Fifty-Five
I had seven pennies that I stocked up for when I'll die. One was given by mom and dad. Four was earned by these hands. Two was stolen by two grey eyes and smooth, strong lies.
Death was a merchant, and I was a willing costumer, desperate to spend his five golden pennies.
There were quite a lot to choose from. Pleasure cost only 2, fame for 3, looks for half a penny, even properties and wealth cost only 4. All of his merchandises were never worth more than five - all but one.
Happiness cost seven.
And when I asked Death why that was, he smiled, fully.
"Because there are things that thieves aren't meant to have - a pair of pennies that an owner deserves to spend."
