Author: theoddcatlady

It was never easy telling someone their ‘perfect little angel’ was a bit of a monster. Especially when said ‘angel’ was likely this way due to improper parenting.

I knew this would be the case the moment I brought up Rachel’s behavioral issues to her mother, Eliza Jane.

Eliza was the daughter of a wealthy recluse, their family had been involved in medical business for apparently the last century. They owned several hospitals and even helped design some of the newest state of the art equipment. Things that could create the absolute smallest incisions with no scarring.

But with wealth can come pride. Entitlement.

TW: Sexual Assault

You could insinuate I’m a bit of a womanizer.

My sister (affectionately) calls me a man whore but that doesn’t bother me. I come from a reasonably wealthy background and from the cradle my mother teasingly called me a flirt whenever she passed me around her friends.

Rest in peace mom. You always knew me best.

I’m not gonna lie and say I’m anything but good looking. I have a lot going for me in appearance. My eyes have been compared to sapphires. I take good care of my body, in what I do with it and what I put inside it. I’m practically a god.

Let me start off this plea for help with that I don’t deserve it. What’s going to happen to me soon I absolutely asked for, but god, someone please save me.

I’m a perv. I hack into girl’s computers and watch them in their houses from their webcams, or even better, their rooms. Catch them doing yoga, undressing, it’s truly my lucky day when I can catch them masturbating. Once I even caught this lesbian couple, but they didn’t do anything fun- just tickled each other and planned their honeymoon. So. Boring.

It’s a victimless crime. I get my rocks off or enjoy your conversations, and the people never even know I was there.

But I peaked into the wrong cam.

Growing up, I always had everything I wanted. The prettiest clothes. The nicest dolls. The greatest toys. Servants who fulfilled my ever need. Every weekend I had a party where I was the princess, and danced in our great ballroom while sipping ‘champagne’, which was really just sparkling apple juice.

But I didn’t have one thing, and that was friends.

Papa says that albinism has run in the family for many generations, giving us fair skin, fine hair, and either icy blue or rose pink eyes. I have the rose pink. My hair has always been so thin that I began wearing wigs when I realized why people looked at me differently. I always had nice wigs, of course, but the other kids always stared and kept their distance. Papa said they were jealous of how pretty I was. After a while I learned that was a lie. They thought I was a freak.

Picking up hitchhikers is dangerous, or so I’ve been told. Women in particular are warned to be cautious of strangers asking for a ride. I am a small lady, no more than five feet tall. I should be more careful. I have more to worry about than myself after all.

But when I saw the shivering couple on the corner, the soft snowflakes landing on their ragged clothes, I could not help myself. I ordered my driver to pull over and opened the door.

“You must be half frozen! Come inside!”