I wake up with sweat running down my forehead, while I gasp for air. My eyes fly around the room and I shut them tightly. I try to tell myself out loud it wasn’t real, that it was just a dream but the words die on my lips which seem to be paralyzed despite the trembling. I look around my room, the sun is peaking up out of the hills giving warm, comforting light inside my illuminated room. I make myself lie down and draw the covers over me tightly. I relax my muscles and remind myself once more it was not real. It was so impossibly vivid though. Now that I'm awake the details of the nightmare are already foggy, but not the last petrifying image; cotton shoved in my mouth until im suffocating on the fluffy crop. Then buried alive like a seed, Unable to even scream.    

My dreams have like this ever since father told me that when he died the plantation would go to Mr. Hawkins. Or as the slaves refer to him, "The Hawk". Mr. Hawkins is the Overseer. The man who holds the whip. Why, I remember a while back ago he told me he considers himself a conductor. His whip the baton. His cruel lashes is keeping up the tempo. Never slowing down. The thought makes me shudder and I pull my blanket closer. I am the farmer's daughter. I knew Hawkins would eventually turn my father into a personal puppet. He is too money driven and violent. Well he is more than violent. He’s… bloodthirsty. You just see his face once while he is whipping someone. He relishes in other people's pain. Gosh, some days I just feel like running away with Markus.

Markus is a slave who was sold here with his mom at age six and has worked on our plantations ever since. I was four when he came so he was the closest person to my age. I didn’t need to do any chores since we had plenty of slaves to do our work and I was too young anyway. I was tedious. I remember watching him for a week from our back porch. Just watching him wash the clothes, string em up on the line, take em down and fold em. Just to start a new pile. I wondered how dull that must be for him. I knew no one ever talked to the workers, (I didn’t understand the concept of slaves) but I didn’t see why not. I was young! I didn’t have any siblings. A playmate sounded fine and dandy to me.

One day, I built up the courage to jump over the fence to the laundry yard. He didn’t see me at first. Still consumed in scrubbing overalls.  I had some chalk in my hands, they were layered thick with powder. I and just finished drawing a masterpiece on the porch and a hopscotch set up. He just stared at me like he couldn’t understand me. Just looked at me. I waited for him to say something but he didn’t. I wasn’t the most patient child and I just grabbed his hand took him through the fence and showed him the hopscotch board. Finally letting go of his hand I asked him, “You know how to play hopscotch?” He was staring at his hand. The chalk dust had gotten on his hands so they were as white as the chalk. Not looking away from his hand he nodded softly, so I turned around and began hopping enthusiastically, but he was still staring at his hand. “You wanna play?” I asked. He had finally looked up and was mid-step when Mr. Hawkins, appearingly out of nowhere, grabbed the back of Markus’s scrappy shirt and yanked him back roughly. Lord knows the beating he must have gotten. My father came up and pulled my away, and I remember crying tears of frustration asking my father why he couldn’t play!? I was so lonely! My father looked down and began to explain why I couldn’t. Not fully though, I didn’t understand. In the end I had only picked up because he was black. That didn’t make any sense to me. Nonetheless my father forbade me being around him. My father had said, “Besides, he has to work too much and will never have time to play with you.” He had walked away shaking his head slowly. “Trying to befriend a negro. Just like your momma you are.” I didn't understand why he had to do so much work. I didn’t understand why I had to stay away. So my little heart was broken... For five days. I was four, he wasn’t that hard to forget. But I did see him everyday in the field, albeit it was never more than just a curious glance. It wasn't until I started with my chores and we were in a closer proximity, that we started holding gazes. Then talking. Secretly of course. Then gradually, we became friends. But he is definitely more than that. What, I can’t tell you because I don’t know myself.

I begin to dose off, lazily pondring what he is to me when I feel the sun heavy on my eyes. My eyes fly open and I throw my covers off. I look out the window and the sun is well above the ground and I am so very late for my chores. I sprint to the door and fling it open behind me. I seem to fly down the stairs I’m in such a rush. It isn’t until I reach the last step of my staircase, I realize I’m still only in my undergarments. I run backup my creaky staircase, and take my warm and modest work dress from my closet. There is 2 patches on them, both near the seam where the fabric meets my ankles, When I put on my dress I feel a whole at my sleeve. I decide I’ll try to fix later. I don’t have time to worry about it now. I get my cloggy shoes on, my toes squirm into what feels like shaped rocks on my dirty feet. As I’m quickly examining the tear, I hear a familiar scream that makes my skin crawl. I sprint downstairs, I run outside, look around, but no one is there except the slaves working on the field.  

I immediately start to sweat as the hot sun beats down on my skin and I know it’s going to be a long day if it continues like this. And it isn’t even noon yet. I decide that I am imagining the scream possibly? Can heat play tricks on your ears? I hope so. It’s easier to hope.

I skip my breakfast due to my late awakening. I remember when my dad used to punish me for not getting all the chores done. I have to work for food and if I don’t get work done, no food for a week. So no breakfast in a morning is better than no meals for a week.

My father, is a broken man. He used to be so much happier. So much stronger. Now he is a shell of he used to be. He’s lost control of everything. His own pride included. That’s how Mr.Hawk is so easy to control him. Who isn’t able to control a broken old drunk with nowhere to turn? The only thing that he hasn't lost control of is me and the slaves. The slaves just because of Mr.Hawkins, it’s his sole purpose in life to make sure the slaves barely have room to breathe, let alone do anything close to breaking his rules. My father though, these past 9 years he has taken out everything on me. If I only have to take the blow of one weak man, even if it is by myself, It’s nothing close to the plate slaves carry. I am incredibly lucky and if they can do it and stay standing on their own two feet, I am in no position to complain and can take my load easily.  

The animals are not happy for there late breakfast and the cows give me a hard time while I milk them. Same thing with the chickens, and the goats... and the hogs. I’m feeding the hogs when one of them knocks me down and they start whining for the food. I get up and start dusting off my dress and I mumble back to the pigs “You're not the only one who is hungry” and finish pouring their slob.

When I’m finally done with the animals, my stomach is eating my insides.  My skin feels cooked and shade sound like heaven. I take a shortcut through the yard and try giving a smile at the young boy working the wash. He meets my eye and looks down quickly. I suppose that’s smart, but it still wipes the smile off my lips.. For a moment I debate giving him orange from our orange tree, but that might just land him in more trouble if someone finds him with it. So I keep my head down and keep walking. I open my front door and make my way toward the food cupboard and grab my basket. I look into our food cabinet inside and look at all my options. I take an apple and wrinkle my nose at a cut of meat. I’ve never enjoyed eating dead animal carcusses. Another thing that makes me so weird in the world I live in. I decide to have a picnic by myself. The only suitable place to do that is in the meadow. On my way there I see Markus. He’s limping and his shoulders are slumped. His head is as high as ever. They can take everything from him but his pride he told me once. The scream I heard earlier wasn’t imagined and it was him. He got lashes this morning. I give him a quick look over to access the damage. The dark muscles on his back have large red slashes. 4 fresh ones. If you look closer, he has scars from somewhat healed lashes. He’s acquired these from years of punishment. I look to his eyes only to find they are already on mine. They are a striking honey hazel in contrast with his dark, but warm coffee colored skin. The exact shade of cocoa beans. He gives me a look that can only tell me so much. We need to talk in private. I look around. There are a dozen pairs of eyes on us. “Meet me at 9:00.” I say to him. “You know the place.” I speak as I walk past him fast, and softly. He gives a small nod and looks down. I take 2 steps and then give a small gasp. “Move away from me when you see me coming you disgusting pig!” “Then I spit on the ground below him for good measure. He plays his part. Looks down, mumbles something back that sounds like a apologetic response. Then he limps away. My heart smarts and lurches for a moment. “Help him” my nerves seem to scream. I know he must be trying to not collapse with any strength that is in him. He’s mostly alone except for me and a few exceptions. He doesn’t have any family.

His mother died two years after he was sold to our plantation. She died of exhaustion from a lifetime of being overworked, and grief from being separated from her husband who my father didn't buy. Markus believes that he wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t enough to keep her alive. His mother.


I share the same sentiment.


I flinch automatically from any mention of my mother. I shake my head and keep walking to my favorite meadow tree. It’s on the top of a slight hill with shade from the sturdy tree and breezy leaves. You can catch a breeze there even on the most scorching days.

Me and my mother would come here all the time. She was the one who understood me… People talk about her all the time. What happened to her was rare. They gossip and make up awful stories. It used to make me so furious. They made up horrible things; but, With time, they found better things to waste time making rumors about. But she is always a juicy and fun topic in their silly/disgusting tea parties. Sometimes I go see my mother. Tell her how I feel. All my secrets. Beside Markus, she is the only one I can talk to. But he isn’t exactly always available. I ask her for help, but she can’t answer me. After all, the dead can’t talk.

When I get to the top of the hill, I can see the whole farm. It used to be rich and prosperous. The land seemed to have died with my mother. The soil stopped bringing cotton when my mother stopped bringing life to it. It withered away like people said my mother did near the end of her life. They couldn’t be more wrong. She was alive and happy her whole life. A ray of sunshine for everyone that met her. I still don’t… I still don’t know why she did it.

They found her- well, my father found her on the bedroom floor holding a knife. Bloody wrists as red as her fiery hair. Suicide they call it. They gossip profusely. Why she did it mostly. They say she was lonely or my father abused her, but they again are wrong. She was in love with my father, she had a more than comfortable home, she had everything she needed. Her only demon was the ghost of slavery. Even then she wouldn’t have killed herself to, what? Make a statement? No she knew she could do more alive. She kept Mr.Hawkins in check. She didn’t even need to get father to do what she wanted to do, she could control him all by herself. She was the strongest woman or person I’ve ever known. What I would give to know why. Was it because of me? Could I have saved her?

To push the thoughts from my head, I climb to the top of the tree and look up to bright blue sky. My favorite type of blue. A fluorescent blue that seems to glow. I put my head against a branch and take a bite into the pale green apple, which is my favorite kind. I tear the skin off with my teeth and let the sour sweetness take over my mouth. I can hear the slaves singing a gentle tune and I allow myself to put everything aside and relax. I close my eyes and focus on the swaying of the leaves and the light breeze against my skin. I begin to doze off when I hear him. “ELIZABETH!” A harsh, rough voice calls out from under me. I’m so startled I fall off the branch and hit the ground with an audible thud. I open my eyes to the sight of 2 muddy boots in front of me. I groan and look up to the senile face of Hawkins himself. I resist the temptation to spit and make myself stand up.

He is in his mid thirties, but he might as well be fifty. His thin, prickly beard is close cut to his round face and it surrounds a grimy smile revealing his rusty, yellow, uneven teeth. His skin is red and sun damaged, and his inky black eyes stare me down and I can’t help but shiver as his eyes run over me. I bare my teeth in disgust under the weight of his shallow gaze. I stand my ground and act as unfazed as possible, but I wrinkle my face is revulsion when he takes his old hat off showing his greasy, balding head and gives a bow so low he’s mocking me. Then he gives a wide sneer. “Sorry for startling you. M’lady.” I grit my teeth to resist hissing at him. “It’s fine I’m sure with my clumsiness I would have fallen anyway.” A lie. Years of balancing buckets of pig slob and cow milk on each arm and refusing to spill a drop, has, made me very agile and balamced. This usually wouldn't be a necessary attribute I have and use daily but I don't do second trips. I give him a curtsy just as low as his bow but I don’t let my eyes leave his for a second. It annoys him but he doesn’t let it show. I draw myself as high as I can and raise my chin. “You called my name. Did you need something or do you just want to bother me?” I say not wasting anymore time on fake pleasantries. He only sneers wider. “Nah. As much as I enjoy your ah-pleasant company, I did come with a reason.” I sharpen my glare and notice an evil glint in his beady eyes. It can’t mean anything good.

“I came because your father is looking for ya.”

“Why didn’t he just come to me himself?”

“Well he couldn’t find you m’lady.”

I squint my eyes suspiciously. Something isn’t right, but can’t find my way around it. “Very well.” I said “Where is he? The house? The Yard?” Sometimes father would go watch the slaves work. I guess it puts him at ease to know he can control something. Hawk puts his hand up to his chin and scratches his filthy scruff clearly amused with me. I clench my knuckles until my nails dig into skin as a reminder to not knock him on his fat-”The house” he says. "He has big news for you girl.” This time I don’t fight my snarl. “Call me girl one more time and-” Suddenly he is an inch away from me with his hot breath hitting my face. I try to take a step back, but his rough hands grab my chin and make me lean in closer. Forcing me to look into black empty eyes. “Threaten me more time and I will make sure your little friend, Markus is his name? Oh yes I know about your little boyfriend. I’ll find a reason to punish him for something even if I have to frame a problem myself. He already got whippens today yes? I don’t think he can stand another lash session so soon do you?” I can’t speak but I manage to shake my head the slightest. Hawkins searches my face smirking. Drinking in my horrified expression. I can’t even breathe as he brings his hands down to my neck right above my jugular. A few seconds pass but it might as well be hours. His gaze never leaves my neck, and he looks like a predator about to devour his prey. His mind seems to go at war with himself and finally, he pushes me back and walks away, not even glancing back.

After I got over my shock and revulsion, I begin to head back to the house. My father is not to be kept waiting. Although, as my own small act of defiance I take the long way back, around the fields and I even stop by the Chicken Coup just to check. I’d be lying if it wasn’t a mixed act of rebellion and nerves. There was something in Hawkins eyes that makes me uneasy. He’s gotten something he wanted and that means nothing that can be anything but sinister, and I’m about to get the blow of it. When I get to my front door, I put my hand over the knob, close my eyes, and run over the top worst things that can happen. I decide the worst is this is a trap and Mr.Hawk has actually planted giant flesh-eating bears to rip me apart and gnaw on my bones. I take a deep breath, open my eyes, and turn the handle head high.

Fortunately, there are no flesh eating bears. Just my sunken looking father sitting in his favorite chair in the dark day room. I look at him, holding an empty bottle of low class wine while he doesn’t acknowledge me as I walk across the room to open one of the curtains illuminating more of the room. As the light hits his face he seems to awake from a trance. He blinks and sits up. “Oh, I didn’t notice you come in.” I walked right past him and his chair is facing the door where I came in but I dare not point that out. Instead, I smile politely and take a seat across from him on the chair. “Take a seat Elizabeth.” I ignore the fact that I’m already sitting and frown when he calls me by my middle name. My real name is Aileen Elizabeth Miller. My mother was a third-generation American, her family came here from Ireland and it was important to her to keep apart of my heritage in my name. My name means “Noble” and was her Grandmother’s middle name. My father wanted to name me something more of our time and English, but my Mother insisted. “Besides,” she would say smiling. “You gave her the last name. I get to pick the first name.” I know this because my father is always talking about mother. Whenever he is so drunk it isn’t painful to talk about her that is. Which is more often than you think. But when she passed, it became too painful to call me by the name she chose. My father tells me we call me Elizabeth because it’s not as odd and calling me Aileen lets people know I’m Irish and that’s not exactly a smiled upon attribute. But I know the truth. “Did you have something to tell me?” I ask father. He shifts in his seat uncomfortably. He is old, late fifties, but even through the wrinkles he has a very youthful face. While my mother was Irish through and through, he was English to the bone. He inherited this plantation from his father and was the first person to marry someone besides an English woman. Let alone a poor Irish girl! There marriage was very disapproved on in both sides of the family. Although my mother's family knew her marrying into a well off family would ensure her, and their future grandchildren, a life of comfort and full bellies, they had nothing but their pride and full Irish heritage. Giving that away, was too high a price. So she ran away with an English man. A classic love story. “In a matter of fact, I do. I have… good news.” He says with a plastered smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. This news is anything but, as his one second  hesitation just confirmed. So I give a smile just as fake. “Sounds good.” I add an innocent tone just to contribute to the pageantry. He looks down and circles the pressure point on his left wrist with his right thumb. I stare at his fidgeting hands and become steadily more worried as the tension filled awkward silence drags on. All I want is out of this house and outside in the free air. All I want is to talk to Markus. All I want is my mother.

Only she could make situations like these light, only she could bring light to my father. What would I do for her right now?

After what feels like an eternity, he finally looks up and I tilt my head and make a half-hearted blink, (yes that is a thing) and keep eye contact almost as if staring down a aroused bull. One with empty, broken eyes. He opens his mouth, fails to speak, opens his mouth, licks his lips, and says the words that would change the course of fate forever.


“Congratulations Elizabeth. You, are engaged to Mr.Hawkins.”