Something I wrote last year:

The hard, heavy metal chafed my wrists, digging into my skin as if into the flesh of my soul. It hung on my neck so that my head hung with it, and the blazing sun glinted cruelly from it, flashing and glittering in mockery. Why could I not be free? It was market day today, and my soul was on the line.

The sweat ran down my face as I dragged my feet through the dust, the dust I had always hated to touch. Poor men, even beggars, I saw here and there as I passed; they were free and I was not.

I could end this, market day called out to me; I could lay down the heavy, golden bracelets of my wrists, sparkling with jewels, I could take off the necklaces of golden chain from my neck. I could lay them down and receive my soul, and in exchange I could walk in freedom with the Son of God; or I could hold my chains close. The sweat of hesitation and doubt slid down my body like serpents and blinded my eyes. Why could I not be free?

I left that day; the hot flashes of sun glared from the riches that clothed me, presaging a hotter doom. I clung stubbornly to the hand of my glittering demon, never minding where it led me. On market day I left my soul behind in exchange for gold, and damnation.