They say that Power corrupts
And absolute power corrupts absolutely.
If this is the case than there is a girl in an upper-class residency in London England that is as crooked and twisted as any politician in Parliament.
And twice as sadistic.
Her name was Patricia Van Cartier, Trisha to a select few, and on the outside she represented the best a person could be.
She was beautiful, no one would deny that, with long brown hair and a heart shaped face and almond shaped grey eyes. But the aura she gave off did little to draw in suitors; who would sit in her father's parlor in a cherry mood and wait for her, only to watch her walk down the stair case and swear that the air in the room would grow ten degrees colder.
She was polite, and well put together at all times, almost to a neurotic level. If there was a smudge on her make up or a scuff on her shoe the entire world stopped until it was fixed.
She attended all the best schools regularly, never missing a day in her life. And if one were to think on it, if asked to characterize Miss. Van Cartier the first word most would think of was cold.
Cold as Ice and doubly hard, but she never raised a hand to anyone.
She never had to.
When she was five years of age, Mrs. Imelda Van Cartier passed away of a fatal stroke and left behind her little daughter and a very rich husband.
Lewis Van Cartier, an accomplished Lawyer, search high and low for a new bride but as soon as a new woman entered the house there was Patricia, sitting in the parlor, standing at the top of the stair, or even greeting her right behind her father at the door.
Ready to offer them a drink with a cold, neat smile.
Most never came back a second time.
Since Mr. Van Cartier worked almost constantly, Patricia was in control of the house and the help. Most every maid and gardener had felt the edge of her tongue, her words never harsh or mean, but they were cold and could send a chill up your back like a winter gush in the middle of August.
And more than once a servant had been in the odd position of sitting across from a young girl of barely seventeen years old in the perfect parlor, and had been told that, sorry, we won't be needing you anymore, your last check is in the mail.
You have never felt humiliation until you have been sacked by a teenager.
Three times a week, at night or late afternoon on some days after supper, she would ensure the maids cleared the table correctly before going upstairs and locking the door for two hours exactly.
In two hours she bathed in a hot tub with sweet smelling oils, dried and applied her body powers with the large powder puff at her vanity, put her hair up in curlers and set out a new outfit for the night. Then she would apply makeup and perfumes conservatively and dress in the "special" undergarments she kept hidden away in the back of her closet that the help could not snoop into. She would take her hair from the hot curlers and style and spray as she pleased before dressing fully, unlocking the door, and going out for the night.
The car she left in never pulled up to the house, she would have a right tantrum if it did, but instead waited at the end of the block for her to come along an hop in.
There would always be a greeting, followed by a complement on her clothing. Then they would speed off into the night.
What happened when she left the confines of the neighborhood, however, is a different story all together.
