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I am not a model. I am not a mannequin to be put on display. I am not a doll to be dressed up.

Yet I am standing next to a man somewhere in his sixties and grinning like a fucking idiot while photographers take pictures of us for the charity gala.

I hate these things.

A child doesn't always ask to inherit their family's legacy. They don't always want to be put on the spot because of how they've suffered. Sometimes, they just want to be in their small apartment wearing paint covered clothes doodling with watercolors on a canvas.

Unfortunately, those particular children don't always get what they want.

Instead, they are pushed into a dark red gown, gold earrings, and nude lipstick. The lipstick would've been red, if the women who dressed them up had their way, but that wasn't going to happen, not if they didn't want this particular child throwing a hissy fit in front of a load of rich people with too much money.

My cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

After seemingly endless torture, I'm dragged over to talk to old acquaintances of my mother's, who smooth my "effortless" messy bun and tell me how damn adorable I am. The little seventeen-year-old, all grown up, drinking champagne with the people who will forever see her as the daughter of a dead CEO and comatose former millionaire.

My cheeks ache. More than anything I wish for some sort of escape.

I opt for drinking too much champagne.

I'm on my fifth glass, luckily able to hold myself properly and pretend I have an array of old classics my mother must have left me.

I am very, very sure any classic books collections left behind were given to my half-brother, the man who doesn't know I exist, on the other side of the country.

I didn't even know he existed until right before my mother died. It was one of the last arguments we had. In a state of irrationality, I had yelled at her for not telling me, all the while not informing her as to how I found out.

Because the person who told me was the man who ended her life.

That particular man I called Fred, although the proper name for him was Death. I only called him Death when I was mad, like I called my old best friend Alexandra instead of Alex whenever we got in a fight. It bugged the crap out of him, getting defined as this being who takes people's souls for a living.

"I don't even get paid, that's a bit unfair, don't you think?"

"Who would provide your salary? Lucifer?"

"Whoa there Persephone, no need to get all sensitive on me."


What kind of person gives their friend the nickname Persephone?

Oh right, Death, the controller of the universe who literally has no idea if there's a god, and he's been here for thousands of years.

And he has an absolute obsession with Greek mythology.

Somehow, I related the most to Persephone. I asked why I couldn't be Artemis, or Athena, or even Hera, the obvious badass Olympians.

He replied: "Persephone seems like Hades' little toy wife, but those are always the ones that will fool you."

"So what, I look fragile but really I'm a friggin' diamond?"

"Yeah, but on the outside you're more like a ruby. No, scratch that, you're closer to a garnet."

"Thanks, Death."

He would visit me tonight probably, while I drank my evening cup of tea and complained about how much my life sucked. He'd make me feel guilty by talking about the people in the Middle East, China, India, Africa, all those humans who died today. While he didn't oversee every single death in the book, he got his fair share of brutality.

That kind of thing can either destroy someone or make them incredibly powerful.

Oh, Death. He was so strong he was pathetically weak.

I was seated at my table, subtly stuffing my mouth full of bread when one of the younger donors who had taken me under her wing pulled me up to dance with a fatherly kind of man who wanted to talk to me about becoming the "face" of a charity organization.

It took less than three minutes for me to reluctantly give him a fat grin and say I'd love to, and then excuse myself to the bathroom. I grabbed a glass of champagne on my way there, and instead of actually going to "freshen up" I cowered behind the pillars of the ballroom and studied the tired, rich folk around me.

I would've been a much better attendee if I had been one of the people holding the camera rather than smiling for it.

A flash hit the side of my face. I turned, just in time for another to get a full view of my clearly fed up expression.

The photographer looked up from behind his camera, a smirk on his face. He looked way too proud of himself.

"If you're letting your ego get the better of you because you got an actual candid shot, trust me, it's not your skill, you just got lucky." I say and sip my champagne contently. I was totally asking for a fight.

"I did get lucky." He agreed. "That's why I'm letting my ego 'get the better of me.'"

I fought an incredible urge to roll my eyes. I place a hand on my hip and turn my body fully, facing him head on now. "What are you going to do with it?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Not sure yet. I'll have to see if anyone finds you intriguing."

I nod and say, "Good luck with that," before turning to walk away and into the pits of hell.

When I look back for a split second, another flash hits my face. I resist the urge to throw my glass at him.

I hate these fucking things.
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