Slipping Sense

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A woman's moment of waking up; troubled by her shift in life's status.

Submitted: August 23, 2013

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Submitted: August 23, 2013

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Slipping Sense

I’m done for,’ thought Julia, waking up. She was to move out in a day from this very townhouse she had been living in for almost a decade now, here in this highly desirable neighborhood of Manhattan.

For Solara Inc. went kaput. The once promising and innovative solar company she worked for for about eleven years had taken its ominous turn a couple of years ago. And, surely, as time went on, the company’s employees had been not only the witnesses but victims themselves, as little by little, Solara’s assets and resources were affectedly draining down the drain, until, finally, the whole company itself had liquidated into a nil.

‘And what will become of me?’ Julia thought, tossing and turning in bed all the while. She was forty two; she thought, and panic rose to her veins, for as if it fell so starkly and boldly upon her, like a boulder slipping off a cliff, hitting her full on--- the idea of change, and one she was so fearful about. For it was a change which would challenge her further to the pith of her being, as if it was crucial that she needed to recalibrate her policy for survival— for perhaps it meant that she had to stoop down into a plane, lower; she felt, unfit for her nature, born wealthy as she was; had been throughout her life. Though what now? Jobless as she was for a couple of months— surely, she would end up on the same fate as Solara’s; she thought, if she hadn’t taken up measures she had already, though against her inclination, utilized. The townhouse property was just recently sold and in the morning she was to finally move out, and with it comes away, too, a significant sense of her identity. For what was she without her wealth? she thought, still lying in her bed, looking at, but not noticing, the ceiling. For all her life money had defined her. Her hands had clutched numerous handles and straps of luxurious purses and handbags, and from it she stroke a feeling of pride, of some sense of inner personal power; her Louboutin shoes heightened her sense of self worth; those Ferragamo and Chanel apparels she donned on had well preserved that seemingly suitable sense of her well being within. ‘And to be strip of everything!’ she thought, feeling as if she was subliminally shedding her skin. For what was she without wealth? she thought. Money had sustained her happiness throughout; she felt. There was happiness in money. Money bought it, be it temporarily, or a bit more lasting; still, with the money, happiness was made more or less sustainable. Though tomorrow she was to move out to some suburb in California. But she must endure; she thought, getting up from the bed, stretching. ‘To stand poverty, honorably and with dignity, and have its trials and pains become the fiber of a rich and tender heart.’ She would care to find herself without money.


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