I'm not sure about how this one turned out. I would love some review!

There is something that no one knows about me

Would you like me to tell you, then? It is a strange and terrifying thing, not for the faint-hearted. For there is something that no one knows about me, Felicity Worthington, the most gossiped-about girl in the whole of London.

My life has been laid out like silverware at a fancy party. They want me to use the right utensil at the right time, never taking too much of any one portion. But everyone knows that, for that life is no different than any other society girl's.

They want me to smile while I am still stained with tears; they want me to laugh when I feel like sobbing. But everyone knows that. It is normality among the young ladies of London.

One summer, just after my fifth birthday, my father took me out for a picnic by the sea. It was quite jolly at first, a strikingly handsome man with his adorable daughter out for some lunch. But then, everything changed. And it shall never be the same again.

I can't say that I knew anything different. He told me it was my fault; that I could never speak to anyone of it. He told me I brought it out in him, that I was a wicked, wicked girl. And I took it. Oh, how I believed it! How I still believe it!

It still haunts me today, this question of who was to blame. I know in my heart that it wasn't me, that he is the wicked one. Yet my mind tells me to believe the opposite. Sometimes, I look longingly at a knife, wondering if I should just end it all, all the mixed up lies.

If you lie enough, you believe the lies so wholeheartedly. They become truths, and then you don't know what is real from what isn't. This is what my life has become. A confusing combination of truths and non-truths. And the worst part of it is that I don't know who is to blame.

Is it my mother, for telling me that I was a dishonest, ungrateful little snit? I wish it were, but I know that it isn't. Is it my father, for starting the whole mess? I try my hardest to believe that a person so seemingly perfect, so courageous, would ever, could ever, be so small. Or is it me? The wicked girl who brought it out in him. I rather think it is, and I know that I have only myself to blame.

But there are people who know all this about me as well, like Gemma. She found out by accident, but naturally found my weak spot. And I hate her for it. Yet there is something that even she doesn't know.

I am not such a risqué, daring young lady, not as they portray me to be. I don't wear low-cut gowns and pursue the most eligible bachelors in London because it is some sort of choice of mine. I do it to try, to see if I can manipulate someone, have power over them, just like Papa did with me. And would you like to know something? It only makes me feel worse about myself.

There is a saying. "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." And I wish that that saying didn't exist, for I am living proof that it is wrong. As I think about it, maybe it isn't such a false statement. What if I have already been killed inside, after all?

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