As These Things Go: Persephone (as a housewife of the 1950s)

This wasn’t what I asked for. I mean, of course it wasn’t. They call what happened to me a rape. I don’t know if I would go that far with it—he never tried to force himself upon me. There was hardly time, anyway. He begged for me to love him and made me stand at his side, but sex was for naught. And for the better. My cries would have matched those of the dead and their grieving kin who still lived above. So long as things were as they were I stayed quiet and kept my sorrow within.

This didn’t keep it private, of course. Without my mother and without the sunlight I quickly became pale and withered like the plants my mother was neglecting in my absence. I could only imagine her pain mirrored my own.

And then Zeus struck a deal. I could be freed. Of course, we knew that wouldn’t be the case. He wouldn’t let me go so easily, even at his brother’s will. So with one pomegranate seed he managed to keep his hold on me, even if only for a mere four months each year.

And that was nearly three thousand years ago.

Of course thing are different now. After all of that time, how could they not be? I think, though, that people don’t understand that. They’re still telling the stories from before, from when things were too new and too easy. They don’t seem to realize that the gods do change too.

He’s made things better, of course. He wears a suit now instead of those old robes and togas. It’s much easier for him to work like this. And he runs things more like a business. There is paper work and his demons get coffee breaks and vacation days and Cerberus has their own caretakers. Thing are going quite well for them.

And as for me…

I say that things change, and they do, but sometimes one would be surprised by how little it really is.

Oh, yes, I still have my eight months of what has been called freedom. And the four months that I am here—they’re certainly different. I would almost be inclined to say better.

The time I spend above hasn’t been so wonderful since he first took me away. While my mother and the world rejoice over my yearly return I can hardly match their bright joy. I only know that my time is limited—longer than that I spend below, but regardless, I will have to leave so soon. And more recently I’ve learned to appreciate, to sometimes even enjoy our time together.

After five hundred years I learned to tolerate him. I took better care of myself while I was below. I still hated it—I still do, over all, but it has gotten easier since.

After one thousand he came to me. We had spent every day of my imprisonment together of course but this was the first time he had expected me to behave as his wife. It began awfully and he is still violent with it. I have learned how not to resist him, though. And he is always gentle afterward and holds me lightly. Sometimes I feel as if he would never let go. Sometimes I feel as if I don’t want him too.

Only recently has he expected me to behave as I am made to daily. He assigned me keepers to assure I hold my place. I am meant to me his woman, his doll. Despite his not needing it I am to prepare meals and keep things clean. I have to anticipate and attend to his whims and smile while I do so.

I see these women when I am above. They seem happy with their men. And their men even seem to love them. But do they feel their women’s breaking hearts when they lie with them?