By @HomicidalPoet


By @HomicidalPoet

Pia Demarzhe is the heir to the fashion empire led to he father she is shocking and beautiful. Loved by many and feared by everyone who knows her personally she’s sassy , creative and murderous

Chapter 1


Letter to Falen 

To My dearest falen if I’ve only done one good deed on this earth that’s worthy of praise, it’would be my creation of you. Your beauty is worth all the treasures of this world and no darling not simply appearance, it’s your soul I speak of. I pray when you grow old and knowledgeable of what I’ve made u become you will find sympathy towards me. I pray you find pity and I pray you have forgiveness. My sweet angel born by the lips of sin you have no fault in this world. Ive prayed that may all your sins be washed at the head of my tombstone and fall upon what’s left of my eternal soul. Falen my precious baby girl there will be a time you may want me and I will not be around to smile upon you, however do not weep in my absence. For I have done more damage to your existence than good to to your character. Forever indebted,

Pia Demarzhe’ 

I was eleven when I became opinionated. I became my own person and flourished from then. Although from birth until I was eleven I epitomized my mother. One who was Irrelevant to talent,and creativity. She was blind to the hard truths and unfortunate events of the world. She was an angelic like soul who dwelled in fictional harmony and Peace. She lacked opinion and opposition, she was adored by many because of this. My mother was born English but later adapted the culture the French. Her name was Margret Henry Demarzhe’ an orphan who hailed from whales. She was very a beautiful woman much like her identical twin sister, Marie Henry Jean Paul. Although identical in physical appearance, they were nothing alike In attitude. My mother was meek, quiet and frightened easily. My aunt was daring. She was the shocking one, a vixen who possessed a poise and spunk that made her who she was. When Marie and my mother were 15 they worked in a filthy bar in he Bordeaux, France where they would scrub floors, serve drinks and ***** to make a living. When Marie was 16 A man by the name Claude Jean Paul picked her off of knees and married her. From then she became the wife of the father of Hause couture fashion, and the first living model in history ever. Claude Jean Paul was the official designer to the empress Najile de Qualentia wife to Napoleon III and designed Queen Victoria’s trunks. He was filthy rich. Although Claude saw no interest in my mother because of her reserved demeanor and boringness , I presume, he allowed Her to accompany my aunt in her travels around the world to showcase his designs, which is how she met my father. The man who will always be the man of the hour , whether the hour belongs to him or not. The fashion icon who stole the spotlight from jean Paul and took the fashion industry by storm, Francios Demarzhe’. A man of significant talent and a cult of personality…I hated him. He was a narcissistic hypocrite who had all the creativity in the world. The barbarian started what you know today as “fashion week”. It all began with Francios. The murders, the torture, the fame and fortunes, it was all because of him. Now that Ive taken in a few years and have maybe the smallest ounce of wisdom I understand what type of manipulative, chauvinistic pig he was. Mainly because he took a liking to someone as gullible as my mother. A twit ..she was annoyingly submissive and dumb. When my mother was pregnant with me my dearest aunt told me she rejoiced more than my own parents. My mother was sub serving my father in misery for 9 months as he toured the world with his colleagues. When I was born she said my father changed. She saw a look in his eyes as if he almost loved me more than himself. Ive always believed this was solely because I was a splitting image of him and he never wanted a son. My father said, “boys are harder to raise than little girls, little girls do as they’re told, they’re imaginative and creative. Little boys are rough and egotistical they do as they’re told after they do what they want”. My father never treated me like I was his daughter. I was more of an apprentice to him. He reminded me often that I had his looks, wit and charm and with the proper upbringing I would not grow talentless like my mother. My father labeled me as his consultant at the age of 12. He wanted me to be just like him, and I wanted to be. After he took the throne as the greatest designer in the world from Jean Paul. My uncle Claude became broke and my father exploited my Aunt’s beauty and talent all over the world. Although she left her husband behind on her travels to fame and fashion, Marie never let the world forget that Jean Paul was the original pioneer of the fashion industry. She became the face of my uncle’s Legacy and empire he worked so hard for. she was the first and most desired fashion model in the world. Her physique was desired by all designers and everyone was willing to pay a pretty penny to see her in their clothing. My father said Marie could make the most horrendous piece look like it was fit for royalty. Poor Claude became nothing. All he was recognized for was his discovery of her and getting dethroned by my father. Claude lost the public eye because designs became labeled old fashion. This was simply because my father said so. See my father had the power to speak and make it sound like it was written by god himself. His persuasiveness and charisma could not be reckoned with, especially not by Claude. My fathers innovative fashions and daring sense of style is how he stole the role as father of couture.

After my father took the title as this fashion father he and my aunt were in Milan for three months, I was no more than eight. Although I spent most of my childhood was with my mother while my father was off basking in his superficial reality, I did not take a liking to her. My father told me she was beneath me and her alone would be the reason behind any failures of our family to come. She never opposed this option so I believed it. I was nomore than eight when I was playing in the sunroom of our home. A woman came screaming hysterically into the living room to my mother. she said my uncle died in the midst of conversation he passed out onto the floor and foamed at the mouth. My uncle was not an ill man he had no addictions, or diseases. He was fond of ****** and whiskey but nothing deadly. The Doctors determines he had been murdered. He was poisoned by food earlier that day. Doctors found vast amount of Aconite also known as wolfbane in his body. Wolfbane slowly enteres your blood stream relaxes the nerves in your body until you become paralyzed slows down your heart rate so the blood pumps slower and slower until you eventually die , scandalous that murderer was . I’ve always wondered how did they manage to get their hands on wolfbane . When the news got to My aunt she was distraught of course. Claude’s death destroyed her it was like she lost all that was her. I never knew how weak my aunt was until he died, I guess her and my mother couldn’t differ but so much. Marie could not stand on her own two feet after his death not solely because she lost the love of her life. She acquired an alcohol addiction which contributed to her obnoxiously sad demeanor. She became an embarrassment she lost her poise and grace. She could not hold her head high and walk for royalty. She was replaced and a faded memory in the industry just like Claud. Marie let a man’s death murder her spirit. And she became another victim to my father’s wrath just like her husband. Although my aunt became weak and there’s nothing more I hate than a weak woman she was the first person I ever loved on this earth and truly admired. And because of that I never neglected her or changed my opinion of her. I loved her more than anything. That’s why when I took my parents fortune I did not throw her to the wolves like I’d done everyone else. At the age of 13 my father was viciously murdered his head torn from his body and mounted as a center piece in our living room witch his ***** shoved in his mouth. His blood was splattered in an array it almost resembled Picasso’s convergence piece. It was my mother and I who discovered his body. We stood and stared no cries no scream. Silently , peacefully i could tell my mother felt somewhat of relief. 

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