So I guess I’m self-centered. That’s basically what I was referred to. I think of myself. Do things for myself. Never actually strive to make someone happy. Don’t do activities in church to help anyone in general. So that’s what I am…says Lucy Hilton. The faithful servant of God, Strong independent woman in her late fifties, hard worker, and devoted wife. I’m going up against the opinion of someone with a renounced rep. compare that to Erica Watson. Wants to change her name to Erica Leilani Jackson, is at the age of 16, at the moment living with Lucy while her mother sells her house in another country, and faithful servant of God. Most of all she doubts herself. She doesn’t know whether to believe everyone else’s opinion of her morality, judgment, and personality or herself. She doesn’t believe in therapists or shrinks- or is that the same thing? - And she is highly self conscience and believes herself to be fat. She worries about her future, and is generally told what she is.
She doesn’t know what to think of her “aunt” Lucy at the moment. She seems to do sweet things for her, or does she do it so she will put in good word for her mother? It doesn’t matter. She didn’t have to do those things because she would have put in good word anyway. Now she questions it. Lucy recently brought on the subject of how she cleaned the whole house to prevent her on getting sick. She said she hoped that someday she would be able to do something for somebody just because. Obviously she was shocked at the insinuation of being self-centered. She sat there for the longest quietest moment speechless. What is there to say in a situation like that? She ended up saying, “huh?” it sounded dumb, yes, but still it was all she could think of. After that, a longish explanation of her self-centeredness came into view. She doesn’t know why but she felt like crying. She turned to go fetch clothes in the laundry but instead it was an excuse to break out in sobs. She stopped immediately ashamed for the outburst even if only in front of herself. Quickly wiping away the tears with the tissue she carried around for her cold, she turned to leave. Lucy saw her pass the kitchen and asked if she was mad at her. She pasted on a mask that made a disgusted face and said, “No! Why would I be?” but luckily the rhetorical question stayed unanswered. She quickly skittered to her room and cried in a little moment of distress.
She did stuff for other people. Petty things but what else is she expected to do? Save the planet? Clear the atmosphere of vile gasses? She wrapped her arms around herself thinking of all the things she ever did not for herself. At the moment she has been uploading songs into Charles’s new MP3 player for no charge at all. Check. She constantly draws her friend’s characters for her no charge at all. She asked her depressed friend if she’d like to go to a movie on her charge. Check. What else? She couldn’t remember so she went back to reading. Then she stopped on the account of she couldn’t concentrate when wondering if she could prove her unself-centerdness to Lucy. Clean her room? No, she was sleeping in there. Make dinner? No, she couldn’t cook worth a damn. She did not know what to do. She didn’t want to do anything after her Aunt Lucy’s apparent blindness to her usefulness and thoughtfulness. So slowly she drifted off to sleep in a mind full of fueled imagination. She could at least dream of paradise she once thought was where she was. Couldn’t she?
