There are some moments when you feel okay, and then there are other moments when you realize you are completely, and utterly alone. Loneliness has followed me my whole life, everywhere. If it weren't for my imagination I don't know where I would be. Would I sleep my life away? How bad would it be? To sleep for years until it turns eternal.

Flashes of my Mother slapping me hard running through my mind. "Charlotte," her voice echoed in my head. I jolted awake, blinking rapidly. I began to remember that I wasn't fifteen anymore, and that time doesn't age backwards.

Sitting up in my bed, I slowly gazed around the room; the plain white walls I'd grown tired of, and the white wooden floor that always made the room feel so cold. I pulled my pearly satin blanket back over my body, and curled into the fetal position.

I heard a distant knock on my bedroom door, followed by the entrance of our maid. "Good morning Charlotte," Salem smiled, and I blinked in response. "Your mother is expecting down for breakfast in fifteen minutes," she said, opening up the drapes.

"Yay," I shouted sarcastically, getting out of bed.

She only laughed in response, her brown skin glowing in the sun. "I made your favorite, spinach omelets," She beamed.

"It's that bad?" I asked her, shaking my head. She knowingly sighed, starting to make my bed. We both knew breakfast with my Mother wasn't just "breakfast, and that she only made my favorite meal to prepare me for what mood she was in.

I stared at my reflection in the golden Victorian mirror on my wall, giving my full lips a tug with my teeth. For as long as I can remember, I've been staring at this same girl, in this same mirror. Sad.

As Salem left my room, I brushed my wild, dark brown curls into a nice back bun like my Mother liked it. Smooth, and with no loose strands. I put on my best inside dress, and headed downstairs to see my Mother.

"Charlotte, darling," she beamed once she saw me.

"Good morning, Mother," I forced a smile, sitting across from her.

"It's time to discuss you going back to Yale," she said with a stern but friendly tone.

"Mom," I whined. "I'm not ready to go back to school," I complained.

"Charlotte," she said sternly, no more friendly, and no more smile. It was the look that always made me feel small, so my eyes drifted down to my breakfast. "I let you take that gap year, because you said that you were stressed. I understood you. I was more than reasonable to let you go to Paris for half that year, to partake in the arts, enjoy the culture," she smiled once more. "Charlotte I am not your enemy. I want you to have a full life. However, you will not gap-year yourself into disgracing your father's legacy. You will graduate Yale, and you will be going back this fall."

Of course this was the end of the conversation. I learned never to argue with my Mother, and I learned it the hard way. "Now," she beamed, standing to her feet. "We're meeting your Father, at twelve for lunch. Be down here and be ready."

~*~

"That school is soooo boring," I scoffed to my friend Juliet. "I can't believe she wants me to go there," I sighed.

"Why won't she let you pick your own school?" She asked.

"Because she doesn't like my major choice," I squinted. Juliet and I were friends because we both understood what it was like to be rich and burdened with the crown of our families. She tossed her blonde locks to the back, and shook her head.

"Your parents are really important people. What do you think would happen if you do something embarrassing? Your mom would never show her face in this country club again! Her whole life would be ruined." At that, we both laughed.

"Just think, all the crap going on in the world, and these are her problems," I scoffed.

"Anyways," she waved sipping her mimosa. "Do you want to go shopping? I need my fix," she cried.

"Sure," I smiled. "Right after lunch." That was pretty much the life of an heiress. Lunches, brunches and shopping. We didn't want - need for anything. Except to appear perfect to everyone. That's why my Mom fights so hard to control me; she's concerned about appearances. She hates my conventional lifestyle, and pushes wealth over every aspect. She allows me to do my art on the side, but not as a main subject. Not good enough to brag about at the country club.

So I shut my mouth, I do what I'm told. I enjoy the little privilege's that I have and I don't complain. All for the Almighty dollar. But who cares, right? As long as I keep getting to go to Paris on their dime. I basically sold my life to my parents at birth, and in turn they spoil me and give me everything I desire. Except the life I want to live. I hate Yale, and I hate medicine. I hate Connecticut, and all the classes she chose for me to study. But I suck it up, all for the Almighty dollar.