A Kiss Never Changed

Chapter 𝐼𝐼

The mind always wanders, through stages of sleep, through the day, etc. It always wanders. No matter what you do, no matter what your mind is currently on, there's something you're thinking about while you do it. 

I broom my room, handle in hand, my locs in a half-ass ponytail to keep it out of my eyes. I wore a loose grey t-shirt in which I tucked in my black sweatpants. My shirts bunched up in the places it was tucked, making it scratch against my dark skin. My lighter palms gripping the plastic handle of the broom slightly tighter, memories of the before. It reminds me of what it was like. Though I have it way better, and I can broom on my free will. 

I suppose the first life - or the first one I remember at least - was straight out of a story tale, just more realistic. Where slaves worked sunup, sundown for rich folks who needed someone to work for them. For kind princesses, of course, and her shitty parents. No prince needed, who the hell has a prince charming anyway. 

My mama and I were slaves to the royal family. She worked the farms or the fields, she wore broken, thin clothes in the burning hot sun from sunup to sundown. Six days a week with only a Sunday to see me. 

I always loved my mama, she always tried her best to bring some food home, even if she couldn't eat herself. She was infertile, unable to have more than one child with much force. My father wasn't in the picture, I'm not even quite sure where he went or who he was. I don't even know if my mama loved him or not, and vice-versa. 

They weren't allowed to get married either way so I suppose it didn't matter. The only reason she was allowed to have children was because she was forced into it, the thought of her bloodline stopping and the royal slaves being abolished seemed too hard to swallow.

The rich and their pride. Too big for their small heart, much like their ego. They're very smart in many ways. Of course manipulation, the way they make everyone look their way and believe them because they have the money, which means they have the power.

The African Americans, the people that were mixed in between and pretty much anyone who wasn't black would face punishment. A cruel way if saying that the white was much more important due to they're less pigmented colour.

When I really stop to ask myself how the white people came to power it always confuses me. Shouldn't the blacks be in power? We have the most melanin, the more pigmentation means for protection from the sun, though I suppose that's why they forced us outside all day to do what they didn't want to.

I hated the whites for what they did to my mama. Hated them more when they forced it upon me, forcing me to work inside just so my mama wouldn't see me.

"It makes her unfocused and too unproductive." A thicker guy with a mustache spoke to another man. The king. The king had nodded and put me on janitor duties. Clean dishes, broom and mop the floor till it shines. If it didn't sparkle or you couldn't see yourself in it, you did a bad job and were to be punished by the royal guards.

I was forced into religion and was stuck believing in someone I didn't want to believe. Although some took gratitude from Him, I didn't. Why would He make us less superior to His "original" creation. The whites. But isn't that the exact reason why? So why should I give my time and effort into believe and cherishing into someone who brought nothing but unfairness to me and family.

Brothers and sister, though it directly related to me. Aunties and uncles, still not directly related to me but worked and cared for my well being and my mama's too.

We took care of one another. If someone doesn't get the food they deserved or didn't get any at all, we'd share, and they'd share back when we were in need.

My mama always gave me her rations, though she never found out that I knew and did the same. She would slide a piece of bread to where my hand would rest, pretending not to know anything as she ate.

We would sit on these cement stairs at every "Break" we could get. Not really a break though since farms can't keep themselves going without the black people slaving away.

The royals were such disgusting beings. Eating lavish foods with wooden flooring and curtains. What I would have killed for actual flooring.

That's when I met Britannia for the first time. She had her blonde hair down to her mid-back. Perfect teeth that seemed too white to be real, a dress that fit her perfectly covered in a tight corset that followed her curves delicately.

She was beautiful, her green eyes glanced at me from across where she stood atop a long staircase, way too big.

Britannia wasn't allowed to talk to the slaves, they were unworthy of her words, her time. But my, how her time was spent.

She wrote poetry from the little writing she knew from her mother, who learned from her own mother that listened in on conversations with her husband. Quite remarkable to say the least.

Britannia wrote about the injustice in the world, how she wished she could change it, but of course, she was a young woman. She was to be sold to a man who would wed her and she would bare children to be given off.

The first time she talked to me was when I had dropped the broom. She had graciously caught it before it hit the floor, she had this look of purity in her eyes that let me trust her. 

I was unsure of her intentions at the time, but it came pretty quickly. The noise would've started a ruckus which would have me punished for being too loud. Too much of a klutz. Blacks weren't allowed mistakes. Why would they? They aren't as powerful as the white Christian assholes people look up to. 

Britannia never let me bow for her when we were alone. She would always shake her head with a kind smile, showing her intentions were true. In public she frowned but hid a subtle wave when I did. It was the small signs of respect that made doing the job easier, I was doing it for her, the goodness in the world. 

I thought maybe someday we would be equal. At least some type of equal where we didn't have to work for them in an act of cruelty. Mama always told me stories of the war we faced being over, getting an actual job and being paid the way we should for the hard work we put out for our "employers." More like our owners, they treat us like dogs, work us to the bone and force us to 'enjoy' it. 

I was only able to stay with my mama one day of the week, the rest of it I stayed in a dusty attic that smelled like old corpse. I overheard someone say that someone has hung themselves here and no one found him for a week until he started smelling up the house. Maybe that's why the got slaves in the first place, to clean up what they didn't want to do. 

One day, one very special day, I was able to clean in Britannia's room. The princess didn't know how to organize her room as well I should want to, although she never usually asked for help. She knew that if she asked for help, her room would be polished, broomed, mopped, organized and then broomed again.  

She was very hesitant, there were a few of us who were happy to help since she showed them nothing but kindness. Stealing food from the kitchen to give to them was one of the very important reasons of trust. 

She had asked me, very politely shall I add, "What about you? Would you like to help me?" Her voice, though I had heard it only a few times before, still amazed me. 

This of course is backstory. The real story is just beginning.