Diary of a Dead Man

4

                        °•°• Richard •°•°

I pull up the sleeves of my shirt upto my elbow and untie the bow at my neck as I begin mopping the floor. My breath getting heavier with each mop.

After awhile, the door to the shop opens and in walks James carrying a heavy looking like box, placing it on the front desk next to where his sewing machines are set.

He wipes the sweat at his forehead then turns to face me, a grimace printed on his face, "Oh you call that cleaning?! The floor yacks of dirt. Mop harder!." He commented on my cleaning, even though the floor reflects his image from dense cleaning as it's crystal clear.

I scoff and begin mopping harder, just passing time—whatever pays my bills.

After Anthony introduced me to James Franconi—the tailor. He stated that he was a grumpy old man who lived to retale both world wars and hence the soviet invasion in afghanistan—yes, he's from afghanistan. And you can quite tell from his thick accent that he's a war immigrant, One of the hostages of the war. He changed his name from an afghani one to a more decent american one due to the racial remarks he got whenever he got asked for his name.

He offered to pay me for precisely being his servent. Cleaning and sewing and even cooking for him, regardless on my remarks that I'm a bad cook.

And now as I mop the floor for the umpteenth time, I watch as james opens the box and pulls out a bunch of fabrics from within, completely zoned out into the process.

Then his eyes snap towards mines, "Stop staring like a fool and come help." He shouts and throws a peice of long fabric towards me. I loose hold of the wiper letting it fall to the ground and catch the fabric, pieces of it dangling on the floor. "Fold it and place it on the counter, I'll tell you then where to store it." He remarked, as I'm still being guided and taught of my work here.

I did as he bid without negotiation, trying to finish this day as soon as possible.

And after we arranged the fabrics into their stores and I finished cleaning the entire store—we sat together at the floor, a large bowl of falafel and hummus as he worded at the middle while we dipped flat bread crumbs into the dish and ate what is supposedly our lunch?

I couldn't figure out as james only ate twice or once a day according to his life story and most of his meals were middle eastern since he grew up there. 

I viewed him intriguing to listen to yap not listing the fact that he's ruciously rude.

The meal was very sufficing too and delicious wouldn't even go near to describe this dish.

"Do you have any kids, james?." I popped a question watching as his eyes snap towards mines before smiling lines define his eyes.

He swallowed, "Oh I used to have one." He said. "You see, I was never treated fairly here in these lands. A servant at their will and power. I had no rights and thus women would more likely not even glance my way. And if I were to commit debauchery with a lady from a similar race as mines, they would execute me or worse—torture me. Hold me captive for simply existing."

I swallow down the gulp in my throat as I handle myself from dismanning myself infront of james, as his story gets more emotional.

"There was a time where I met this white lady—she was beautiful. Mesmerizing. She was everything and much more. Her beauty was all my eyes could fascinate. We fell inlove and it was a chaste relationship as she had worded. I was a servant under racial abuse and she was........a simple white lady." He whispered, his voice cracking at the last sentence. "Even with all the hate I received, she was the only one to treat me like a human being. We grew fond of eachother and everything led to the other until she got pregnant oneday and..........they imprisoned me. Held me capture and accused me for assaulting her. And I yearned for her to defend and get me out.........but I was wrong." A tear fell from his eyes as the atmosphere got livid.