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A random story. Contains explicit content, like PG13, but not crude or anything. I thought it was cool, if long ^^
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Another Generation of Thieves
Mother, 1847
If one was being optimistic, one would agree
That -gold-digger- is a step up from -prostitute-,
Even if it’s not much of a step, really.
And if one liked to suppose,
One could suppose indeed that
-Thief-, then, is much more honorable.
The thief takes what she wants
She does not submit herself for gain,
-Though the men would like to think she is theirs-
But for her own pleasure;
She collects her desires in her arms like bundles of roses and gold
And though the shallow, the thoughtless, think she has traded herself
For riches and luxury
She can laugh, because it is she
Who gets everything
Herself, the men’s love and admiration, pretty dresses, gold, silver…
You get the idea.
That was me. Once.
Were it not for bullets.
There’s a certain romance in it, of course
But only if you heal
-or if you die-
And never in the leg….
Sometimes I wish that romance
Appreciated a bullet embedded in the knee
Lameness, sickness
-sigh-
But c’est la vie.
But for the ending, my life
could have been a fairy tale;
Dresses, friends who glittered and laughed like bells,
And parties--no,
-Galas-, in -my- honor!
Handsome lovers, a new one every week
Most of them -ha ha- in addition to another
And, oh, you would have loved to see
How good I was at it!
Jewelry, diamonds, gold,
Palatial estates, flattery, dinners,
All of it was mine
And I just a poor girl too.
They never knew
All they saw was beauty and mystery
They never could guess what exactly
That mystery was;
I had them fooled, all of them….
Well, there was one.
My mistake, really; I knew all along
-and I panicked, yes, but only for a minute-
A cover-up was what I needed
Never mind which lover was responsible
I would MAKE one responsible;
For the first time in my life,
I would have to stay with one lover
For no more,
-and with some luck, a bit less-
Than nine months.
And it worked.
He was very happy, that last lover of mine
For exactly nine months.
But then she was born
And when he saw her, the beginnings of discord grew
He hated her from the start; he couldn’t hold it in for long
A few weeks later, it came to a fight.
He knew, despite my excuses, despite his desires,
From the moment he saw her
That she wasn’t his.
Nothing I could say would convince him…
In the end, I admitted to it.
She was another’s child;
I had no idea whose.
He grew furious, throwing names around
-But I’ve been called a whore before
The odd shout or slap was nothing-
I waited.
When he calmed, he said he’d forgive me
But on one condition;
The one condition that I couldn’t take.
I protested; I reminded him that
I didn’t know who the father was
But he wouldn’t be deterred
He threw down the glove
Her or me, he said.
-Honestly.-
I still laugh at the thought.
Who did he think he was? Just another lover,
So sure of his own importance….
I refused; I was unable to hide my scorn.
A bit of a mistake, really,
As he knew precisely where all the secret,
Ego-boosting, unnecessary, “hidden” weapons were.
I saw him reach and ran
She was awake; she seemed to know of the urgency
Of the situation we found ourselves in
Proud women, we were then,
Cool eyes and firm stances
I in front of her.
He came in, wild, harried,
I disparaged at his lack of composure
Admit it, he demanded, you never loved me
I laughed at him.
Of course not. My only regret is that I had to settle
For a weak, senseless, temperamental man like you
And so on; why not tell the truth?
What was love, anyway?
There was murder in his eyes; I thought it was for my baby
The girl I’d chosen over him
But men, it seems, possess no pride, no inner, analytical calm
They think that blind power will solve every problem--
Blow it away with bombs and guns and fists
To incinerate every wound, every painful emotion
By setting flame to the source
Which, in this case, was me.
Foolish, really, to goad a man with a gun
But I never dreamed that he would do it, you see.
I never thought he would aim at all
And certainly not at me--
He raised it, I dived for my child
I stared for one long moment into the black abyss of the pistol
He shouted that word again, the word that first came to mind
With nearly -everyone-
“Whore.” -Really.-
And then, flames.
I didn’t feel pain at first, just the fire, the blistering heat
And then I fell, and the pain rushed in
My knee was shattered, bleeding all over the carpet
Even then, I took comfort in the fact that he would have to clean it up.
Hah, --like I’d won a game--
Take -that-.
The pistol clicked, empty, and he had no powder
He shook with rage, shouted and swore
I spat my defiance at him
Even as he pulled me up, my baby safely in my arms,
And threw me onto the street.
One last insult echoed, the only one that ever hurt me
“Crippled”?
At the time, it seemed like utter nonsense.
But of course, he was right.
I could not walk, not in the way I had always done,
Straight, proud, haughty, like a beautiful peacock,
And I never would again.
In those years of desperation, I descended from the beautiful temptress,
The shadowy thief
That I really was, behind the leg,
To the title I had always heard but could only now apply to myself:
A whore.
Simple really, but so -degrading-
But I digress. It was necessary
If only for a few years, until my daughter grew enough
To provide for us.
Though it wasn’t enough, in the end,
I sold the jewelry, the jewels, the gold, the silver
That came from the pockets of my dress, and hers.
But I still have that dress--
The one I wore that night.
The last fine dress, the end of my life of finery and beauty
It is red--very fitting--so red that the bloodstains don’t even show
-There’s only a bullet hole near the hem-
I must say, though perhaps I am biased, that
It was my most beautiful dress.
Made of finest silk, fluid and long,
And inlaid with threads of gold and creamy pearls
How like a goddess I looked in that dress
Like Aphrodite, my patron saint,
How unreal and luminescent, the quintessence of beauty.
I could sell it and feed us for a year,
But I never will.
I keep it locked away, in its own closet--
I can’t look at it, it will lose its magic over time,
It’s just the way these things are.
That dress is my connection
From the dreary and desperate poverty of this life
To the bright, glittering, beautiful world I once held in my palm.
And the dress, if you must know,
Holds a secret; the memory of a vow.
When my world was snatched away from me,
I hung on; and I made a vow to myself,
And to her, my daughter:
One day, I would--I -will--- walk again. I will find a way.
-Though I admit I need my daughter’s help.-
I will stand tall; I will walk to the closet
The dress will be beautiful beyond all imagining
I will put it on; I will brush my hair until it shines,
Wipe the dirt from my skin, paint my lips,
Put on the golden chain made just for me, from long ago,
And walk out into the street.
I will dazzle the commoners like a falling star
I will glow amidst the dreary everyday monotony and grime
I will once more become outside the woman I have always been.
And I will take that freedom and the secrets to attaining it
And pass them onto my daughter.
And then, I will die.
But no one needs to know that, yes?
It’s our little secret.
Daughter, 1860
Ever since I could understand words, Mother would tell me her stories.
Tales of a glamorous life, something like a fairy tale to me.
She would dress in pretty clothes and jewels,
Be escorted by tall, handsome lovers with horse-drawn carriages
To parties with beautiful people and brightly colored drinks
Like plays set in palaces, theaters, ballrooms,
Parties where everything and everyone was perfect and lovely.
She would play games, she said, with the men;
As the other women watched her with envy, longing, and awe,
She would leave her date, mingle with the crowd,
Find a man that was handsomer, stronger, smoother,
And toy with him, flirt, make him want her
He would be so overcome, she would tell me,
That he couldn’t stand to wait another minute;
He would take her to a private room--
The bedrooms upstairs, the secluded library or study;
Mother was always elegant, she preferred beds and lounges when she made love
Ever graceful as she slid off her dress, laid it carefully so it wouldn’t crease
Took off her shoes, but not her jewelry.
When she had had enough, she would end it
Pull her dress on, brush her hair flat,
Emerge as smooth and calm as ever
Make the lucky man promise not to tell
And in return, asked him to come calling in the late hours of the night.
She would mingle again, find her date and give him an innocent kiss
Find more lovers, make more arrangements if she so chose
By the time she left she could have half a dozen men lusting for her
She loved every minute of it.
That night she would make love with her date until he fell asleep,
Then she would pack all her things and whatever she could steal
And wait in the shadows of the doorway
Emerging, ghostlike, when her new lover came to call
And running away like the thief after a perfect crime.
I idolized her; I treasured every tale
I wanted to be my mother, and she encouraged me
With one precaution:
Never let a man hurt you.
Keep a knife beneath your clothes, always,
And if anyone touches you
Fight to kill. A woman cannot lose her respect
Just as she cannot lose her composure.
Mother urged me to be the perfect thief,
The elegant, unruffled, emotionless, and silent killer
One who controlled her own destiny
And one who would never be shot in the leg.
Better in the heart than in the leg, she said gravely,
And her word was law.
She took her injury very hard;
It killed her that she was lame, reliant and powerless.
Money was always an issue with us--
In the beginning I heard nothing of it;
strange men would come in and out of our house, but she said it was nothing,
And for a while, everything was okay
-at the very least, we ate regularly-
But then the money stopped coming
And finally Mother took my face in her hands
And told me that she had done all she could; now,
It was my turn.
-Don’t ever let a man touch you-
Was her only rule;
With that in mind, I ventured out into the world.
Mother was right; the streets were grimy, ridden with rats and fumbling pickpockets
Men with dirty groping hands and minds tainted by greed and temper
Women with bowed heads and no beauty, no hope
And their children, as yet innocent but with no idea of what was out there:
Handsome men and beautiful women, silks and secrets, glamour and gold.
It was a dreary world that I found myself part of
But I was determined to make the best of it.
Mother had not told me what to do,
But to me, the decision was obvious:
I wanted nothing more
Than to follow in her footsteps
And become an elegant thief.
I kept myself clean and walked erect,
very straight and proud like Mother taught me to.
When I walked outside, I felt like a queen dressed in rags
Nothing could mar her royal bearing
Or stop her gliding like the weight of the crown was still on her head.
I attracted a few odd glances
(I liked to think they were admiring)
But other than that, no one raised their heads
They were all too busy
Wrapped up in their own world.
This place sickened me; all of them had no idea
Of the world they could have if they tried
Of the world I was determined to discover again
For my mother and I.
I could not steal from these, I knew;
It was too easy, there was no pride
And they were all too poor anyway.
So I ventured down Maine Street
Toward the places my mother told me of
And found tall, grand houses,
Princely places, with carriages and horses
And riches I saw through the sparkling windows,
Just as Mother said.
Here, I thought, was the place of my renown.
Here I would follow in my mother’s footsteps
And become a thief as great as her, the cat burglar, the mistress of stealers.
I approached the nearest mansion
-How did one even enter such a place? So many doors-
Inspected it all around, searching, and found, to my delight,
Weak points, routes of escape; and best of all
The gentleman of the house exiting, led by a butler to his carriage.
I approached, put on a simple, sweet smile,
Inquired about his horse and his health, trivial things
Artfully weaving seduction into my tone
Until I had him charmed.
Come in out of the cold, he offered, my errands can wait
And I grinned; just as I had hoped.
Such wasteful grandeur that man had, so much money thrown away
While my mother lay starving and weak;
I felt naught but disgust for him, and glanced with thief’s eyes around the place.
Polished wood, soft colored rugs, golden ornaments--
All the toys a rich man could want
Yet no sign of a lady.
He would be a desperate bachelor, and I would be his saving grace--
Or so he thought.
Have a bath, he offered, and some food
He commanded his maids like a king
I let them wash me, comb my hair;
I had naught but my dress to wear, it too freshly washed
And wet, clinging--perfect for my means.
As my mother had told me, a good thief uses all available tools
Including her own beauty.
Dinner with the gentleman; I made him fall in love with me
Spinning tales of orphanages and poverty and woe
Describing men’s eyes upon me, evoking subtle twinges of jealousy
Poor man; he had no chance
He tried to seduce me--ineptly compared to my own siren song--
As one by one silver spoons, brass rings, tiny glass ornaments
Slipped into the pouch strapped to my waist, beneath my dress--
A good thief was always prepared.
I wished I could have stolen food for my mother;
It would have brought the color back to her cheeks.
The gentleman rained charity upon me as his eyes traced my curves
All that riches, and still naught but a beast inside:
No wonder men were so easy to fool.
All night I stole his things, dodged his hands
Stay with me, he urged me, I’ll take care of you
I bet you will, I thought as I played along
He walked me to my room near midnight
Stopped me, told me I was beautiful,
He would have kissed me, but I diverted him with a smile,
The edict of -Never let a man touch you- in my mind.
He left me at my door, vowing, no doubt, to return ere dawn;
But he would only be disappointed once more.
I sat on the bed and cast a contemptuous eye at the finery I could not take along,
Listening, waiting for the house to silence
And when it did, I grabbed the silk sheets and crept away.
There was a window with a simple lock in the scullery
-That foolish man!-
And through it, I made my escape.
I sold the fine goods and told my mother of my exploits;
She commended me, admired my sleek talent,
And we ate well for weeks.
When the money ran low, I went thieving again;
The thrill of the mastermind tasted so sweet.
From rich families I stole ornaments, jewelry, silver, clothing;
From the single men, I, the crafty succubus, tempted them
Distracting them as their homes were stripped bare.
It became my life, easy as breathing;
Men fell before my feet as grass in the wind.
For years I worked, until I had honed my skills to their fullest extent;
To prove myself, I stole from the governor, right beneath his nose
A solid golden dog, heavy with bejeweled eyes and neck
And my mother claimed that truly, I was the mistress of thieves;
I was the quintessence of herself, her daughter without a doubt.
My proudest day.
But I am near womanhood now; and the dreams are fading.
I have become jaded to finery, longing only for the next meal and my mother’s smile.
After so many years, it has lost its appeal…
Not even theft from the king himself could cheer me, I admit it.
It has become a job, this thievery. I feel stiff, robotic,
As if I am living for someone else--my mother…
Or rather, she is living through me.
Week after week she praises the goods I steal, as if every one is not the same
-Though to me, they all are-
And offers her praise, her advice, her secrets.
She has become so strange; we hunger no more,
And I tell her every day that we have more than enough to heal her leg
You can walk again, I urge, you can live your dream
-And let me live my own….-
But she will not.
I think she prefers souvenirs of my more clever trips, like the golden dog
And finery--new curtains, a rug, pretty dresses for her daughter
-The better to fake her role as beautiful-
It is as if she is buying time for herself--though for what purpose, I know not.
All I know is the emptiness in me as I look at her
And look at myself, the hollow temptress, not allowed to fear, or hope,
Or love; for they are signs of weakness.
I will never tell my mother this, but deep in my heart,
I long to be free of this life--and of her.
I love my mother, truly I do, but she is tiresome to me; I would heal her if I could,
And help her lead her own life…so I can start anew with mine.
My days as the Lady of Thieves brought me no joy
And deprived me of my secret longings:
Safety, reassurance, an honest income, and that which eludes me most:
Love.
I did not tell her about that particular trip, when love revealed itself to me,
Because in her mind, there was nothing to tell--
I stole nothing from Alexander; my heart forbade it.
He was sweet, and kind; he treated me with courtesy and respect,
Not as the budding whore, but as a lady.
His eyes were always upon mine
We conversed like equals, and my mind strayed from the fine things around me
To him; he was handsome in his own way, and not so much older than I
He was so caring and sincere that I nearly wept at the end of the night
At the thought of robbing him; I could not do it.
Instead, I crept to his bedroom at night
I told him I couldn’t sleep; I expected him to take advantage of me
I -wanted- him to,
But he defied my expectations and led me gently downstairs
He gave me hot chocolate and sweet, heavy spice cake,
Assuring me that it would help me sleep.
He joined me; we spoke with such open honesty that I could not help
But tell him everything; of my fears, my grievances, my secret dreams
I confessed to him my purpose in his home, pleaded my change of heart,
And he believed me; instead of the streets or the irons,
He offered me, of all things, his condolences.
He told me I could stay as long as I needed to
And he would never think badly of me, or report me
Even if some of his things went missing in the night.
He was so kind to me….
So kind that, when he said goodnight outside my door,
I broke my mother’s golden rule and kissed him.
His mouth tasted of chocolate and virgin joy, burgeoning passion,
And he whispered that he loved me.
I returned to Alexander’s home many times over the years.
Every rule was broken between his fingers, shattered to the floor.
I let him kiss me, let him touch me; and worse, pure blasphemy in my mother’s eyes,
I kissed and touched him back; I loved him in return
Love was something my mother never had, and as I envied her before,
I pity her for her loss.
Alexander and I have something she never had;
Though we kiss, and we embrace,
And make love, as sweet as the first time
-When we sacrificed our virginities, as I turned seventeen, and he twenty-
All this and more, that she did as well in her time,
We have true passion, true joy
We are not made of lust, but love
We care not of riches and balls, but of the other’s company.
We have truth, while all she had was beautiful dresses and jewels.
And she will never understand it;
And for that, I grieve for her.
I smile inwardly at my secret as I sit at the foot of her bed
And tell her my stories of thieving while I relive the night before
And as my mother presses for details about the crime,
How I entered, how I left,
I almost laugh aloud, almost sigh with sorrow
As I think of the details left unsaid, unasked for,
The details she had given me so lovingly about
-Ricardo, Andre, Joseph and Nikolas!-
(About all her men save my father, really
Or perhaps she described him as well;
even she knows not who he was).
I can picture every moment of their secret nights in bed
I know each and his body, his skills, his downfalls.
But my mother will never ask about Alexander.
She will never cling to my every word as I describe his sleek, strong body,
His slow motions, his gentle fingers and smooth tongue,
the words he whispers in my ear.
I keep the details to myself, close to my heart, to visit in desperate times.
Where her memories bring her bitterness, mine offer strength.
We are similar, yes--the succubae, temptresses,
Seducing, stealing, reveling in our prime of life,
Drinking daily pomegranate essence to kill the life inside us
But she is satisfied, while I long for more.
What wouldn’t I give to end it all
Run away with Alexander
To Paris, to Spain, to Rome,
And leave it all behind;
But for that, to live my life in clean conscience,
I would need to look upon my mother before we left,
Wave to her as she stood in the doorway,
Walked with her sturdy legs.
She could stop me, then, yes
But she could do no worse than her prison of words and fantasies
And I had escaped that already.
I wish for a happy ending for us all…as does she,
But I, unlike her, know what’s best for us.
One day, I know, I will leave her anyway
Alexander and I will give her enough money to live for years,
And I will advise her to use it well, give herself a new life
Before the old one wastes away into nothing.
I will speak my true feelings…I will tell her everything
And promise that we will meet again
Though I know we will not.
Yes, I will leave soon; I am a woman now.
All I am waiting for is a sign.
A new plot or ploy from my mother, from the king?
An accusation from a victim of my thievery?
My mother’s worsened health?
Her sharp eyes seeing the ring that Alexander gave me
A promise that we would marry soon
That I keep out of sight, in a chain beneath high-necked gowns?
A change in the wind? A tragedy? A miracle?
Or the stirrings, one day--
As I have conveniently -run out- of pomegranate essence--
Of life, deep in my womb?
When will I leave? And where will I go?
I now leave life to chance.
1866
It has happened; I feel ill, but am strengthened by the thought
Of Alexander’s child.
We will delay no longer.
I have sealed the letter to my mother, left her with francs in the thousands.
I will miss her, but I will not miss the life of the succubae,
Of the “Mistress of Thieves”
Nor the loneliness, the emptiness, the dehumanizing monotony
Of living in my mother’s shadow….
I am finally free.
We leave tonight.
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