Socialite (Desniah Williams)

To say I am messed up is like saying the devil is evil, simply a matter of fact.  I am me, myself, and London. At least that’s how it’s been since I discovered five years ago that I wasn’t alone. Recently, I’d become aware of her activities, and it makes me wonder if I want to know all that I don’t. I’m weak. She is strong, though, tries to convince me otherwise.

My perception of the world deviated at an early age. I don’t remember being left in a shopping centre at the age of two. I do recall worrying that those around me would leave, which made me clingy. So I avoided people. The Williams had been trying to have a child for many years when they saw my story on the news. They adopted me. My father’s failing career picked up.

I was six when Mrs. Williams died. I remember sensations of her more than anything else. I think she was kind to me. Upon her death, my father’s career took an even sharper spike upward. That’s when the sitters, nannies and friends pitched in with me. I learned to be quiet and not bother adults.

I was nine when the devil incarnate saw his opportunity and deceived me into becoming his consenting victim. There was nothing I wouldn’t have done or given to him, all for the attention and praise he lavished on me. I gave him every last shred of my soul. I was a cheap whore.

London commands her weight in gold.

Do you still wonder why I can’t stand to be me?

These are the confessions of a socialite. My confessions.

The socialite’s introduction Vol. 2:

To say I am messed up is like saying the devil is evil, simply a matter of fact. I am me, myself, and London. At least that’s how it’s been since I discovered five years ago that I wasn’t alone. Recently, I’d become aware of her activities, and it makes me wonder if I want to know all that I don’t.

I believed I was weak and she was strong. Or so I thought. But perhaps she was as much a prisoner of circumstance as I was.

At the age of two, I was left in a shopping centre. For most of my life, I worried that those around me would leave, which made me clingy. So I avoided people. I was adopted by the Williams’. I was six when Mrs. Williams died. Mr. Williams, my father, did the best that he could to raise me as he grieved for his wife and fed the political machine. I was nine when the devil incarnate saw his opportunity and lured me into becoming his consenting victim. There was nothing I wouldn’t have done or given to him in return for all for the attention and praise he lavished on me. He ripped my body and fractured my mind but I survived him.

I learned a great many lessons along my journey. And I know that the pain one nourishes will never die.

I will make me whole again.

These are the confessions of a socialite. My confessions.

 

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