I am Alastor De La Tour, a Louisiana Creole. My mother and I had just arrived in Virginia, and I didn't know if I should feel relieved. We had just fled a place where the people of New Orleans made life miserable for anyone less than bright white in color.
My father was a white man who lost everything. After his first wife divorced him, he began staying with my mother. He was never a good father, nor a good husband. If I didn't bring home enough money from selling newspapers to fund his drinking habit, or if I dared speak of my half-brothers, he would beat me. My mother was no exception; he always let out his drunken rage on her. He was deeply ashamed that he was living with a woman he considered a "lesser being"—a maid who cleaned other people's houses—and he saw me as a half-black, half-white abomination simply because of my tan skin and brown hair. To him, I was a monstrosity he had created, one he felt he had the right to erase whenever he pleased. In a world where people like my mother and me had no value, his threats felt all too real.
But we had finally escaped. We slipped out into the night, leaving behind the horrible man I was forced to call my father.
Now, we were somewhere new. I hoped that maybe here I wouldn't be tormented for the color of my skin, that my mother might find better wages, and that perhaps she could even afford to send me to school. But hoping felt dangerous. I just wanted a life where we could survive without being judged for our blood or the labor we did to stay alive. I was terrified of what would happen if my mother couldn't find work, if the people here were worse, or if some wealthy man set his eyes on my young mother, tricking her with false promises of love. If that happened, I swore I would kill him.
I had thought about it all so much that I had simply stopped feeling. What was the point of emotions when the people around us cared more about the scuffs on their leather shoes than our pain and tears? They treated us worse than dogs. After seeing the cruel, true colors of the world, I struggled to even muster a genuine smile for my mother. But I smiled anyway. I smiled like no one else could, because I didn't want the world to know my true intentions. Sensitivity is a weakness, and a smile is a tool—something to keep your enemies guessing. I was a new person now, leaving my past self behind.
For the first five hours in Virginia, I didn't see a single colored person. All I saw were wealthy white folk in tailored suits and fine gowns. I held my mother's hand as we walked along the pavement, enduring the strange, judging looks of passersby. I guessed this place would be no different.
After a while, my mother returned to me with a face full of joy. She had secured a position as a housekeeper for a wealthy, prominent family. They had a small servant's room we could live in, and the pay was generous enough that school might actually be a possibility. It felt as though God had finally blessed us. We gathered our meager belongings and approached the estate of Mr. Wittmen, a highly regarded figure in Virginia.
I was happy as we walked in, but little did I know my life was approaching a disastrous turning point.
I watched Mr. Wittmen discuss the layout of the house with my mother. Then, he turned to me. He told me that his only son, Vincent, suffered from a "peculiar and fragile disposition of the mind," and instructed me to be "accommodating" to him. In his language, accommodating meant I was to be his friend, his court jester, his distraction. Look after him, he ordered. At first, I assumed the boy was an invalid. I had no idea how obsessive and possessive he would become. He was worse than a living nightmare; it felt like a sickness eating me from the inside. Even though he never raised a hand to me, by the end of it all, I couldn't decide who was worse: him or my father.
Before I met Vincent, I studied the family portraits in the hall. He looked to be around my age. Curiously, one of his eyes was blue, and the other was teal. His black hair was slicked back, with premature streaks of gray—perhaps a side effect of his condition.
I unpacked my few belongings in the small room assigned to us and peeked out into the corridor. My mother was already on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floorboards. I wandered out, mostly because I had never seen such staggering luxury in my life. Soon, I spotted Mr. Wittmen's spoiled heir sitting in the parlor.
I knew I had to play it cool. One wrong word could leave my mother and me on the streets. Mr. Wittmen practically owned the city; we were nothing but worms to them. What did he think I was? A plaything for his son? A doll to be used, and if it broke, daddy could just throw it out and buy a new one? I approached him with a charming, practiced smile, standing silently beside the sofa.
He turned his head sharply to face me.
"You must be the new housekeeper's boy," he said, his mismatched eyes scanning me up and down, taking in my clothes. My attire was decent enough for a servant's son. He gave me a friendly look. He seemed incredibly easy to manipulate, and I fully intended to take advantage of that.
I simply nodded, watching his every move.
"Do come and sit down," he insisted, his eyes fixed on me as he gestured to the cushion beside him.
"Thank you, sir, but I prefer to stand," I replied. I knew better; many white households believed people of color carried diseases, and I wasn't going to overstep my bounds.
"No, please. Sit," he urged, suddenly reaching out and grabbing my wrist.
I could feel the blood rushing in his veins. The sudden touch sent a wave of absolute disgust through me. The friction of his hand against my skin was unbearable. I despised being touched by anyone other than my mother.
"Unhand me!" I hissed, violently snatching my arm away.
He was taken aback. For a split second, he looked at me with pure, confused concern. Oh no, I thought, my heart dropping. I've ruined it. If he told his father I had snapped at him, we would be cast out before nightfall. I had to repair the damage immediately.
"I beg your pardon, sir. I did not mean to startle you," I said smoothly, turning on the charm. "I simply become nervous when approached so suddenly." I already knew how he would respond; I was shaping the conversation exactly how I needed it to go.
"Think nothing of it. I quite understand," he said, recovering quickly. "I am Vincent Wittmen. You are acquainted with my father, I presume?"
"Indeed," I said, forcing a polite smile. I fully expected this spoiled heir to spend the entire afternoon boasting about his wealth and status.
"And you?" he asked.
I looked at him closely. So, he's going to play pretend, I thought. He's going to act as though he actually cares who I am. I refused to view this boy as a true friend. To him, I was just a lesser creature to be used. But, for the sake of survival, I would play along.
"I am Alastor De La Tour, from Louisiana."
"Ah. I could tell you weren't from these parts," he noted.
My jaw clenched, rage bubbling in my chest. You've already lost the little respect I had for you, I thought. Though I wanted to throw him through the parlor window, I kept my mouth shut.
I simply nodded, my teeth grinding behind my closed lips.
"Say, would you care to see my collection?" he asked, his voice suddenly bright with excitement.
"Certainly, sir," I replied. What else was I supposed to say? I had no free will in this house. I was merely his entertainment. Though he looked a year older than me, he acted like a child whose brain had stopped developing entirely.
I followed him down the hall until he opened a heavy oak door. I stepped inside, and my jaw nearly dropped. The walls were plastered with illustrations of sharks. The room was overflowing with them—stuffed cloth sharks, shark-themed garments, a vast assortment of nautical oddities. I felt like I was losing my grip on sanity.
"There we are. What do you think?" he asked eagerly.
"It is... most unique, Master Vincent," I lied, feeding his ego. This boy needed an asylum, not a menagerie of fish. His obsession was entirely unnatural. I prayed I wouldn't be dragged into this madness, but if keeping him happy kept a roof over my mother's head, I would praise his stuffed fish all day long.
"You know, Alastor, if anything catches your eye, you may have it," he said, looking down at the floor.
"I appreciate your charity, but my mother would scarcely approve," I said. Great, we're on a first-name basis now, I sneered internally. Keep your garbage to yourself. "My apologies. I meant no offense," Vincent said, laughing awkwardly and rubbing the back of his neck. His face flushed a deep red.
Is he blushing? I thought, my stomach churning. Over a simple exchange? God, he's revolting. I needed to calm down. The veins in my neck were pulsing, and sweat was already clinging to my white cotton shirt under the immense stress of the charade.
"Forgive me, Vincent," I corrected myself smoothly. "I should be glad to see the rest of your collection."
"Splendid! I have much more to show you," he beamed, pulling a large wooden crate from beneath a table.
For a painful, excruciating hour, I nodded along as he babbled incessantly about his maritime obsessions. My blood pressure felt high enough to burst my veins. Finally, salvation arrived: I heard my mother calling my name from the corridor. Thank you, Mama.
"Forgive me, Master Vincent, but my mother requires my assistance. I must take my leave," I said, offering him an apologetic look.
"Of course. It is growing late anyway. We shall converse more tomorrow," he said.
I nodded and walked out without looking back. Converse tomorrow? I thought frantically. I needed to feign a terrible illness and lock myself in my quarters for a week just to recover from his presence.
I hurried back to our small room. My mother was already unrolling our thin mattresses on the floor. Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, I began to unbutton my sweat-soaked shirt.
But as I exhaled, something happened that would keep me awake for the rest of the night.
I glanced toward the door. Vincent was standing there, his head leaning into our room. He wasn't even attempting to hide the fact that he was spying on us. My first furious thought was that he was glaring at my mother—the perverse aristocratic creep. But when I looked at her, she was fully dressed and turned away.
He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at me.
My heart stopped beating. My white shirt was thoroughly soaked, half-unbuttoned, and hanging off my shoulders. I knew from the moment I met him that there was something wrong with him, but this was an entirely different level of depravity. I had never felt so violently violated in my life. My hands began to shake, and I felt lightheaded.
Slowly, I turned my head to meet his mismatched eyes. As soon as I caught him, he vanished into the dark hallway.
I scrambled to the door, bolted it shut, and collapsed onto my mattress. I was safe for the moment, but we lived under the same roof. There was no escaping him. He made my skin crawl in a way I couldn't describe. I wanted to disappear, but if I ran, my mother would be left alone in this hell.
I closed my eyes, trying desperately to scrub the image of his staring face from my mind, and began to plot exactly what I needed to do to survive the morning.