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
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#92...
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July 24th
Tuscany, Italy
She could hear soft moans rolling off the smooth creme walls.
She could hear the heavy thuds of the bed hitting the wall.
She sat at the edge of the mattress, feet dug deep in the white furs of the carpet, delicate and worn fingers curled tightly around the blue Egyptian cotton.
She has been there for forty-five minutes with ears cocked to pick up the sounds of her husband's extramarital affairs. She wanted to hear it, to saturate her ears with the evidence of doom. Not her doom, but the doom of her naive mind.
Her mind that dared to dream of a happy ending, of a turning favor. She chuckled, a deep rusty sound that vibrated her chest and her protruding stomach. How foolish for her to dream of freedom, of broken chains and a liberated mind.
The moans turned to the high pitched screams and then they were no more. They've concluded, they have finished baptizing her marital bed.
She stands, with difficulty, her stomach protrudes, her back arches. She steps into the tapered hall of the penthouse and walks towards the kitchen.
The moon sat proudly among the stars, she glares upon the mortals beneath her, her light seeps past the pellucid windows of the kitchen. Contessina stands beneath her rays, her light casts itself upon the frail woman, her mocha skin glistened.
They enter the kitchen, flustered, satisfied, happy. She had their dinner prepared for them, Italian smothered chicken with crispy prosciutto. His favorite, her favorite.
They never spared her a glance, never bothered to engage her in their conversations. What would the eight months pregnant wife of the underboss have to contribute to their conversation on politics? She was not Sarah, she had not the weapon of knowledge to wield and make men submit.
Or at least that was what everyone thought.
"è adorabile" Her voice was enchanting, like the angels that sing in the presence of God. The accent rolled off her tongue like water rolling off a duck's back, smooth, effortless but to Contessina it was like nails grating a chalkboard.
She never knew of to reply to her. Her tongue forgets how to form words, how to speak. Maybe it was the soft anger that burns in her chest, the green flames that kill her day by day but never fully engulfs her or maybe it was the lack practice.
Padronas weren't made for speaking, they cooked, they cleaned, they obeyed without question. Their tongues weren't made for speaking, for voicing opinions, for conversations.
He didn't appreciate her silence. Why should she disrespect his Regina, his wife in all but name? Who was she? Nothing but a Padrona.
His anger spoke without care, it's presence stung her cheek and forced a whimper from her aching throat. Her eyes stung but she dares not move, she dares not fight. She submitted to his reign as she always does.
Sarah sat in silence, in shock. Her mouth hung open as she took in his strength. Was she horrified? No. She was against it, she spoke against it but the heart was weak and the heart forced her on his arms. Into his bed. The mind saw; the mind knows what type of man he was but the heart knew that he was only that man for Contessina, his Padrona.
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