On the day that evil cow, Mrs. Turner, approached me at the mall, I knew that this one meeting would decide weather or not I would go to the good place, or the bad place, when it came my time to leave this existence. She sat across from me, at the table made for two, in the most popular fast food restaurant in the mall, her fake smile not nearly enough to hide the malice in her eyes. She said in a too-sweet-to-be-true voice, "I'm Mrs. Turner, and forgive me for intruding, but I simply must have a word with you."

Nodding cautiously, I introduced myself simply by my first name, "Vicky"

My relatively violent sixteen years had taught me a few skills necessary to survive. Chief among them, the ability to see people for who they really are, not the persona they present to an unsuspecting family, or an ignorant co-worker, or to any god above.

I've seen people who are at their very core superficial beings, who will in the end cause more harm than they are worth, people who are so caring and idealistic, they can physically hurt with every wrong thing that happens in this life, and every personality in between those two. Instantly, in regards to Mrs. Turner, I ruled out the latter.

She proved me correct in suspecting she was the figurative poster child for the former type, when she spoke, "I saw the way you were handling that little twit that was with you earlier. Wherever did you cultivate such skill, my dear?"

Her tone was eager, and immediately I was filled with disgust for this lady, and felt an even deeper revulsion for myself than usual, just because a woman like her thought she could speak to me so candidly. And really, when I thought it over, why wouldn't she speak to me this way, if she indeed had witnessed me blowing up at Tootie, then there was likely no doubt in her mind that I was as evil as her.

At the sight of a frown fighting it's way into her expression, I realized I'd been silent for almost a minute. You have to be careful with strangers, and sometimes even more with an acquaintance, not to anger then unnecessarily. So, in answer to her oh-so-lovely inquiry, I replied with a knowing, indulgent smirk, "Well, my dear, I baby-sit occasionally, and believe me, she's the worst of the bunch."

No need to let this woman know that I've baby-sat only one time, or that Tootie was my sister. After all, I justified to myself for this little white lie, there's no reason for her to insult my little sister, or to ask me how I learned to have a foul temper, as if it's a good thing. Thinking of my sister, I discreetly look over the woman's shoulder, into the arcade, and check to see that Tootie is still playing that racing game she's so avid to get on every time I bring her with me to the mall.

Looking back at Mrs. Turner's face, I see, this time, a wide, genuine smile. "You're a baby-sitter?"

This question, asked with so much hope packed into it, gave me pause. I had been taking care of my little sister for as long as she can remember, but I rarely looked after other children. Most parents seeking baby-sitters would hardly come to a girl who scowled at anyone within ten yards. It's my defense mechanism, so that I don't make fragile connections with fake people, who can later shatter my heart into tiny shards. With these consuming thoughts in my mind, I did not realize I was nodding an affirmative to Mrs. Turner's question, until she asked, "Would you like to baby-sit my son? His name is Timmy, and he's a really bad little twerp."

I was about to say no, and just walk away, this woman reminded me so much of my cruel, sinister mother, that I was about to just get up and walk rapidly away, until she said, "Did I mention I'll be paying you three hundred dollars a week?"

The first thought I had was that I could use that money to buy myself everything my parents wouldn't get for me, which was, well, anything excluding clothes and food. Then I looked at the woman in front of me, and thought that there's no way three hundred dollars can be enough to justify for working for her.

As I got up she said desperately, "Did I say three hundred, I meant five hundred."

All I can say is that my ethics aren't that strong. I sat back down, having no way of knowing I was selling my soul to the devil when I said, "Of course I can baby-sit your little twerp."

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Thanks for reading, what do you think? I tried to paint Vicky as not too evil, just cynical, did it work? Would you like to read more?