Prometheus was punished for being too kind. He did not steal fire from the gods; he simply retrieved it. He was the celestial Robin Hood, returning something useful to the poor people who needed it. But Zeus had no tolerance for the destitute, no tolerance for handouts. So he created women to punish mankind for their hero’s socialist leanings.
And so she was born, the first woman, molded out of water and earth. Beauty was her lure, and evil was her dowry. Such was the legacy of women.
And just like Eve, she was curious, not a becoming trait for a woman. What hubris it was to think for herself, to wonder, to do contrary to what she was told; what a crime to want to know what was in that famous box. In a moment of defiance, she opened it, releasing all the evil into the world. It spilled over the land like storm clouds; it darkened the sky black. The acrid smoke seeped into every pore of every soul, infecting mankind with a filth that could never be washed off.
This is what made her famous: her illicit box; that dirty, forbidden thing.
But no one ever talks about what was at the bottom of the box, hidden under layers upon layers of future suffering. With the storm clouds thrashing in the sky grabbing all the attention, no one noticed the tiny pearl of light that remained at the bottom, the little crumb of hope like a lonely afterthought.
But shame is stronger than hope, and of course the first woman invented that, too.