The slaves of Freetown

CHAPTER TWELVE

Finally, the morning comes, bringing me, with rays of the sun, a certain deliverance. At least awake, I can try to control the course of my thoughts. This command does not, however, apply to the feeling of guilt, which is more intransigent, uncompromising, and inflexible when I try to oppose some arguments, presenting the situation as falsely, but inherently inevitable.

Again, I wake up in the middle of a nightmare, in a panic. I wipe the sweat off my forehead. The robe still covers my wrists, and I am a little surprised at the feeling of the fabric when I put my hand over my left arm. I remove it hastily and disgusted. A slave wakes up earlier than the Masters and goes to bed after them.

There is a knock on the door; I jump out of bed and spin round.

"I'm sorry, I'm coming in. It's Celeste."

Celeste, who is a young man of my age, comes in with a laundry tub. He puts a pile of clothes on the bed and walks out.

"Miss Freeman is waiting for you in the kitchen. She insisted that you take your time."

I find myself alone again in the room. Quickly, I put on the black t-shirt and pants on the top of the pile. There are also some white socks that I am leaving out for now. I put the robe on the hanger in the bathroom; then, I stuff the clothes that I came with in my bag. Accessing the hallway, I pass the other rooms and take the stairs. The windows, splendid, allow the creation of a warm atmosphere despite the rather austere decor.

Mistress Freeman is sitting on a large sofa in the living room. Zaz purring, wrapped around her legs.

"You're up! I hope you had a good night!" she exclaims with a smile.

Mistress Freeman puts her plate of pancakes on the coffee table. She takes the remote control and turns down the sound of the television. Two mass shootings make the headlines in the Freetowns of two cities near the Mexican border. A Master-Avenger who quoted President Trump's speech is the main suspect. However, the document is quickly interrupted with flash news concerning another shipwreck of slaves emigrating from the United States.

"What do you want to eat? Celeste is a real MasterChef!"

Celeste, who is busy behind the counter, preparing a new batch of pancakes, cannot hide a little smile. Another pan contains a reddish sauce, and the oven is also on. Mistress Freeman takes out a plate and cutlery that she puts on the table. I am taken aback by her enthusiasm and become even more suspicious. If she is not angry with my impudent behavior of the night before, that means that the tasks, which she wants to entrust me to, or that she will ask Celeste to leave me with, must be rough enough to pass for a punishment. She will quickly get tired of this new Thing, this new Object that she has, and will soon leave me to him.

"Here are eggs and toasts! Maybe you want pancakes too? Come on, take those too! Want some cereals, something hot, or... orange juice? Come sit next to me... or do you prefer to eat here?"

"Miss Freeman, let him breathe a little!" Celeste intervenes. "I'll take care of him. And you still haven't eaten anything since your session with Anna. Get those crazy diet ideas out of your head."

"But..."

"Come on, come on," he says, waving his hands in front of her. "Sit down, Ka..."

"Kanoa," I help him. "Thank you."

I allow myself a second glance in the direction of Celeste's hands. There is nothing on the tip of his left wrist. I sit on the high chair in front of which Mistress Freeman placed the plate that she prepared for me.

"That's coffee and orange juice. I'll let you help yourself while I finish preparing lunch."

He turns back to his stoves. I take the fork and swallow a phenomenal amount of food in just two bites. I have the whole thing taken with a sip of coffee, immediately cut with orange juice.