These Chains Won't Break Me

Chapter 1

He grabbed me by the throat and smacked my cheeks. It was like a blistering sting. Almost as if one of the honey bees flying near the entrance of the barn stung me. I became so enraged and wanted to spit dead in his face. Yet I held back because I remember vivid threats of what he would do to my whole family. His aura reeked of pure evil. What kind of man could have done something so demeaning? After being forced to take on so much agony and pain. One's heart grows cold and the mind fills with rage.

Tempted to take revenge, yet terrified of potential punishment. Some days I gave in to that temptation. Using their toothbrushes to clean the toilet, leaving hair in the food I prepared. Yet, nothing could compare to the stone cold look in their eyes. No matter the situation, I'd never take out my frustrations on their youth. Their children's skin were pail, yet cheeks were warm and rosey. I was fond of the youngest girl. Kate struck me as sweet and innocent. Sometimes she'd sneak in to give me rolls that I baked since the break of dawn. So many times we would laugh and talk while everyone else snored loudly. See being in this situation allowed no time to be careless and free as she was. I admired her adventurous outlook on everything. It gave me hope that one day this will all be over.

As we both grew older our interest became different. She was into guys, however I despised men. Nothing could make me feel any respect for any man after what her father did. I couldn't bear to look at Masta at times even though he so closely resembled my daughter. Sometimes I would say little things referencing how much she looked like her father. Managing not to slip up and let her know the truth. She didn't need to bear the scars of knowing what that man did to me. I was only but a child myself when I had her. Plus how was I to have her reference him, Yes father...or Masta? Although heart broken from the abuse, what lay outside those kitchen walls was a nightmare.

Chilled nights now pierced my melanated skin. Leaving our feet bare and exposed to whatever crawled in the barn was another way he despised us all. I didn't know it at the time, but I was chosen by him and got
what others felt as unfair treatment. I don't think they understood how bad I really had it. The pain of labor was enough, but to be thrown to the wolves like nothing was far more excruciating. I had to stare others in the eyes while finding ways to reassure them I was equal. However, in all reality I wasn't. I was raised on some pedestal I never wanted. Lashes that I was forced to witness done to others, because I did wrong hit the pit of my gut with eternal pain.

If only they felt what I felt, they would understand. Anytime Masta reached out for my hand to lead me towards a tree. I squirmed as he forced me to take in blunt force without a whimper. At times I wanted to shout out loud for him to get off me. He took my innocence over and over. I wonder what went through his head at times. What could've made this sick bastard with a daughter himself, do this to me? I found myself watching closely after his daughter made sure he didn't get to her. I would never want anyone to relive such a tragedy. I replayed the abuse in my mind. I even prayed for my Lord to strike him dead. Yet I'd wake up from the cold hay and be disappointed each day.

The others were forced to fields to pick cotton. Sun rays would lash them and ricochet off welps scarring their skin. I got chills every time I saw them, and felt guilty as he wanted me to. Somehow after all the pain and suffering sweet notes would reach my ear. Melodies of spiritual hymns gave me a false sense of hope. I would watch out the window at times with just enough of a crack to hear them.

My hands withered and slit from the repeated lashes from steel. See I also suffered physically at the hands of Masta. I had so many burn marks on my wrist, from grabbing biscuits way too soon. And my knuckles were about the size of men from scrubbing the kitchen floors. My knees nearly buckled at first attempt coming about, cracking like warped wood as if I came of age. Barely old enough to bear a child, yet because of him my hips were wide as chairs. My back would creek with agony, yet I had to bare it.

My daughter stood beside me as Masta had me show her the ropes. While I feared what was to come of her as she aged. Tears would stain the floor, if only I could let him witness them. I stayed strong for my heart and soul, she stayed strong for me as well. If not for her light skin and her little sister's eyes, she'd be a mirror image of me. Maturing at such a young age as she reached to help me with our last few chores. I hate that he puts me through this over and over. As if she didn't share his blood, eyes and even stubborn ways. He continued to shun me in front of her, as if I meant nothing. Undermining any authority I had over her without any shame.

Sometimes Massa's guests would throw silverware on the floor and demand I pick them up. Some have even wasted fine China at the path of my bare feet, barely leaving room to walk towards the broom. Usually ending with shards of glass lodged in my feet with trails of blood I was to scrub. Masta would stop them at times he felt they went too far. It left me wondering at times if he had true feelings for me. He always made regards to me costing him a pretty penny. Making jokes to remind me to him I was worth no more than lint and pocket change. A reminder it was, which hit like a sharp blade to the stomach. Sick as it sounds I did have some sorts of feelings for him. I don't know maybe it was because he was the only man that penetrated me, even though forced and excruciating.

Although I felt cold, confused and tired after he continued his attempt to penetrate my soul. Somehow though angry I never grew hateful. Hate is a powerful word that I don't believe lived in any of us. Hate would've drove myself and those picking cotton to kill our enemy, lash out at those who even resembled them. Hate was as cold as the skin pressed against me.

Masta, as he preferred, hated us all equally. For whatever reason, he and his whole flock of associates seemed to have this deep hatred of our array of colored skin. How could you hate someone you don't know or even have to engage with? I could feel this evil knocking at my door, but I only stood tempted refusing to engage with it.

After his guest left he forced himself on me in a way to remind me of that evil. He spit in my face as he scolded me for the mess I made once he was done. I was no more than his piece of meat that he did with as he saw fit, less than a chicken in its coop. Ending a long night accompanied with hay, blistering winds, and those who envied me. If only they understood what I really went through. Generationally cursed to never feel love from a man. I knew very little of my mother and father, only that I was conceived from the sac of a filthy Masta and kitchen slave.