I don't remember when it started, only that it never stopped. Expectations weighed upon broken shoulders and there was powder pressed to bruised cheeks so that camera flashes would not pick them up. That was okay. Childhood is littered with blank pages, torn from my psyche like the bald patches upon my skull when I fell asleep at my desk after thirteen hours filming. That's okay, I wore a wig the next day. I don't wish I could remember, I haven't any desire to know what fell between the cracks. How I ended up with her. Who my parents where. None of it interests me. It's gone for a reason.
Who is she? A ghost dressed as a knight in shining armor. Come to save me from a hell which exists to me only as a void of absolute nothing. There were bruises on my wrists, I remember that. Four years old with stitches on my head and I was pretty so she took pity on something so absolutely pathetic. I wish she hadn't. I only wanted to be left alone. My temperament was soft, non-confrontational and I was molded into all she wished.
Fame is fine. Acting came naturally to me, or perhaps it didn't, I don't remember learning how to stand in front of a camera. Becoming another person was welcome, an escape that I embraced. I was good at it. I'm still damn good at it. Image being everything, having to hold myself to a standard that is both entirely unattainable and much too low. Picture perfect, I haven't the energy to be anything else. I don't think I know how.