She was rotting from the inside. A piece here and there. A smile on her face, downing the bubbling medicine in her champagne glass A decaying mannequin. Holding up her freshly manicured hand calling over for another dose to get through the mundane conversation surrounding her being and malfunctioning mind.  Gifting fake smiles and dead twinkles of the eye. A prisoner of the silver spoon. An apple dying to fall far from the tree. The mental patient living in a mansion. And as she excused herself from the table she realized this was her only reality. She would never be free. Her destiny was to be only a pawn, a collectible in the bourgeoisie.