The Creation of a Brat

This post is inspired by the Red Dress Club prompt to describe a villain. I chose to revisit an earlier character that I created named Samantha Celeste. She first entered this world in my post Shock Value, as a surprising, shocking, spoiled, and assuming young artist.

Samantha Celeste scowled at her au pair.

The au pair began, “Sam, you -"

“Samantha,” Samantha clarified sternly.

The au pair sucked in a breath. “Samantha. You really must get your literature work finished. You still aren’t done with your final painting, and I know your mother will be -"

“If YOU would leave me alone, I could get something done. The MOST important thing here is my art, but how am I to focus on anything when I have a nanny hissing in my ear?”

The au pair stood rigidly, exerting all of her self control.

“I will leave you to it then,” she said and walked out, careful to demonstrate restraint and shut the door quietly.

Spoiled, rotten, evil brat, the au pair thought. No one will love her. Ha! She is ugly and nasty and will die alone. Someday, I WILL LEAVE her and this place, and I won’t be the first to leave her sorry ass…

Back inside the room, Samantha took a cleansing breath, shut her eyes, and meditated for a moment to calm her anger, always the anger, so she could begin to put color to the canvas.

People could never understand me, she thought. The pressure, the talent within – I am unlike no other. Someday, someday, everyone will see what is truly inside me.

From a distance, Samantha could hear the distinct clicks of heels approaching. The familiar dread crept in, and she looked around the room, assessing her surroundings.

The door opened so quickly it banged against the wall behind it. Samantha’s mother stood unsteady in the doorway. The cocktail glass, a familiar prop, was half gone in her mother’s hand. She scanned the room before noticing Samantha.

“Where is the painting?” her mother said, already starting to slur a bit between words.

Samantha looked her mother coldly in the eyes. “I’m not done, Mother.”

“Don’t talk to me like that – you think you are something special?! You. You are NOT something special. You are lucky to have even had the last showing. I have made it happen for you. All of this – everything you have – you ungrateful…” she paused as her body swayed from the energy of her yelling.

Her mother stumbled. Her expression changed. She looked confused. She turned swiftly to walk out of the room and slammed the door.

Samantha’s anger swelled inside her. It spread out to all of her limbs in a flash. The anger, always the anger, uncontrollable and just below the surface started to race forward. Samantha was electric with rage as she grabbed the can of paint at her feet and hurled it at the canvas.