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Rich Man's Wife

Tickled Pink

By The SonPublished about a month ago 2 min read

In what world is it meant to be woman? Not in this world, I hope. Full of dreary struggle like an ant crawling up a wall, leaving behind its limbs as the paint dries.

The paint always dries too fast where I'm from. The sun is up every morning, yet her heat reaches us not, to get lost in greener pastures I know. For me, it is cold like an empty stomach, unsated after a feast.

The land I live on is only feasts, balls, and parties, yet hunger runs rampant in a chosen few—a chosen woman few. See, these roads were built for men, traveled only by them. On the way, they picked an accessory; 9 months gone by, an accessory bore another, then a year later again.

Oh, joy, a house full, big gates, long well-groomed grass, finery at its best. Do you not wish to look inside the big carriage and the man who drives it? Do you not wish to hear them cry? The accessories are unwinding... funny, they are wound so tight, tight dresses and a vague wonder of joy.

Tomfoolery, the lady at the party said when I disclosed a piece of laundry. She cackles, but she has known pain; she is pain. Tomfoolery is what she called it when I told her my father plays a game. A game called throw; he tosses his accessories round and round till they cry.

Oh, they cry the whip, but who can hear? Large gates block the view and even then, eyes can't see. So she laughed, and then did I. This is the life of an accessory. Mine hasn't stopped sniveling. I sour for her life, yet I find contempt strangling my air.

The life she chose to offer pearls and gold was being treated like stone. After the ball is done, the women drag their heel. Not too eager to get home, I suppose. Though we all must eventually, I once walked to the other side of the world only to find I hadn't stepped one foot on his handsome grass.

Morning has come, though it is still night for us. I prepare to sit at a feast and watch him etan—drawing room full mete. Yet the women are starving. Stomach half empty and mind all gone.

This is how all the women at home live—hungered for everything, full-on title alone. What's a woman to do when the money's not her own?

I jest with the idea I might sell my soul. For what is one master for another or so? Yesterday, I had tea with the guy down below. He told me all I had to give him was an Abel for every door. I shook a hand, and the seal was closed.

Yes, Mother, I sold the only thing I could hold. A slave for a more independent one. Now far from pearly gate, a life in the mud, an Abel every now and again, but no regret, only tickled pink, for now, I know the devil I waiting at home.

ETAN: To eat.

METE: Food, nourishment, or sustenance.

Mental HealthFamily

About the Creator

The Son

The prodigal son who never returned.

I write stories inspired by my experiences and fiction.

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    The SonWritten by The Son

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