The Last Duchess

The clock struck nine and guests began to flow through the weathered wooden doors of our manor, hands full with neatly wrapped gifts. I was shocked and amazed at the amount of people who turned out to celebrate this special day, my 35th birthday. My husband greeted everyone at the door, and made sure to exude his arrogance by speaking of his nine-hundred-year old name, bronze sculpture, and making me show off the flawless diamond ring he purchased me for the occasion. As the night went on a pleasant smile stayed glued to my face. I made sure to saunter every inch of the house and thank those who so graciously gave me something, no matter the size or price of the present. I spent the next hour carousing and innocently dancing with the men who asked me to join them. Sitting still in the corner I noticed my Duke, with a rather disgusted look on his face, glaring at me as if I had just committed a horrible crime. I walked over to him and before I could utter a word he viciously grabbed my right arm and ordered that I wipe the smile off of my face. He then yelled and screamed at me for inappropriately dancing around with other men, and flirting with everyone I came in contact with. I usually keep my cool in these common arguments, but as he continued to raise hell on my big day I lost it, and told him everything I thought of him and his ridiculous accusations. Since then the days have been more peaceful as my husband now realizes he may no longer control my life.