Seven

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Grade 3.

Winters passed.

You eventually forgot about your mother, left only with the garish image of her body in the tub of crimson seared into your mind. 

Everyone loved you. 

Perfect grades.

Perfect face.

Perfect hair.

The preeminent golden child, preened to perfection. The ultimate golden child with a gilded sob story for a past.

The girl that beat all odds.

No one saw the child with bruised and bloody knuckles hidden under silk gloves, souvenirs from her etiquette teacher. No one saw the girl with a replacement mother who was growing sicker by the second.

No one saw the father who only cared if others were around.

A closet filled with Balmain, Hermés, Chanel, Burberry, and Reiss sheltered your shattering innocence. 

So you ran.

You ran into the welcoming arms of heavy cardboard-clad books, whisking you away into an alternate universe.

Happy 9th birthday.

Happy 9th birthday

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