Loved By Another Chapter Three

MAY SECOND

We arrived at the estate three weeks ago with twelve indentured slaves, who have never known the breath of freedom. Some of them have no fire within there eyes, they are shattered souls, keepers of shadow, sinking into a world not attached to their soul. My own ignorance continues to surpass my imagination. All I have done since I came here is become increasingly agitated and incensed at the horrific side of human nature. How do I endeavor to escape such a political farce, my own shameful place among participating within this is a wound within which perhaps I will never recover. I am blinded, continually, by my ignorance. Always so blind. This journal has become as if a bible for my stupidity, even though it is almost blasphemous to suggest as such an association with the holy book. Although, this has given me an insight of my experiences toward enlightenment up until this point, and how it is being hampered, or even outright denied. Even I, who have lived a conventional life with a particular institution; I do not comprehend how I have remained so lacking with the intelligence or compassion to learn.

Oliver had taken me to the market, in spite of my obvious exhaustion from the travel and the travel yet to come, to teach me about the “natural inferiority” of the “slave species,” as if they were nothing more than cattle and in truth a lot worse. Oliver was acting as if they were intolerable, as he spoke of “them” and “their problems,” spitting out the words as if they were dirty. I almost asked him that if they repelled him so much, why was he so keen to own them. What stopped me is the knowledge that he would buy them anyway, and then attempt to prove why they are so inferior. Rather, he asserted his authority by making them run behind the carriage, stating “trash does not travel with us, either of us at any time, Hallie.” I would rather have ran with them even if I shared his belief‘s than ride with Oliver. It would have been the blessed choice among many evil ones. I have found my word’s in there souls.

Three of the women are young, dusky brown hair that is pinned back so severely as to stretch the skin over skeletal looking cheekbones. The two older women have snow white hair that makes there defeated faces look even more harrowed. There are seven men of mid age, strong and large, meek as babies. They are all here to begin work, except a woman to accompany me and serve the household. Oliver will not have any of the men inside the house, due to a belief that no male entity should ever serve women or participate on any level of household service. This, of all things, is something he feels strongly about.

Oliver and another estate holder were talking at the action of bodies, and the other man suggested that the market such as this was in a large city six days travel west of out estate, but that it provided the best quality stock available. He was only here as there was an estate foreclosure in this area, so there would be available merchandise. The whole three days was immoral and disgusting, these privileged men and women not pretending, but rather believing that there was absolutely nothing wrong with purchasing another human.

Two days after we arrived at the estate, Oliver left for the other market. The house and estate are massive, and yet I am still so very afraid that it will still be not enough to contain us both, the ugly self-righteous presence of Oliver everywhere. I have my own special apartment, set high and away from any main thoroughfare. The size is luxurious compared to the ship and travel accommodation, and for that I am grateful.

The staff quarters are appalling in comparison with what I have. It is a dilapidated building with only one room for all of them. It was overcrowded with the twelve, let alone the eighteen that Oliver brought back. Eight women and ten men, all as dead as the rest of them. There will be five staff for me, the rest for the estate work. He has barley spoken to me since his return. For that, at least I must be grateful.

MAY TWENTY NINE

There is much to tell. Things have not yet calmed. Once the estate had at least started looking like one, Oliver had started to visit me. Upon my subtle attempts to dissuade him, he forced himself upon me after a week of this. And then every night after. Until I became ill and I blooded the bed one night. He was furious, saying that I am here to serve him, that I must create a son. I fear that this cannot end how either one of us expects.

After this incident, Oliver has taken to spending most of the time out in the fields, supervising. He has taken to a quite young boy, one of the workers he named Tarquin. I have no idea where he found the name, how unusual it is. Tarquin must be about 13 or so, and Oliver has this appalling parental act when around him. What Oliver does not see is the hate that fills the boy’s eyes every time he turns his back. Then again, Oliver is so blind, his severe lack of observation of the world beyond himself is incomprehensible. I hope for an end to this trade in souls, and am proud that Tarquin is powerful enough to hate, to fume, to resist all of Oliver’s destruction and damnation, as with this hate means that he can love, and this can give him more, give him a future.

Oliver is also growing frightfully skinny, and often does not eat much, if at all, when he returns to the main house at dusk. He has left me in charge of anything domestic, but there is nothing that escapes his notice. I cannot do anything to assist the living conditions of any one anyway. Oliver resents that the household leftovers, the dinners that he leaves usually untouched, go out to the slaves. He told me it was more useful to burn the food than to give it to “breathing garbage.” I am not enough to defeat this monster I am married to.

I have only been here a short while, yet I lie awake and so rarely sleep, the sorrow of this situation impacting upon me greatly. The darkness of night defines my darkness, that defines the darkness of the day to come. The nightmares I can scarce remember haunt me even in daylight. Sometimes I feel that, as a lady, I should not have to deal with this, the garden parties, the cool elegant beauty of a depraved world. I should be with a husband who is the world as its definition, confident, strong, handsome, and I should be waltzing my way through freedom. But it is not, and now never will be and I can no longer afford to dream of a life that will now not exist. I cannot unremember these people and the cruelty inflicted upon them.

A couple of days ago, Oliver suggested that “the slaves be chained at night.” He noticed the aghast look upon my face, and set out to punish me for it, as he does not like any displays of emotion or dissent in front of the staff. He said that at least rules are to be posted. He started to explain that “If rules are not available, Hallie, inevitably mistakes will be made. Mistakes cannot be undone by anyone by God, and these are the Godless, they are not the children of God. They are mistakes themselves, and along with the mistakes they make, cannot be undone. They must learn the consequences of any unauthorized actions. They must have rules.” Was there any point in telling him most of them cannot read, denied the basic simplicity of education? Being educated and only associating with educated people all his life, Oliver would not consider the possibility that someone may be illiterate, even if he himself considers slaves unworthy of education. This whole situation is such a fallacy, as allowing them self determined decision making and initiative can save lives, can bring fortune, if not to one’s pocket, but to ones soul? That more than anything, to define oneself by the dictatorship of control and power over the ability to segregate others tells more about the devil in you than the sin in them?