To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Butterfly Effect

"De astronoom" (The Astronomer) by Johannes Vermeer (c. 1668), stolen by Nazis in 1940 and branded with a swastika, returned to Rothschilds family after war, acquired by French state in 1983 as payment for inheritance taxes - value unknown (high)

Chapter Thirty-Four

I pushed through the throngs of guests, feeling heavy. Like a dull throb I'd allowed to become an all-consuming, full-body snarl of pain, I was hurting. I was so intensely overwhelmed with the choices I'd made.

Especially as I found myself alone.

I felt proud for what I was walking away from, but I had plenty to be ashamed of, too. My choices were coins with two faces; they'd been flipped too many times, and still continued to spin. They decorated the ground as much as they adorned vaults. I was rich in more ways than one, but burdened and ungrateful no matter the perspective.

Keep moving forward.

My dress didn't seem so sleek anymore; it chafed my skin. It dragged as if lined with stones, and my feet ached in the heels that held me high. My layers of armored indifference were weighing me down. I knew it, but I couldn't change it, just as I knew armor only got heavier the longer it was worn. I had no choice but to bear it. I was already paying for my previous decisions and sins; boiling from the heat of fires I'd set, drowning under the rushing of rivers I'd diverted.

I'd pulled the trigger myself—so why was I so surprised by the blooming red? Why was I clammy under the very lights I'd invited, blinded by the same spotlights I'd chased?

There was always blame to place. Yet, very few truly deserved the amount they were given. How much did I deserve? How much could I explain away if I tried? How much could I give to others?

The orchestra was spinning out intricately woven melodies, but all I heard was an underlying pulse that seemed directed at me. Alone, it said. Alone. Alone. You're alone, and you did it to yourself.

I tuned it out, but the moment I did, I was greeted by another unpleasant sound. The people around me had little to say that'd offer any interest or value. There was no escape. There was blame oozing from melodies on my left, and filthy money spewing ignorance on my right. Where could I hide, when I was as part of it, as it was part of me?

I kept walking through the massive foyer, untethered and left to drift. It felt as it did strolling a pier, hearing the water churn, surrounded by tides frolicking free. Forging further than I should on storm-proof stilts, as waves slapped the boards and embraced the beams, knowing wood could rot and give way. Being slyly reminded the volatile depths drowned as much as they welcomed; a lurking worry exacerbated with every cry of the incessant gulls. My will was depleted. I was exhausted, and wheezing, as if I hadn't had a moment to really breathe since I'd arrived. My lungs had forgotten how to embrace air, especially through the heaviness of these sacred halls, marred by the salt of tears and high-class tides.

Snippets of nearby conversations rose higher and higher above me. Forcefully reminded I could only fight so many battles, I was left with no choice but to concede partial defeat, marking where losses needed to be cut. I came to a halt. Dozens of competing sounds eagerly thumped down, like snow off a roof, burying me entirely.

"Of course, her niece married a lord from the Netherlands, the estate alone is fifteen—"

"—reasons to stay the hell away from that woman, but you—"

"Nancy, darling, tell me they weren't talking about the same Eduardo that teaches you tennis three times a week—"

Stop.