Southern Helle (An Interracial Romance Story)

Chapter 1

I’ve been a slave my whole life. My momma was a slave, my papi, my grandmomma, grandpapi everyone in my lineage up to some cracker named Lawrence Washington, who’s supposed to be George Washington’s grandpapi. I don’t real know, but all I really know is housework.

You see when I was 10 Master brought me into the big house too do all the cooking and cleaning. Seven years later, I’m still here.

Working here has all the perks you know. You have your sleeping quarters away from the rest of the slaves, and they let us shower. Plus you get to hear all the gossip beyond the 80 acres of cotton and indigo field. 

“Helle, get in here!” Master called out from the front door. I was outside in the field scrubbing the clothes on the washboard. I stood up and wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. 

I held the hem of my dress up as I shuffled through the grass up the white wooden steps into the mansion. “Yes massa?” I answered.

He turned to me and plucked the burning cigar out of his mouth. “August is hungry and I need you to make up something.” He told me.

“But, I’m not finished with the laundry.” I responded. He put his cigar back in his mouth and took a drag from it as he stepped towards me.

“Dad, it’s alright. I can make something for myself.” August said as he appeared in out of the study.

“No, Helle here’s got it.” He exhaled. Smoke flung into my face. I was going to cringe, but I knew better. 

“I’ll get someone else to do the laundry, doll.” Master Belle told me. He pushed a few strands of hair out of my face. 

“Thank you.” I muttered. 

“Thank yah who?” He asked. 

“Thank yah massa.” I repeated. 

“Good, now go on. August’s food ain’t gonna make itself.” He told me. I nodded and then hurried past him to the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. August, Master’s son, came in before the doors could stop swinging.

I pulled some pots out of the cupboards, and put it on the stove. “You know I can make it myself.” He told me as he leaned his 5’9 frame against the cupboards.

“What do you want to eat, Mr. Belle?” I asked August. 

“Don’t worry, I got it Helle.” He reiterated. 

Since he refused to tell me what he wanted, I decided on making him soup. It’s simple and it’ll tide him over until dinner. 

I filled the pot with water, and then put it on the stove to boil. I picked up some carrots, chopped off the stems, and cut down the shaft. I started to put them in the pot. August picked up one of the slices and popped it into his mouth. I slapped his hand and he smiled broadly.

“You know for someone who claims they can make their own food, you sure are taking your time.” I said. His mouth stretched wider.

“You’re quite mouthy for a nigger.”

“And you’re quite friendly for a peckerwood.”

“That’s what y’all calling us now: peckerwoods?” August repeated the word as if he was trying to get more familiar with it.

I cut up more vegetables and placed them in the water. Once it started boiling, I took a wooden spoon and started stirring it. I took some salt and splashed it into the water. 

From the corner of my eyes I could see August staring at me. I quickly glanced at him and he smiled. “Why you looking at me like that?” I asked. I pushed my long black hair out of my face.