Pardona (noun)-
A Mistress.
They were married but she was never his wife.
His slave, his maid, his Padrona, his trophy but never his wife.
#514 in ShortStory ~21/08/2018
#57 in General Fiction ~ 14/12/2017
#64 in General Fiction ~ 11/12/2017
#92...
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November 19th
Sicily, Italy.
Man is never fully satisfied. He possesses something but still crave for another. His appetite can never be appeased.
Contessina had her husband's affection for the first time in their marriage. He was pleased, overjoyed with the news. His masculinity is no longer a question; a child will be born to him.
He showered her with gifts, expensive presents to praise her on her accomplishment. To thank her for this heir that she carries. She should be happy, maybe he won't paint her with his strength when she displeases him: maybe he will colour her heart with love.
However none of these things appeased her diminishing appetite, none of these things filled her with any sort of motherly or wifely pride or love.
Contessina could feel her overseer attaching another chain to her soul. She could see freedom as it drives further away from her grasp, mocking her as he accelerates.
She had a De Pablo in her womb, it will grow month by month until it decides to free itself from her and attach its self to her.
It will suck what remains of her dry. She will fall deeper into the rabbit hole, the darkness will envelop her and she will no longer remember who she is or who she wants to be.
"This is good news child" Madonna De Pablo stared at her; those brown eyes scrutinized her soul, searching for an emotion that their maser could exploit to her ability. They were cruel little things always looking, always finding, always telling. "You are finally fulfilling your duties as a wife."
Contessina smiled with her lips, never with her eyes, she feeds the critic, submits to the queen, bends to her will "thank you, mama."
They held a party in her honor, invited the heads of the families, the other princes, and kings and their wives and children.
In her honor, a funny term, she was given the menu, a credit card, and car keys. She shopped from morning till noon the day before. Till her feet ached and her head spun like a carousel from the Sicilian heat.
She cleaned their house from noon till dawn. She shined the floors on her hands and feet like a slave, embellished the house with sublime ornaments and curtains and polished the silver and dinner ware until they shone beneath the crystal chandeliers.
Then she cooked. She chopped the vegetables and seasoned the meat, she kneads the dough and heat the oven. She cooked until the clock struck twelve, she prepared for her party despite the ache in her breast, the haze behind her eyes and the hollowness of her stomach.
Then it was dusk and before long it was dawn and the time came when she pretended. She smiled like the princess she was supposed to be. She feigned happiness, whispered soft thanks to their compliments, giggled to their fail attempts of jokes. It was all tiring but she prevailed like the good De Pablo slave she was.
It was the night she first met her.
The woman she could never compete with; the one woman who could never be his pardon.
She was a beauty unlike any, a dark haired beauty. Almond eyes that trapped any man who looked at her long enough in a trance; Smooth skin, voluminous hair, and a woman's body, curvy but petit.
They called her Sarah, like Abraham's wife.
She was his wife in every form but name.
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