The Seven Year Itch

It's cold and lonely here, in a deep abyss of darkness. The rays of the sun do not stretch far enough to glint off my golden band or make my diamonds sparkle. I miss the warmth of the finger upon which I was lovingly placed so long ago.

Back then, in the beginning, I symbolized something beautiful that was supposed to last forever. She cherished me as much as she cherished the man who had slipped me onto her hand. With great care she polished me weekly thinking of their whispered promises of eternal devotion. As beams of light danced on my jewels, her smile seemed to glow as brightly as the sun.

But as the days stretched into weeks that blurred into years, her care waned and my sparkle faded. The sweet loving words they once proclaimed had been replaced far too often with statements of criticism and harsh judgements. Her gazes of adoration and devotion had become bitter and resentful. She no longer made a point of sliding me onto her finger each morning, sometimes leaving me untouched for over a week. When she would put me on, I could tell she no longer found me comfortable. Unused to the feel of me, she would twist and pull at me, sliding me on and off repeatedly, and scratching at the divot I left in her skin. When the rays caught my dingy gems, she would look at me with sadness in her eyes, as though trying to remember how that gleam used to make her heart race. Every time she took me off, I wondered if it would be the last time I got to nestle against her soft skin.

Then it happened. She had gotten dressed up in a beautiful gown, adorned her ears and neck with sparkling jewels she had come to value more than me, curled and pinned her hair in an elaborate bouffant, and carefully applied her makeup. Then she pulled me out of the little velvet box and the smile on her face faded when I couldn't sparkle in the light. Gently, she placed me in a cool bath then scrubbed away the years of neglect. I felt beautiful and cherished once more as she slipped me over her knuckle and I could feel the light dancing off my diamonds again. Once ready, she went downstairs to wait…

And wait…

And wait…

…

Minutes became hours and tears of sorrow turned bitter. Black streaks of mascara marred her cheeks and her eyes grew puffy. She looked down at me again with regret and anger. She started twisting me around and around as though my presence on her finger had become suffocating. Finally, the front door opened and he immediately realized his fateful blunder.

She erupted with seven years of pent up curses spewing forth in boiling hot rage. He shielded himself with seven years of nitpicking antagonism and icy cold indifference. For every volley of expletive draped outrage she hurled at him he parried with equally inflammatory oaths. Suddenly, without warning, she clawed at me violently, slicing through the skin of her finger with her perfectly polished nails, smearing me with blood as she ripped me off. Then I was spinning, hurling through the air past his rage filled eyes, crashing into the wall and tumbling to the ground. Unable to stop, I rolled under the couch and, with a clink too soft to hear over their shouts of anger, plummeted between metal slats, coming to rest on a pile of dust.

Doors slam, tears fall, shouts fade to deafening silence. Days pass, weeks go by, months march on. Arguments persist, fights continue, anger reigns supreme. Through it all I wait. But she never comes looking for me. Once cherished, I am forgotten, valued even less than their broken vows, and relegated to a dark, dusty grave, forever.