I'm kinda on a 60's kick.
I was nothing but skin and bones the day I arrived at their house. Barely human by my standards. Or anyone elses for a matter of fact. I done walked a thousand miles before I came up to that place and I would've walked a thousand more if it wasn't for Mrs Bail.
Mrs Bail didn't actually own the house, she was just the house keeper there, but she could spot a dying girl when she saw one. The woman dragged me into that house faster than the a current would. I suppose she saw something in me. Either that or she didn't want a black girl dying on her doorstep in the middle of the summer. But I preferred to believe the former. A black person dying on your land was the only thing that scared a white person more than actually losing their land. Death was about the only thing that could bring a middle aged man to his knees in fear. I guess they thought that we would haunt them or something. And I didn't want to believe that fear was the only thing that kept me in that house as long as it did.
I hadn't stayed in that house longer than five minutes before I knew I wasn't welcome. A person can tell where they're not wanted in the first 45 seconds of visiting a place and it don't take much intelligence to figure something like that out. Mr Clark made it obvious enough. He was the type of man that made no attempts to hide his displeasure towards you. Wouldn't mind cussing you out in the hallways either. But as the owner of the house I knew not to reciprocate. I could've dished out obscenities to him like a three course meal by midday. But I'd have gotten kicked out quicker than I could say sorry.
Mr Clark hadn't taken it too kindly that his housekeeper had invited a complete stranger into his dwelling. Let alone a black one. The man kept pacing around the room like he was stomping out fires. Kept breathing like a lunatic too. It was as if he'd never seen a damn black girl before in his entire life. If it wasn't for his speed I would have lassoed the man. Stop him for long enough to tell him that the floor boards were wearing thin. Stop him from forgetting that I was no foreigner to that house.
Sometimes it's better to find your own ending then to have it written in stone.
And I was never one to finish a story.
I think the most tragic trait a person could ever possess is to believe that they themselves are entitled to the world. A fool so self righteous that to them suffering is nothing but a broken heel or split end or two. Most people don't even know how good they've got it. And there ain't anything worse than seeing a rich girl wallow in her own self pity over nothing more than an 18 hour car ride to Sweden. God forbid you tell that girl to swallow her pride. There ain't much that's more infuriating than trying to argue with a person who ain't got a humble bone in their body.