Freedom’s Lone Path
By Sowmya K.
It was June twelfth, 1857, a summer’s day most would sell their souls for. Not too hot, yet not cool; only a slight, tickling breeze prevailed in the silent air. In the center of town, a rich family lived in one of the most expensive houses nestled by the large fields of Texas corn. A man strutted into the house’s spotless living room, a cigar tucked in the corner of his mouth, while carelessly sporting a glass of deep red wine in his wobbling left hand.
“Careful, now, William,” a woman warned, cuddled cozily in a wooden rocking chair, with a sewing needle and thread clutched in her hand. “The wine is about to spill!”
“Yes, Margaret, I know,” William grumbled to his wife, pulling the cigar out from between his teeth as he swiftly walked across the room and hoisted himself onto the coffee table. “They were givin’ me attitude,” he snarled, taking a generous swig of his drink. “That’s why I’m back home so late.”
“Were they now,” Margaret smirked. “You taught them a lesson, didn’t you, dear?”
“Course I did,” William replied, tiredness lining the wrinkles across his forehead as he set the wine glass down beside him. The entire living room was lavishly decorated. A baby blue carpet adorned the wooden floor, and the fireplace was decoratively draped with a fancy, cream colored cloth. Closing his eyes, William rubbed his balding head and lifted his arms into a stretch.
“William!” Margaret cried out abruptly. “Be careful!” But it was too late. As William’s arms dropped back down to his sides, the wine glass tipped over, falling to the ground. The dark red beverage oozed out of its container, leaving a large red blotch on the light blue carpet. Suddenly, a young, African American woman, who had served the family as a slave for many years, appeared from within the kitchen, drawn to the commotion.
“Is everything okay?” she inquired, smoothing her torn, crumpled dress. Margaret turned her head away from the stain, instead fixing her gaze upon the woman’s face. The exasperated look in her eyes melted as they coldly flashed.
“No, my dear Samantha, everything is fine,” Margaret replied, sarcasm and mockery dripping off of every syllable.
“Would you like me to do anything for you, ma’am?” Samantha asked, a slight edge to her voice. Margaret looked her up and down, left and right, her beady, narrowed eyes darting across Samantha’s expressionless face, as though searching for a sign of disobedience.
“Did I just hear disrespect?”
“No, ma’am, you must be imagining it.” Though hundreds of arguments clouded Samantha’s bursting brain, that was all she could muster the courage to say.
“Are you talking back?” warned Margaret in a deadly whisper, lowering her voice drastically.
“No, ma’am, I just wanted to know if you needed me.”
“I would have expected you to start scrubbing the rug already,” Margaret said nastily. “But of course, you need wits to realize that don’t you?” Samantha blushed in embarrassment, heat rising up to her cheeks. “Pity you don’t have them, ain’t it? If any of y’all did, I wouldn’t be wasting time talking to people like you, would I?” Margaret spat on the ground in disgust, turning her arrogant back on Samantha. “This better be clean by the time we’re back!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Margaret then left the room, along with her husband, William, leaving to a party they had been boasting about for days. After they both disappeared from sight, Samantha sank to the floor and groaned, dreading the work