Warnings: As long as you've read up to about to the end of chapter 18, then you should be fine. Admittedly, you'll understand more of the irony in the story if you're up to date with at least chapter 19 or 20, but if you haven't, you'll still understand. No logic. Not in the nonsensical way, more like the wtf? Way, but still. Kinda sporadic and random too with lots of repetition of ideas, but again, intentional. Mindfuckery, then again Priscilla's/Leda's entire existence pretty much relies on that so nothing surprising there.

A/N: Just a quikie drabble I wrote a while ago (like when pages from chapter nineteen were being posted long ago) for the sake of finally being able to send another plot bunny off to slaughterhouse, so to speak. I'm not gonna lie, it's not one of my better works, especially towards the end, but I absolutely adore the beginning, so I decided to post this anyways. Now, about the actual fic, while I don't hate her, Priscilla still can grate on the nerves at time. She can be a bitch, we all know that and we all hate it when she gets in the way our two wonderful protagonists' sexy time, no one can deny it. But even with that being said, I find the psychosis behind her character really interesting. She's just so crazy and insane and I've been dying to do an analytical piece. I mean, she's just one of those characters who pretty much screams "Introspective! Introspective! Do a fucking introspective!" And really, who am I, a simple slave to my plot bunnies, to deny a psychologically disturbed woman her chance to be analyzed and torn apart like some psychological guinea pig of mine? Exactly my point.

Dancing with myself

xXx

"He stands enthralled by his own face, which lies

Below like statues shaped of precious stone.

In the pool, he sees his twin, the eyes like stars

The hair like the God Apollo's hair,

His skin, soft and bright.

What he saw he admired, just like all the girls

Who had admired him.

The foolish boy desired himself, reflected in the water,

Seeming to look back, sparkling and stirring."

-Ovid, Echo and Narcissus

xXx

Word: Narcissism.

Classification: Noun.

Definition: (1) The inordinate fascination with oneself

(2) In psychiatry, a personality disorder characterized by the patient's overestimation of his or her own appearance and abilities and an excessive need for admiration.

Origins: German. Narzissismus. 181-

Lies.

Priscilla stared at the dictionary page for the longest time, her jaw tense and her eyes aglow with maroon embers of enraged infuriation. Her sharp talons bit into the leather covering of the dictionary, her nails leaving deep imprints in the old book. Her sharpened canines were grit together, her body literally shaking.

Narcissistic.

The word hung in her head. It rang through the air and echoed in her mind, haunting her, prodding at her, slowly eating away at her, all until she couldn't take it anymore. All until-

Riiiippppp!

Silence.

Slowly, the anger trickled from her, like falling rain. The infuriation fell, faded into another emotion altogether. Faded into bubbling joy. And as the anger faded into joy, something happened. She began to laugh. A triumphant, victorious laugh that started out as a giggle before gradually crescendoing into a delirious howl. A sick smile spread across her lips. Pris clutched at the dictionary pages she had torn from the book, the paper crunching under her biting nails. And she laughed. Guffawed as she took the dictionary and threw it across the library, not even caring when it smashed into an expensive vase with a deafening crash. She didn't care, didn't care about the suddenness of her swinging mood or the undertones of insanity in her laugh. She didn't care, because she had won.

And she won because she wasn't narcissistic. No matter what that fucking brat had told her butler she wasn't narcissistic, she made sure to assure herself. She wasn't narcissistic. Because she had the papers, she had the text, she had the dictionary. And if she had the text, she was in control. And if she was in control, no one could tell her otherwise.

In control, powerful, all reigning and all ruling she was. Narcissistic, she was not.

There was a difference.

She was reminded of that as she bent down and held those pages above the open flame of the library's fireplace. The grin on her face spread, like a feline. Her eyes began to glow and this time it was not because of anger. She watched with glee as the papers burned into dust. As the fires caught the pristine white paper, as they swept upon the ashen expanse and turned ivory into ebony, she imagined that the flames were not the reason behind their torturous burning, but her gaze. But her simmering anger. That she was the cause, that they were fleeing from her. Because they were afraid. Afraid of her. Afraid of her power. And damn well they should be. Those lies they had spewed, it served them right to rot and burn into dust. Which is exactly what they did.

"Narcissistic, huh? How's that for narcissistic you little bitch?" She spat to herself as she watched the papers in her grasp fold into themselves from the heat of the fire. Crumbling into dust in her tiny little palms, she sprinkled the ash into the fire, laughing all the while. Of course she could not be narcissistic, because narcissism was not in the dictionary. And if narcissism was not in the dictionary, then it could no longer exist. And Priscilla could not be something that did not exist. It was only logical. Because she had torn it out, she had destroyed the word and with it the meaning behind it. It no longer existed. She had burned it. She had destroyed it, her and her alone.

She had won. That brat-

Suddenly her smile fell and her laughter ceased.

Silence settled into the library again.

"I don't care Sebastian, just get that narcissistic proletarian out of my manor."

She could not get the brat's words out of her head. Her hand curled around the hem of her dress, her fingers crawled up her leg until they reached the item they sought. With a purse of her lips she drew out a butcher knife from the skirt of her dress and ran her finger across the edge of the blade, almost as if daring the knife to cut her and pay the consequences. The knife glowed under the light of the fireplace, the flames gleaming in its metallic reflection. Nimble fingers curled around the hilt and she with a blank stare she gazed at it for a second more before…

With a simple flick of her wrist, one second the knife was in her hand and then the next it was embedded in the wall to her left. Flying through yet another vase, breaking it as well and sending rivers of water and bouquets of pink flowers splashing down the side of the wooden table and onto the floor below, Priscilla smiled. As the water pooled onto the floor, shimmering in the moonlight that streamed in from the window. She giggled. That that was what she was going to do to Ciel. Eventually. One day. Someday. Stick a knife through his head. Make his blood spill down onto the floor below him, make his brains fall from his skull like clumps of raw meat. Just like how the water and the flowers did. Useless, pitiful, lifeless, they were. Just like what he did to Harold. And he deserved nothing more for such blasphemous insults. Him and his butler, both. Especially his butler. Especially them both. They would both suffer soon enough for their insolence. She giggled. They didn't think she had heard them. Tucked away within the folds of his bedroom as they lounged on the earl's bed, bodies and hands alike entwined. They shouldn't have been so ignorant. Didn't they know? She knew everything. Omnipotent. Omnipresent. Omniscient. That's what Priscilla was. She was everywhere. She saw everything. She knew everything. She was everyone. Extensions of her essence, that's what it was. Every pawn, every knight and bishop and rook and king was belonged to her. To own, to manipulate, to use. And they could do nothing about it, because they would never know. Never know the depth of her intelligence or the depth of her strength. They would never truly know anything until the end, and even then it was only because she let them know. Because after all, hadn't they heard? She was the queen. She was the goddess. She was in control…

Control. Yes, of course, control. Control she had. Control only she had. So therefore it was the only logical conclusion, she was not a narcissist….

And that's when she realized it. Realized something that had her doubling over with laughter. That had her clutching her stomach with each crazed howl. How silly of her, to have this great internal monologue about some silly child's opinion when narcissism didn't even exist. She had torn the pages from the dictionary and burned them, made the whole nonsensical idea of arrogance and pride disappear with a flick of her wrist.

That stupid earl, making her think so much, did he know nothing? She guffawed at the thought. Of course he knew nothing, because if he knew something than he would not have acted so insolent. But he would learn soon enough. They always did, didn't they?

Her smile spread as she stood to her full height and curled her arms around her own waist in a pseudo self-hug. Power. Control. Beauty. Love. Existence. They were her's and she was their's. A perfect Harmony.

Slowly, she sat back down in her chair and stared out at the full moon. She watched, entranced as its rays shown down on her, like a halo, like a spotlight from heaven it focused solely on her. "Beautiful," she murmured as she brought her legs up into the chair, pressing her knees to her chest as she unconsciously began to rock back and forth in her seat like a child. Alone. Without any of the so called people who loved her to keep her company. But she did not mind. She couldn't mind, for how could she when she didn't even notice? With an absent grin spread across her lips and low chuckles escaping from her throat, Pris was too immersed with her thoughts. And so fitting that like a broken record, only one was going through her head;

I am not narcissistic. Because narcissism does not exist. Because I said it cannot exist.