Short parrot tat

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

I'd sell my soul. But what is it worth?

Words to live by.

Everything has a price, you see. My father told me that, in a rare moment of something that sounded like affection, when I was 13. Apparently my brother and I cost him £7.8 million in 1992. That was the amount my mother wanted before she relinquished sole custody to my father and signed away her parental rights.

I remember thinking that he must have wanted us, then, to pay that much. I repeated the number to myself for days afterwards. £7.8 million. Now, he got my brother as well as that, but I'll presume that our value back then was much the same as each other. That means when I was nine years old I was worth £3.9 million. I didn't feel like I was worth that much. I don't know why Daddy paid it. £3.9 million is an awful lot for awkward dinner table conversations during the summer holidays and the occasional bad ballet recital. But still, he did pay it. And that meant that he must have cared.

You don't pay for something you don't want, after all.

Mark Dourif wants to pay for me. He tells me that he'll spend a fortune on me. Pay off every debt I have. Make sure I never want for anything again. He gave me rubies for our second date, that glittered blood red in the candlelight. You know, even if rubies came out of crackers, I think I'd still love them, just for that bloody glow. He doesn't want sex. He says he doesn't want love, which is just as well because I don't have a clue how love is meant to work. But he still wants to pay for me.

But what am I worth?