𝕿𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖇𝖗𝖎𝖉𝖌𝖊 𝖎𝖘 𝖔𝖓 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖊.

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔫𝔢

𝔗emporary, a word here which means lasting for only a short or rather unlasting period of time. A word commonly used when there is no need for permance..that's how its meant to be; temporary.

Yet, even with the word temporary being on my trial ; I find myself not in a temporary position. I feel like most people look at me and see me as perverse, as a freak of nature, as something so purely evil. Held by fates shackles and tied down, burned slowly by its licking fingers, by its whispers of rumors, by its arms of hate.

Held prisoner in my own world, in my own mind. How shameful, how disgraceful, how awful. It must seem as if my words are unjust, they feel unjust. They feel like shackled feet trudging along a burning concrete path. Painful. Each thought, each as awful as the next, trapped in a little jar in my mind to keep them concealed away from the prying eyes of others. The very thoughts I think are the whole reason I'm here. How absurd, I never learn my lesson.

It must be hilarious to the people who mock me each day, passing me ; Taunting me with my freedom. My husband, the very man who wants me executed, the very man I was supposed to live for, supposed to love, was the man who so desperately wanted to see me pay. The system is unjust, rigged towards men, made for them. Never made for women. Never made by women. Made purely for men's enjoyment of watching their poor, desperate wives be hung, be burned at the stake, be treated as a pack of little puppies rather than women. The system is so obviously for men, so obviously made so that its never man whom is punished, always...women.

Perhaps the odd way I acted got me in this mess, perhaps it was my writings to my lover, or perhaps..the letters addressed to me. Each stroke of the pen used was so precise, every word always filled with lust and desire, each lustful letter met with one of similar content.

Of course, that would be a good reason for punishment. Maybe a small one. But not..death. not a removal of my life. At least, thats what I thought. That's what felt just to me. A small slap on the wrists and a reprimandmeant. Not being executed. That seemed completely unfair, so incredibly unfair.

What is one even to do in this situation, just sit around and hope someone sticks up for me? Unlikely. My husband was pissed, there was no way he would ever defend me from this unjust end. My lover was bound to be executed just as I, like a foreboden love of Romeo and Juliet.

Except, both are Juliet.

My lover, my woman, my mistress. Not a man, no, never a man. A woman. One of pure glory and beauty, of elegance and eloquence. I would never have imagined being hung for my lover. After all, men have mistresses, what makes it so wrong when I do? My husband had a mistress, so why not I?

People of all ages gather around ny cell, muttering venomous and lethal words, giving me horrid stares, treating me like a peice of meat and acting as if I was merely the thought of a person rather than an actual person with actual feelings. Each word felt like a dagger to my heart. Derogatory words and names meant to break me down, meant to make my last days hell on Earth. Words to "make me pay."

A story is meant to last for chapters, many, many chapters. So, why must mine end so soon? What about that is justified? All of these taunters, all of these venomous and biting words, trying to make me feel worse...because I have a mistress.

What would my mistress think of my situation, would she bother to care? Is she, too, being treated like a peice of meat for these hungry, staring, evil bystanders to watch? There is no doubt in my mind that she is, after all, she had never once burned away a letter. She had always kept them in her dainty little jewelry box with all the small, delicate peices of jewelry and all the tiny crystals I bought her that her husband never bothered to. If anything, our 'affair' was nothing ever worse than emotional...in most cases.

Did I mistake her from a sign from God, or simply was she an angel? Was it her who had us in this situation? I supposed I could never blame her if she did happen to let it slip. She never meant harm. She rarely acted as I did. She was not selfish, nor cruel. If anything she was a bit misunderstood or mislead. But she was a sweet, gentle soul. Never as selfish as I. She would not have told, not the Frair, not the nuns, not her husband, and certainly not mine.

I hoped she didn't at least.

She wouldn't.

Right?

Nay, if anything I had one to many sips of ale, became a drunkard and told my wretched husband. She wouldn't do that, not tell on us, not share our little exchange of letters each day. Not if my life was at risk. Not if her own was. I knew she wouldn't. That's not like her, it was so uncharacteristic for someone as her, it felt wrong to even think about this. It felt perverted in a way. Just very, very wrong. Nothing like how I was supposed to think. That was a given.

-

A/N
Hello <3! This is going to by my first wlw book, and a history one! (Yay!) I've never written historical fiction but im a pretty big history buff and a lesbian myself, im not very much of a writer, not really at all but im trying, any tips/suggestions/ or changes would be extremely appreciated and helpful. Just a fair warning there might be smut. In the case that there is in later chapters ; the chapter will be marked with a '☆'. Chapters may be short but there should be quite a few of them (I hope).

Alright <3! Enjoy!!

Word count:1043