Spoiled to Death By Sophia Considine
Once upon a time, I was lathered in luxury. Food and games and dresses and friends. My life was one big festival celebrating me. Then my mom had to go and get cut off from the family. No more money. No more worshippers. No more Me Festival. They bought us one-way tickets to Australia, where a man was waiting to marry my mom. He’s some sort of labor worker with a decent amount of money. He worked for us for a while and apparently made a good impression on my grandparents, but I think they just wanted someone to take us away. Ridiculous. To make matters worse, when we arrived, I saw he had a daughter. She was pretty—too pretty. She was nice—too nice. She was loved—by everyone. I hated her. When her father died three months after the wedding, I was overjoyed! No one could order me to be nice and friendly to the wench anymore. Pretty soon, Mom and I had the wench doing everything under the sun while we lounged and partied. Just as we deserve. She deserved to do the chores, slave under the sun, and earn all the money for us to spend. “Mother and I know you’re descended from dirty prisoners!” I’d yell at her to remind her of her place. (I overheard Mom mention it on a phone call). Sometimes I would sleep in, but sometimes I would wake up early enough to taunt the wench. I’d pull her hair and choke her till she almost passed out as an incentive to get to work. Sometimes I would go out to the city for a gathering, and sometimes I would spend time in my room fixing myself in front of the mirror. I’d admire my face and my hair and my clothes, and I’d feel on top of the world until the little wench would walk past my door. Suddenly, I wouldn’t feel so pretty anymore. Sometimes I’d have the wench dress me up. I’d poke her with needles hard enough to draw blood—just because she was helping doesn’t mean she couldn’t bleed. Sometimes I’d slap her so hard she’d be dizzy—just for fun because at least her skin wouldn’t look so pretty.