Whom the Gods Love…Best First
A shadowed man whispered at Her Excellency’s side. Though he followed day and night, often rousing her from sleep with the pain, he wasn’t really there; she knew that.
In vulnerable hours alone, she fumbled for the switch of a bedside lamp. From a dark corner of the bedroom, her loyal companion watched as she drank Scotch over opium because nothing else mattered when night was small, not even rising at dawn, which would only summon her to another round of meetings, photographs, and speeches.
Her Excellency waved from the balcony at the cheering crowd below. They’d remember her in the blossom of her youth. Gems flashed at the proud lines of her throat. Her blonde hair was pulled tight and braided in a slick bun at her nape. A rose, perfuming the air, adorned her shoulder.
Her name passed the lips of thousands. The heat of their hearts swirled from the street. Their lifted arms offered her fealty and adoration. She absorbed their admiration and reflected what was best of them, her people, but the darkness remained within. That she kept, the companion at her side whose cold whisper feathered her ear with prophecy, “Whom the gods love…”
Sunday Photo Fiction: 200-word stories
After agonizing illness and treatments, Eva Peron died at 33 from advanced cervical cancer.
photo credit: A Mixed Bag