Thursday. VI/4th, MMCV

 

The beatings were light today. I remember when I first was sold to the Count. ‘Twas he and his son who often hit me. Mostly in the mornings as bonding activity. Indeed, they are closer for it. It is important, after all, for a man to father his son.

Sunday. VI/14th, MMCV

I wonder how Mother is doing? I have often thought of mailing her, but poor Mother dear is still stoned in an age where communication was instantaneous. The War took care of that; it took care of many things. But poor Mother, denied by reality. I should mail her.

Sunday. VII/12th, MMCV

 

‘Twas quite fierce today, but heat is aged to me. Born in Arabia, raised in Persia, the Sun is my sister, closely adored and despised at once. The Count pays me the most attention this day, after Church. I suppose God drives lust in men.

 

Wednesday. VII/29th, MMCV

 

Today, a slave tried escape. She raced under the blanket of the night to know of freedom. Freedom – the breast of life, the cup of pleasure. But she was hunted for her treachery. Hunted and torn. Such is life, such is life. Freedom now is death, death now is freedom.

Monday. VIII/10th, MMCV

 

New slaves were inducted. I am tasked as head mistress of the Count to learn them the ways of the plantation. As I write, I weep. When last had I wept? I weep not for them, but I, who suffers to further the hand of tyranny.

Saturday. VIII/29th, MMCV

 

The Count has gone to Colombia to conduct business, leaving me and his other servants, along with his wife and boy, alone. Often, I ponder the War of the World and the War of Colombia. Such women lost, such lives waned, such children pained – what is war but a pillager of life?

Tuesday. IX/1st, MMCV

 

My sister slaves have approached me today. The Count has deigned them the deed of choosing among themselves which should be of his personal concubines. Fierce with youth, rife with rage, they all concoct a plan to kill him – youth, youth – and ask my aid. I rejected, but hoped.

Tuesday. IX/8th, MMCV

My young sisters, how I pity them. Such hatred for their slavery, such impatience. How I implored the Count mercy, yet they are to be burned like Witches. Cruelty… or, perhaps, freedom found in fire? I know not which, only grief… and broken rage.

Friday. X/16th, MMCV

The days grow cold and short. The Count is to be stationed beyond Colombia and has tasked me to acquaint him. His wife and he of late have quarreled. I wonder of her heart? How feels she of a mistress? How I? And in reflection, I feel dead and suspect so as well of she.

Wednesday. XI/11th, MMCV

 

The Señora has been publicly put to death, accused of adultery. How many wives have men put to death for this claim? How I hate men, how I hate women; how I hate the sky, how I hate the sea; how I hate this world, how I hate myself.

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