The Fall of Martha

I may be just a farmer's wife, but I've got a sickness—one that claws at me day and night, an itch so deep it feels like fire ants crawling beneath my skin.

It's ruined us. The harvest is late, the fields half-rotten, all because I can't control myself.

Henry's had enough. Today, he dragged me to the village doctor, desperate for a cure.

But what that doctor suggested? It broke me.

The craving hit again on the road—sharp, relentless. My fingers dug into my skirt, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Henry's jaw clenched as he muttered, "God damn you, woman."

A month ago, he'd laughed it off. Now, there was nothing but disgust in his eyes.

He snapped a corn cob from the stalk and shoved it at me. "Handle it yourself."

I staggered into the field, fumbling with my clothes—

Then arms locked around me from behind.

Henry?

I twisted, gasping—but it wasn't him.

A stranger.

I shoved, screamed Henry's name—nothing. The field stretched empty. No answer.

Then I remembered. Just last week, he'd joked, "Maybe you need another man."

Had he planned this?

The cob was still inside me. The struggle left me weak, trembling—

The man pinned me down. I scratched, kicked, but my strength was gone.

As he fumbled with his belt, I grabbed a fistful of corn leaves and raked them across his face.

He roared, clutching his eyes. "Crazy bitch!" A slap cracked against my cheek. "You asked for this!"

Finally, Henry came running.

"Your wife's a damn animal!" The man spat, flinging twenty dollars into the dirt. "Find yourself a tamer whore."

Henry pulled me up, his voice flat. "You hurt?"

Tears burned. "How dare you? You set this up!"

"What kind of man sells his own wife?" My voice shook. "You're vile."