This is basically my way of revising English Lit. Thanks for reading.

Disclaimer: Othello isn't mine.


I'm just a whore to you.

What is it about that word, Michael? It's as though women of my "sort" are soulless. As though we enjoy this life. Some will even say that we've asked for this life- that we're succubi or some other class of demon sent from the fiery pits to tempt men from their marriage beds. Or rather, that's how men would prefer us to be. Anything that makes us the villain. Anything to keep the blame from them. Typical. Why should I take your guilt? At least you don't ask as some do: "I'm a decent man, aren't I?". You pay me as a partner, not a confident. Perhaps that's best- if you knew what I thought then you'd strike me. Or worse, you'd despise me for daring to judge you, an officer of Othello, a man of distinction.

But why would my words concern you? You can't hear me. You don'tstay awake to listen. Even now you sleep soundly next to me, your lips trembling as dreams escape them, soft as a purring cat. Am I in those dreams? I doubt it. Women are, I believe, but not me. Never me.

You think of her, though. Perpetually, in fact. You don't voice it in your waking hours, but I'm not totally without sense. Don't you think I see your looks, the ones that seem ashamed to look at me after thinking of her in case my presence in your mind could somehow contaminate her? Do you think that I'm deaf to your sleeping whispers? Listening to the word on your lips-"Desdemona"- I feel I might die from your voice, as though each word was a drop of poison in my ear, killing me slowly.

I admit, I've had ideas above my station. Dreams of weddings. Dreams of love. Dreams of family. Forbidden dreams, and each one with you. Zounds, what a fool I am. More so for confessing to you. Did you think I was joking? Did you think any more of me when you realised I could feel? I could only wish.

You didn't have to mock me. In that way you are filth- fair filth, high class filth, but filth all the same. Never have I pretended to love a man. And leaving me your... your... strumpet's handkercheif... There are some things even a whore can't take, Michael.

It's a pretty thing, the handkerchief. Silk with strawberries, nothing like my rags, so she's richer than me. Fairer, too, I'll warrant. Not that I didn't expect this- you are a handsome man, even if your soul is hideous. A Pandora's box, if you will. That friend of yours, honest Iago, has dripped poison in my ear too. He told me that she was the young wife of the Moor, so I suppose that we are a little alike. We both want what we can't ever have. I wonder what the Moor might say, if I were to show him this. Some men grow horns when they find they've been cuckolded, after all. Perhaps he'd take that precious name you so adore. Perhaps he'd teach you a lesson on manners, real ones. Perhaps he'd just ensure you got all you deserved and a little more from me. Oh, if you had nine lives, I'd hope he took each one for your cruelty. Heaven know that one life couldn't pay for it.

Forgive me. This is the green-eyed monster in me, clouding my vision with the whore's curse. How foolish was, to dance into a fool's paradise without a backward's glance. How cruel that life shows me such a prize only when I am dismissed and have no chance of gaining such a husband.

Oh, Michael. Michael, Michael, Michael. I wish I had some wit about me, or some way with words. Are there not stories of women led astray by some carefully crafted speech from the lips of a scoundrel? Even the wife of your good general- the wife you wish was yours- fell for words. But I'm too rough in my speech, and I have only a few coins to pay for the crust that ties my soul to my body. the riches I lose for the sport of men such as you. My loves. My soul. My self. So high a price for so wretched a price. Is there no mercy on the earth for women of my sort? No happiness for people like me?

How foolish I was, to think I was more than an instrument of your pleasure.

I'm just a whore to you.