthless, lower class. Someone you had complete and utter control over because you had money and were default better. 

Two: You must be beautiful.

She controlled everything about me. My clothes, my hair, my diet... I was never allowed to wear anything but expensive skimpy attire. The finest silks, embroidered with silver lace. My hair was always to be brushed three times a day, washed at least twice. Braiding and cutting were out of the picture as she was a staunch believer that long hair was more respectable and attractive. Only poverty stricken freeloaders wear their hair short Priscilla. 

I have never eaten a sweet. My body wasn't imperfect, never had any sort of curve to it as a child. I adored it, so often adorned with cotton dresses and silky jean. Mother would still make me go to bed hungry, insist that if I ate anything above the portions she provided I would become some sort of terrible monster. I'd never gain her approval, which for some reason I spent most of my childhood chasing. 

Three:  You must be cruel to be respected

Kindness was not in my mother's vocabulary. A fan of corporal punishment, my skin was almost never free of the bright purple kisses left by her fists. They never blossomed above my torso however, as any blemish upon my skin would only cause more imperfection. More reason to force her fingers into my flesh. 

Those were the rules I lived by my whole childhood. I believed them fully, an icy shield snaking its fingers around my body. As I grew older, I realized the cruelty of her words. The apathy she held for me, only using her daughter to live the perfect childhood she never had. Even when I knew she was only using me, I yearned for her approval. To prove to her that I could be the perfect child she wanted. 

Perhaps I could have been something other than what I am today if I'd simply renounced my mother. Insisted that I would not play into her hands like she'd taught me to. 

Alas, it's far too late. My self esteem has been placed entirely in the hands of others, their opinions of me dictating my opinion of myself. I've long since decided that fear is truly superior to love. After all, I'd only been shown such a thing once in my life, by a dying man I don't even remember. People should not love me, in fact, that's the opposite of my desire. I only wish for them to be captivated by my beauty, impressed by the powerful aura I radiate. 

I don't consider myself successful by any means. Mother still provides me with everything I needed, an allowance and food... She throws it at me because I am her perfect little soldier. I've done all she wanted, given her the satisfaction she never received in her younger years. In return, she gives me all I want. Eighteen years old and i'm still a spoiled brat. Something often connected with a five year old child stomping their feet on the floor after being denied a toy. 

However, I wear the title like a badge of honor. If my clothes, my attitude give off such an heir then I am doing my job. You should be aware that I am richer, and by default, better than anyone who I may come across.

If you hate me, so be it. 

Love is pointless, useless. I've come to believe that I am incapable of feeling such a thing.

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