By Casey Butler

If I were the chatty type, I could share with you a great many stories. I was beautiful in my youth, rare and prized. There wasn’t a soul that did not desire to hold me. At first, it was thrilling.

I held a power over others that few possessed. I could make a law-abiding man guilty, capable of committing the worst offense. I turned husbands away from their wives. Pitted brother against brother.

For a time, I was on top of the world. I dined with the lucrative and powerful. Anyone from your local politician to the “who’s who” in the entertainment world. I even spent a short time with a president—a man of great power and even greater secrets.

I sailed the ocean, flew in private planes, and rode in lavish cars. I was a rich man’s mistress, his favorite delight. I attended the kind of festivities most only dreamed of. Foxtrotting across ballrooms all over the world.

In those days, the word “no” was never spoken in my presence.

But it didn’t take long for their wonderment to wear off. In the end, the thrill of the exchange always won out. I was lusted after, used, abused, and tattooed.

Desired by all but kept by none.

And while you may hate me, as so many claim to, I will have you know that my life was chosen for me before I was even created. I accepted this.

There was one man, a very long time ago. I was certain he was the one. He never grew tired of admiring me. He was wildly untamed, spirited, and daring. But as much as he loved me, he was always willing to wager me, convinced he couldn’t lose. He became boastful and proud. I knew I would never be enough.

I tried not to grow attached. I understood his greed would one day separate us. I soothed my fears with reminders of the places I had been and places I would go.

He killed for me in a game of poker.

The dead man’s blood was a staining reminder of all that I lost. He was hanged two days later. I couldn’t bear to watch.

I grew bitter, forever separated from the man I loved. I resented all that made me remarkable. I wanted to be common and plain. I wanted a home.

Through the years, there was no denying the presence of age. Sadly, this industry does not deal well with the “once was.” My rareness faded, and suddenly, I wasn’t so special. Wrinkles appeared daily, so it seemed. No one marveled anymore.

And since I am being so uncharacteristically honest, I will tell you that marveling is what I miss the most.

I had all but given up on my dream of being kept and had settled in for the life I’d been given when, out of my darkest and coldest winter yet, the sun came out on an uncharacteristically warm spring day. I bathed in its light, basked in the hope that spring evokes with all its silly, girlish possibility. The promise of newness seemed to dance in the air.

And just as the shop was about to close, he limped in.

He wasn’t the handsome prince that I had once expected. No, this gentleman was a lowly, unimpressive farmer. He pulled out a tattered wallet, pointed to me, and put the money on the counter.

That evening, I found myself in his small, shabby home. The sound of a whippoorwill in the distance entered through the open window, bringing the fresh May breeze with it.

I felt like expired goods, but he seemed not to notice. He looked beyond my age and wrinkles. Past the damage that being passed around will do to you. He didn’t care where I had been or how many suitors had handled me. He marveled. Seeing through my broken exterior and into my soul. I was more precious to him than I was on the day I was first exchanged. His fingers lovingly traced my face; his worn, deep wrinkles matched mine. He seemed to understand my loneliness like no one ever had.

There was something familiar about him. Had I met him before? I searched his kind and adoring eyes until I finally knew.

Yes, indeed, I had.

Once, a long time ago, when he was just a boy, he swept the floor of a small pub as I sat with the mayor. I thrived on his quiet admiration. I teased. I tempted. To no avail. The boy never dared to steal so much as a small touch. This boy, too poor to own the likes of me even for a moment—I never thought of him again. In my ignorant pride, I moved on, and here fate had brought us once more together. No longer a foolish youth, I now easily saw the difference between lust and love.

I knew as long as this man lived, I would never be traded, abused, used, or misplaced. I would always have a home with this simple man. Something I had never known but had always longed for. Treated like a priceless treasure, I was no longer just a form of currency.

It was not easy being a 1934 hundred-dollar bill.

Oh, the stories I would share if only I were the chatty type…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Casey Butler is a wife, and mother to 3 grown children and one special pup. She loves words, people, wine, and water and calls herself a light chaser, word weaver, constant dreamer, and photographer. She paints pictures with words and tells stories with images. Casey lives in southern Wisconsin and is just beginning to pursue publishing with her recently completed middle-grade novel and adult fiction.

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