End goal, end goal, end goal. I will be queen of the universe. I will be in charge.

Rhea threw her wine goblet against the wall. It was empty, of course. The wine goblet, that is; the wall was filled with a fine tapestry that had taken thirty four nymphs twelve years to weave.

The glass wasn’t supposed to have been empty. Three—four?—times she had had it filled intending to sate her outflowing of emotional and physical discomfort by ruining the priceless tapestry with blood rivers of wine in a satisfying explosion across the delicate fibers. Wiping those glib faces off of the annoying woven figures seemed like a good cathartic vent for her discomfiture. But three—four?—times she decided she needed the glass of wine more than the tapestry did. Factor in the necessary steadying drinks in-between, the refills, and of course the spur-of-the-moment I-really-need-this-right-now tip-the-bottle-back-and-swig-it-straight-s, and that made somewhere from twenty-three to thirty-six drinks consumed. It wasn’t even close to that awful little word “sufficient.” What a detestable use of language. Nothing was ever “sufficient.” “Sufficient” belonged in a festering sewage pit with words like “satisfied” and “content” and other such oxystyxcursedmoronic expressions that taunted you with a meaning that simply didn’t exist. Rhea wished she had a wall to punch through for being a wall…or a Cronus to strangle for putting her through this, or a Prometheus to flay and burn for convincing her it was a good idea. Instead, she screamed at her serving Nymph for being lazy, finishing with an expletive laced injunction to fetch more wine on pain of any one of a number of colorful threats.

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She really hated being pregnant.