Medea

Medea tilted her head back and allowed the spray of water to hit her face full force. The sound of running water had always soothed her, but she hadn't stepped into the shower today to be soothed or comforted today--she was beyond all of that now. What she hoped as she had made the water scalding hot was that she could scrub away the thin layer of cliché that clung to her pores.

Jason's betrayal had done more than deceive her; it had changed who she was. She had become a shallow grave, a faint memory, a déjà vu. The archetypal (her detractors would probably say stereotypical) woman scorned.

How many would ever understand what she'd done today? Would anyone?

She knew that she'd be vilified, but a strange sense of calm had overtaken her.

For Jason, and the ones who'd come before him, she'd been nothing more than a rag to be dirtied and then tossed aside. She had facilitated that by making excuses for them: he's tired; he's under so much stress; he hurts. I can wait. My needs can wait. And so, one after the other, they'd only scorned her, ridiculed her, used her.

But this time was different; she'd made sure of it.

There would be no next time, this time.

As she washed the blood from her hands, she felt an endless nothingness in the place her heart had lived. She had killed her hopes, her dreams, her future. She should have been weeping. Instead, she felt relieved. And in control of her own destiny for once.

There would be no next time, this time.

After her shower, she dressed in simple robes, then walked out to her balcony where the chorus was already assembled. She could hear their wailing and their cries.

"Jason is gone. The children are gone. Oh, Medea, you are left desolate. What is left you?"

She surveyed the crowd stoically. "What do you mean what is left? I am left. Everything is left."