Slave Sisters

(19) Slave Sisters

3rd December, 1804

Someone’s fingers snapped in front of my face, startling me; I was startled that I near fell backwards almost having lost my balance. “Focus, girl!”

“Yea, Mrs Wicker . . .” I met her brutal gaze – so aggressive that I wanted to hide away. At the same moment I wanted to break our eye contact, she looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“Get back to work,” she ordered, already walking away. So I did.

For the past couple of minutes or so I had been standing at the top of the stairs, a mop held in my hands. In silence I had been leaning forward against the stairs’ bannister, just staring down in a trance, my mind set on other things.

Such the mystery to do with Mr Wicker.

Only two days ago, the first day of winter, was there a chance to speak with Jane, and I immediately grabbed the opportunity; the short time we spent in the kitchen may have not lasted long, but at least it were something.

“Here . . .” I had said, placing the book that I had been keeping onto into Jane’s little hands. Her fingers gripped onto its sides firmly, and her face portrayed puzzlement as if to ask, ‘why  do I have this?’

I briefly explained myself to her, silently pointing the centred letters on the front, big and bold. Its cover’s colours were dramatic and artistic, creating a beautiful picture. Looking up at her again, I asked her to tell me what the words read.

“It says, ‘The Marriage of Heaven and Hell’. Tamara, this –” The girl held it up in her hand, shaking it a little, “is a book written by William Blake.”

“William Blake.” I had played the words on my lips, checking if it had any meaning to me. Of course, it did not. “Who is William Blake?”

She shrugged, “A writer I am guessing, or a poet? I am not sure.”

My shoulders instantly slumped. “It means nothin’ to yer?” Her reply was a definite ‘no’.

Thinking about it again only made the disappointment re-ignite itself inside me, washing my emotions with frustration. I knew that when it came to knowing about Mr Wicker’s life, I was stepping into dangerous territory. Yet I could not back away; I wanted to know.

But I would need help.

10th December, 1804

“Hello.” Out of shock, I quickly turned around to see Victor.

This was the second time this week he had surprised me in that way; the first time had been when we had passed each other in the streets – me, being oblivious, did not notice him from afar.

“Hello,” I replied, looking down. With a rag in my hand I tried to appear busy by wiping at the countertop nearest to me. Two index fingers touched the the corners of my lips, gently lifting them up.

“Smile,” Victor teased, noticeably increasing it. What he did not know were that inside I now really was smiling; beaming, in fact.

“I am,” I mumbled, momentarily baring my teeth and narrowing my eyes. The tip of his fingers sunk into my cheeks, almost as if my skin were made of bread dough.

“Your cheeks are soft,” he complimented, putting his hands back down at his sides. I rubbed at the sides of my face, slightly grimacing. “. . . just so soft.”

“Thank you,” I said, thrilled by his compliment. 

When I should not have been.

“You can do better than that,” he prompted, grinning. “You have looked upset since last week; what is wrong, Tamara?”

“Nothing,” I told him, shaking my head. “I just . . . do not like cleaning.” As well as other things – specifically, a certain woman. Her attitude was the worse I had ever seen of a person’s.

He laughed, “Me too.”  Thinking over his words, his smile slightly lessened. “You must feel exhausted . . . tell you what, let us make a deal; you do not need to ever clean my bedchamber – I will do it myself.”

“Well, okay . . .” Uncertain, I warily looked at Victor.

Why were he talking to me in the first place?

12th December, 1804

Over the past two days, Tayla could sense something about me. I just knew it. Yet over those two days, something different had happened inside of me; it felt as if everything were moving so quick that I could not catch a breath – when I so desperately wanted one, just to properly think over my feelings.

It was during the cold nights that my sister was at her most observant, her eyes constantly on me; words constantly based on me. Being my hesitant self, I would tell her the following – dishonest – words:

“I am fine.” Sighing, Tayla laid back on the thin mattress. Unlike the other rooms in the mansion the attic did not have any candles, thick bedding, or plush carpets; the temperature in here quickly adapted to that of outside’s.

“Are you sure?” she asked, somehow managing to look down at me. With my knees up to my chest I silently nodded. In her eyes I could see what she thought of my behaviour – foolishness.

Maybe I was stupid.

“I am sure,” I confirmed, trying to appear to confident in my speech. But then a frown broke my façade, and I ended up shaking my head. “No, I am scared.”

“About what?” she brought her arms beneath her head, in the process taking up space from my half of the bed. “What is wrong?”

My bottom lip jutted out. “I think . . . Victor – there is something about him.” That I enjoyed; that I could not get enough of for some odd reason.

I really liked him.

Snapping me out of my thoughts, Tayla snapped her fingers together. Then all I could see was the pitch black of the attic’s darkness, engulfing me rapidly into its confusion. “You and him do not mix.” Her harsh tone reminded me of Grandma whenever she told me off, and immediately I found my eyes welling up. Thankfully, she did not notice.

“Why?” I queried. I touched my skin, my black skin, and briefly reminded myself of Victor’s – white as paper – skin. “Because I am black and he is white.”

“No,” she denied, although it was obvious she were lying. “This place is not for us; adapting into here could be risky – we need to get back home.” Thinking of – my small, but comfy – home, I allowed for my watery eyes to let go a tear.

Well, we were already here; what other damage could be done?

“I wish we could escape,” I admitted, my bottom lip heavily trembling, “and not be here anymore.” Was this what nostalgia felt like?

Back in Africa I had never felt so confused and lost; I needed genuine guidance, and the only way to receive that was to be back in my true origins. What was I to gain from beingin this attic – sleep?

Sleep only stole away relevant hours.

“Me too,” my sister agreed, her voice now delicate. “But we are going to keep strong; be at each other’s side. Just do something for me?”

“Anything,” I said, the word unexpectedly escaping my lips.

She nodded, “Stay away from Victor.”

The next day, in the early morning answers, I whispered my reply. “I can’t.”

~ 

Well, that's Chapter 19! Please tell me your opinions of it in the comments? Thanks for reading, I wish you a Merry Christmas Eve :]