Creative Writing: Cruella De Vil

I used to be a star. Everyone I encountered feared, worshipped or despised me. And that’s exactly the way I liked it – until that sickening couple and their wretched Dalmatians ruined everything.

So here I am, freshly released from prison yet with none of my followers to welcome me with cautious, terrified arms. All I have left from that life is my beautiful spotted coat. No matter how adorable the puppy supposedly was, no-one can deny that I look utterly ravishing. To be able to once again run my fingers along the silky-smooth fur feels heavenly. 

“Miss De Vil? You’re on in three,” someone informs me. I raise my chin, take a deep breath and walk into the studio, my coat flowing behind me. This is my one chance to regain some sort of celebrity status, however small. Apparently the show claims to give you a “make-under” and transform you into a “natural” beauty. It sounds truly horrific. 

I am faced with a large rectangular mirror. My reflection stares back at me: fashionably dishevelled black-and-white hair; eyebrows waxed to within an inch of their life; liberal use of eyeliner; razor-sharp cheekbones. My lips curl upwards into the trademark sinister smile that I’ve mastered over the years. Perfection. 

“I’d wipe that smug smile off your face, if I were you,” a deep female voice comes from nowhere. Startled, my eyes dart around the studio in an attempt to figure out the source. 

“Over here, dah-ling,” the voice responds from behind the mirror. I feel a surge of anger. How dare she mimic my charming catchphrase? 

“Well, well. You are a special case indeed.” Defensively, I wrap my coat around myself.

“You do realise that you have a dead dog draped around your shoulders, don’t you?” she says scathingly.  

“This happens to be my favourite coat. Vintage Dalmatian, darling. I take great pride in it.” I fold my arms resolutely across my chest for emphasis. 

“You’re proud of that…thing?” the voice sneers. “And as for that hair – frankly, you resemble a skunk that’s just been electrocuted.” I gasp in disbelief, and have to resist the impulse to smooth my hair down. 

“Why do you even wear that?” the voice asks. “Don’t you have a heart? Or is it buried somewhere underneath the dead puppy?”

What is she, an animal rights activist?

“It happens to be the height of fashion actually, darling. Those whimpering little brats don’t know any different,” I retort, giving my coat a defiant swish. 

“You know they do,” the voice replies, steadily. “The reason they whimper is because of the atrocities you do to them in the name of fashion.” Unexpectedly, the stinging truth of her words send tears springing to my eyelids, and I bite my tongue fiercely to stop them falling. For some inexplicable reason, hearing someone else say what I already know has more of an effect than I anticipated.

Keep it together, Cruella. You’re stronger than this. Show the world just how much you don’t care. 

“It’s not my problem,” I say, though I’m acutely aware of the tremble in my voice. The cracks in my mask are beginning to show. I can’t let this happen.

“I’m going to have fun taking you apart,” the voice hisses.

“Do your worst,” I snarl. I’m taken to a room where I’m blindfolded, poked and prodded, and eventually the voice asks: “Are you ready for your close-up, Miss De Vil?” I nod tentatively, the blindfold is removed and I’m standing in front of the mirror again. But I don’t recognise the face staring back.

The woman in the mirror looks... Normal. Her hair is black all over, sleek, shiny. The coat is gone, revealing a remarkably decent figure. What surprises me most, however, is that I don’t hate it.

“Have we proved to you that you don’t need a dead animal on your arm to look good?” the voice asks.

I look directly into the mirror. Into the stranger’s eyes.

“It’s not horrendous,” I say, trying to hide the hint of a smile that threatens to play on my lips.

“Don’t go back to your old ways, now,” the voice warns. 

“I…I don’t think I will,” I reply slowly, and for a moment I honestly believe it.

Walking out of the studio, I spot a dog tied to a lamppost, obediently waiting for its owner. Such beautiful, honey-golden fur. And then I realise that my new image is missing a vital ingredient.

A nice new scarf.