This post is based on a past-life memory I had six years ago….
I am a writer. I am a selfish and angry creature. The year is 1898. The city is Boston, Massachusetts.
No one loves me the way I want to be loved No one pays attention to me. No one appreciates my writing- except him. He adores me.
Daily he tells me of my beauty and how intelligent and moving is my writing. I look over at him polishing his boots in my one and only chair. He smiles at me and it makes me sick to my stomach. The more he declares his love, the more I loathe myself and situation.
“Marry me,” he says, and I laugh in his face.
“Marry you? Why would I ever want to be a wife? Who would publish the wife of a lowly soldier?”
He looks down at his boots and I can see that I’ve hurt him. “But I love you,” he says quietly. “And I would let you be whatever sort of wife you wanted to be.”
I feel both pity and annoyance; the latter wins out. “You cannot afford the sort of wife I want to be. I will never marry.”
This back and forth goes on for months. He puts up with me. I use him, insult him and cheat him. I push him away every chance I get, and he stays until the day I die.
I die young, bitter and afraid.
I die alone.