She sat cross legged at the edge of a pond starring into her wavering reflection. Whenever she felt she could see herself too clear, she gently pushed a floating leaf across the image of her face. After years of meddling in other people’s lives, she finally saw herself for what she was, a bitch.
She always let them come to her, to seek shelter from an undefined social affliction. She was good at leading them to the end that they, in themselves, were too timid to lead themselves to. It gave her power. Power in that she only had to be herself and listen to their gibberish. It was an unspoken skill.
Other women knew what she was doing, but it was too on the edge of language for them to explain clearly, especially to men, these types of men at least. “I did their women a favor,” she wanted to believe.
In reality, they knew more of what she was doing than she ever did. All she knew is that the men, easily swayed, would eventually latch to her side. This effortless power over them fueled her existence. Once she had them in her grasp, completely free of their prior fears and with God by her side, she welcomed in her next target. Each next-solider-in-need stood as guard against the last.
On this day she became aware of the pattern. Suddenly, she recalled with clarity all the words of warning from her mother and sisters. Suddenly it all made sense.
Suddenly, the clouds parted above her reflection just as she realized exactly how many, many people would always know that deep down, at the depth of her soul, she was nothing more than a bitch.