Click.

 "Click!  Click"  There I was.  Yet another meaningless photo shoot.  Since age two I have been buried in this illustrious model world against my will.  "Time passes quickly." my mother says.  "I just want as many pictures of you as I could possibly get…and of course the money and fame do not hurt either."  So, left to deal with the temptations of this cruel industry and being an unrealistic paragon for the youth, I strike one lifeless pose after another, just to deposit a large check into my mother's bank account.

  If it is not bad enough that I have to deal with sycophant, fame seeking people all day, now I have to tolerate my mother's dogged, grandiloquent speech.  "Dear, you have only gotten this far in the industry because of me you know?  You really should be more grateful for my management."  Incredible really, even the work that I do is not really my work at all.  Why should I even try? It is never good enough. It is her.  It has always been her.  She is responsible for the slow demise of my rationality.  

  As I tried to push down this nefarious cloud of anger that had risen inside of me, I climbed out of my dark thoughts.  It was to late now.  My grip had released as I backed into our blood colored walls.  There, on my paisley living room carpet, lied my strangled mother.  My mind spun into a panic, and the feeling in my arms was absent.  

  She should have seen this coming.  Her demeaning speech and over controlling spirit had caused me to plummet over the edge of sanity.  How could her life not end in such a germane death? The shock of my actions had worn off by now.  I was back to my normal, listless self.  

  A neighbor had heard my mother's brutal screams at some point in the murder, so the cops did not  take long before arriving at my door.  "Ms. Livingston, you are under arrest." said a local NYPD cop.  "What for officer?" I answered in a sarcastic tone.  "For the murder of your mother, Joan Livingston."  That is when a once benign and praised laugh filled the air.  Now however, this laugh was malicious and came from a mouth that thirsted for blood, and I was proud to call it my own.

  "Click! Click! Turn to the right please." the prison photographer said.  My body shifted to the right.  Then to the left.  Finally I faced forward toward the camera.  A place I had been familiar with my whole life, but I had never felt so at home as I did now.  "Click!"  "Well, look at that.  Finally, a decent picture of myself.  Too bad my mother is not here to see it." I said with a smirk on my face.  Where would my devious life take me now?  Perhaps to my unescapable companion…misery.