trigger warning: murder, death, slavery
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It could have been a coincidence, or fate. Eloise didn't know if it was either. But as she drove her father's buggy down the old dirt road, her fingers drummed on the wheel. It had been two weeks since she received a letter from Ivan. Be it a busy schedule, or forgetfulness, she felt sad. It was her escape from the real world. All around her life crumbled. Her parents marriage strained. The economy was just as bad.

      It seemed no matter where Elsie went, a dark shadow was in tow.

      As if from thin air, something dark appeared before Elsie and hit her car with a hard “thunk.” Eloise slammed her foot on the brake as her father showed her. It was forbidden by her mother to learn to drive, but her father taught her in secret. The couple were at a dinner with the Holloway's, so she decided to take Bessie for a ride.

      “Oh my Lord,” Elsie screamed, jumping out of the car to check on the thing she hit.

      It was a young man. He was African American, and obviously unconscious. Tears spring to Elsie's eyes, and she bent over to check if the man was alive. His heart still beat. Elsie panicked, and tried to lift the man, but he was simply too heavy. She bit her lip, drawing blood. The woman ran to the trunk of the car and pulled out a wagon. She quickly got the man into the wagon and then used a wooden board to drag him into the back seats. Once he was secured, she left.

      She couldn't possibly bring him home. Her mother would never allow it. So she headed to see Mr. Mic. Mr. Mic was an old mechanic. He ran a good oil business some ways down West Virginia, and was a pleasant man. Eloise pulled up in Mr. Mics lawn, banging on his door in her shock and panic.

      “What in tarnation are you doin’ out this late?” Mic shouted as the door creaked open.

      “Mic!” Elsie shouted, pointing at her vehicle. “I hit a man, a black one, on my way through that old dusty road.”

      Mic didn't hesitate to step out into his front yard and pull the man out from the back seat. Elsie followed closely behind, her face set in a worried expression. The man was so still it was scary to watch Mitch clean his wounds.

      It wasn't until six hours later that Stanley arose. His head felt groggy, vision murky and constantly unfocusing.

      “Ya finally awake?” A voice asked, making Stan's head whip to the side. It was a bad move, considering it ached.

      “Calm down boy, ain't nobody tryna whoop you,” Mic said, smacking his knee as he laughed. Stanley sat up, with help from the white man - Mic he said his name was - and was given a hot cup of black coffee. Grateful, Stanley finished it off with a bowl of gumbo, Louisiana style.

      “Mic, is he awake?”

      A melodic voice came from the stairway. Stanley's head shot to where he heard the angelic voice and froze. A beauty awaited Stanley. She wore a pale pink dress, going down to her mid calves. Her hair was hanging down, fly aways present in her rose gold locks. Her face instantly transformed into one of pure joy as she leapt from the stairs.

     “Are you okay?” the woman asked Stanley. He nodded, his head spinning.

     “Well, that’s good. Who are you?” she said, curiosity painting her features a bright blend of colors. Stanley couldn't help but be mesmerized her her. He had never seen anyone so bright and happy and...unique before. She was something of an oddity. As a slave for most of his life, he was never given kindness from anyone but his family. Except his father. His father had been a rich plantation owner, and his mother was the white man’s mistress. Stanley shook off the unsettling thought, and replied to the rose gold princess before him.

      “My name is Stanley, ma’am.”

      Mic rubbed his chin. “Ain’t ya got a last name, boy?” Stanley wrinkled his brow. As a child, he asked his mother the same thing. She only told him that it's not his business having a last name. Later, Stanley learned the truth. His father didn’t want to give him his last name. He was a rich, white man. He was a poor slave child.

      “No sir,” Stanley replied grimly.

      “Well, it’s no matter,” the woman hummed. “I’m Eloise McDowell, pleased to meet you Stanley.”

     The blood in Stanley seemed to freeze. His breath ceased, and no words left his aperture. ‘It’s her,’ he exclaimed inside of himself. ‘I finally am meeting her...but she won't ever know it’s me.” A weight settled on Stanley, like a bag of brick settled on his shoulders.

      “I know who you are,” he said slowly. “Holloway used to talk about you all the time, Ms. McDowell.”

      A chiming bell like laugh left the lungs of Eloise. “That’s so sweet. And please call me Elsie, I feel old. After all, I’m only twenty one.”

      Stanley smiled. “You don’t look a day over eighteen. I’m close to nineteen, my mother said.”

      “Close to nineteen?” Mic chimed in, crossing his arms and leaning casually on the couch Stanley sat on. The young man bit his lip, glancing at Elsie. She seemed concerned. Her brows were wrinkled. Stanley felt a pang in his chest as he felt the desire to make her smile. She had the most wonderful smile, better than the lone picture he carried of her, along with his best friend. They were the only thing left that he cared about. His mother was murdered. His grandfather was dead. He was the only one left. He only had himself. And now, he wanted it to be himself and Eloise. He had never loved anyone else as much as he did to her. He didn’t have to see her face to know it was soft. It was as if they were meant to be from the start.

      “Stanley? Stanley, darling, are you okay?”

      It was the sweetest voice he’d ever head. “Of course,” he proclaimed, but he was slipping inside.
      
      News traveled fast in Clayton. All the talk was about the missing black soldier who was up for trial. It had been a week since Stanley had been at Mic’s little home, still recovering from the broken ribs he had been given. His head constantly rang up thoughts of Elsie, and guilt would strike him like a viper.

      “Stanley! Stanley!” Eloise called out, waving the young man down.

      “Hello Elsie,” he grinned, wiping his hands off and standing up from his gardening position. Sweat dripped down his forehead, and he wiped it self consciously.

      “I found the most amazing thing! I think you'll enjoy it! Come with me!” She exclaimed.

      Stanley had no choice but to follow after the girl whom he adored. Eloise dragged him through a path in the forest, ferns and shrubs all brushing on his side. The sun was setting, but Elsie was grinning just as wise as when they started their journey. Her hand clutched Stanley's in a tight hold. As the sky darkened, Stanley felt a strange aura surround him. His heart began sinking, his throat clogged with some unknown lump. Fog drifted through the air, chills descending upon Stanley. Eloise's cold hands tightened on his own palms, nearly breaking him. She turned around, but a shadow was casted over her.

      “Elsie?” Stanley whispered.
      An eerie laugh came from within the shadow.

      “Stanley dearest, tell me, do you know the whereabout of my son in law?”

      “Elsie? You have a son in law?”

      Elsie stepped out from the shadows. It was not Elsie, but a mere look alike. She had the same flaxen hair, and the smile that could freeze him. But he hasn't realized her eyes were a chilly, dull blue.

      The imposter threw her head back and barked out a laugh. “I'm Eloise's mother, Margaret. I found you, I need the money, you'll be sold. All is well, Stanley,” Margaret laughed chillingly.

       “Let me go!” Stanley shouted, ripping his arm from the woman's grip, only to trip and land on his forearms.

      “Anesthetic, put into a nice glass of water. A nice way to keep one...murky,” Margaret drawled, her smile twitching violently. She was insane, her pupils hardly there, showing the icy blue beneath. Stanley tried to crawl away from the mother of his beloved, but soon his limbs no longer moved, and his body was limp.

      “There's no use trying, I have five men surrounding us with guns. All Confederate deserters wanting a piece of… Elsie. A bargain, if you will.”

      Stanley's teeth ground against each other, raw anger filling him inside.

      “You hurt her,” he growled. “You hurt her and I'll kill you.”

      The moon was bright, dimly shining down on everyone. The agrees in the forest bent right, their leaves brushing, creating a cacophony of sounds. Cicada bugs twiddled, whilst the heavy breathing of Stanley echoed in the vast clearing. His heartbeat echoed in his ears. Stanley licked his lips, when he heard a rustle in the shrubbery.

      A shadow appeared, startling Stanley and Margaret, both confused. The shadow stepped forward, and moved its arms at an awkward angle. There was a moment a silence.

      BANG! A puff of smoke wafted into the night sky.

      Margaret tumbled to the ground tumultuously, her body seizing and convulsing.

       Out from the darkness, Elsie appeared, Mic by her side, holding a gun. Her tears stained her cheeks.

      “Stanley, it was you, wasn't it? It was you, Stanley, who wrote my letters,” she questioned desperately.

       “How did you find out?” He asked her harshly.

       “My parents found out Ivan died. I just pulled the pieces together. It was fate, Stanley. We were meant to be.”

      Stanley was quiet as the whistle chimed by him. He could see himself as a child, slaving through the day. He could see himself as a soldier, killing men for freedom and lack thereof. He could remember being set free, and then being thrown into a war he didn't understand. Then, he could see Elsie. He could see her wealthy life and parents. And then, without warning it crumbled. She was tied down. She couldn't drive, or drink. She was forbidden from doing anything but cooking and raising children.

      “Ivan thinks so,” he said, gazing at the moons.

      “I believe it was the working of God, Elsie. You're my angel,” he said, turning to look at her.

      There was a click, and then the world went black. 

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