101 Dalmatians: The Origin Story

From the Journal of Prisoner JD2062: De Vil

I suppose my problems really started when I was a child. It's a clichéd tale, really: Daddy was an absentee, and Mummy was so preoccupied keeping up appearances that she forgot to be a mother. At least, that's what that dreadful court-appointed psychiatrist keeps trying to drill into my head. If you ask me, I don't have any problems to speak of. She's an utter quack who's just jealous that I manage to make prison orange look better than whatever dreck she's dredged up from the bargain bin each time we have an "appointment." That is, of course, if it's still considered an "appointment" when the counseled party is behind bars, forced to be present.

That won't be for much longer, though. I've evidently shown the proper amount of contrition for my actions, and I have it on good faith from Doctor (and I do use that term loosely) Amanda that I'll soon be "evicted from the system's custody." She is such a bore, using such hideous terminology for the momentous occasion that will be Cruella De Vil's grand exit from HMP Pentonville. It'll be a party with London's best and brightest in attendance; just imagine all the elite names in fashion, jetting in from around the world to welcome one of their own back into the fold. I can envision the colors, the fabrics, the patterns! Fashion is, after all, both the reason why I'm in this predicament and the only thing giving me reason to go on.

Anyway, it seems I've done it again--I do have such a tendency to ramble on, completely losing focus of the matter at hand. Though, if I'm being forced to write this memoir, I'll do it on my own terms, with as much rambling as I see fit. Doctor Amanda says that recounting my mistakes, understanding the motivations behind them, and truly forgiving myself is the final assignment required in order to officially complete the prison therapy program. I'm simply ecstatic to finally be leaving this place behind--no more frightful monochromatic jumpsuits--but, just like always, I'm determined to leave a lasting legacy behind.

From the tender age of 12, I've worn the title "eccentric" with pride. Not crazy, mind you--if that were the case, I'd be in the looney bin right now, doped out of my head on those horse tranquilizers instead of writing this while under the careful supervision of my quack psychiatrist. "Crazy" is the word people use for those of us who simply aren't fit to be members of society. "Eccentric" gives an air of sophistication to a person, classifies them with undefinable refinement. It simply excuses things, like when you refuse to wear any color but red or dye half of your head because you can't bear to look at that hideous, pristine white mane any longer. Committing yourself to the avant-garde is very eccentric. When people ask stupid questions like "Why on Earth did you shear 6 inches off of Susan Khatchadorian's hair in the middle of the night?" you have an automatic answer: well, obviously because she wouldn't shut her mouth about my own hair color--and, don't forget, because I'm eccentric.

According to Doctor Amanda, both the eccentricity and white hair can be easily explained away by my mother's crippling inability to love anyone but herself. Beginning when I was only three years old, she would bleach my hair every week, covering up the disgraceful mousy brown with a much more cosmetically appealing shade of blonde. God forbid any member of her family appears less than perfect--she'd go berserk! By the time I had reached adolescence, though, the harsh chemicals had taken their toll, leaving my hair frizzy, brittle, and tinged with an unsightly yellowish pallor. Months later, the damage had grown out, but absolutely no pigment remained. To have a white-haired twelve-year-old as a daughter was more than my mother could handle. She ignored me completely after that point, never deigning to associate with the "freak of nature" she herself had created.

The only way of coping with an absence of affection at home was seeking out attention everywhere else. I must admit, I created a bit of a reputation for myself, raising Cain every chance I got. I'm also prepared to confess that, along the way, I may have come a bit...unhinged. As a young child, I had never been the best at expressing emotions constructively, and that only worsened after my mother's emotional abandonment. What happened to Susan Khatchadorian was by no means an isolated incident. Many girls who dared to cross me soon felt the repercussions of my ire. Only one, though, managed to enrage me so deeply that I lost what little control over my emotions I had left: Anita Campbell-Green.