Aesthetic

[Original idea]
-trigger warning: racial slurs, slavery, abuse-

      Rarely ever was it a nice night in Clayton West Virginia. Elsie McDo
well came to the conclusion as her bare toes edged to the tip of her porch. The air was sticky and murky, making the flat surface moist and uncomfortable. Elsie grimaced, but continued her descent down the steps of her old home, paint cracking as she made her way to her mailbox.

      Elsie was much of what many West Virginians would call a Yankee. Yankees weren't well liked in the southern Confederacy. Elsie disliked them as much as they hated her. She was born and raised in Gettysburg Pennsylvania. Her father was the owner of a railroad company, so she had the pleasure of a convenient life. Though, she was never spoiled.

      “We McDowell women work as hard as the next man,” Elsie remember her mother telling her, a stern glint in her steely blues.

      “We are beautiful, but we are strong. And someday, when your daddy and I leave this God given Earth, you'll have everything you'll need.”

      Or so her mother thought. It wasn't until the battle of Gettysburg when everything went to hell in a handbasket. Her father's railroad tracks had been ripped up by stray Confederates, leaving them with no income. Soon, all their money began to waste away, and they were forced to move in with their extended family in Virginia. Later that year, Elsie became engaged to Ivan Holloway, another wealthy southern family.

      It was this reason Elsie slipped out in the middle of the night to receive mail. She was waiting for her letter from Ivan.

      Elsie had gotten to know Ivan during her duration of living with him. She had found herself infatuated with his gruff and surly attitude, his matureness, and wiseness. Elsie had always had a childish outlook on life, and he interested her.

       Six months later, he was forced to join the Confederate army.

      “My dearest Ivan, how I miss you,” she murmured to herself.

      Elsie ran a finger across the mailbox, dust coming off in a satisfying sweep. She awaited a letter from Ivan, or Ike as he liked to be called. He always gave her short replies, no more than a paragraph or so, in crude descriptions, and small chatter. It was a miniscule, but appeasing gesture that warmed her blood.

      Not a minute later, a figure appeared in the distance.

     “Lance! Lance darling, do come faster!”

      “Howdy, Miz McDowell,” Lance chuckled, tipping his hat at the strange Northerner, quickening his pace, reaching her.

      “Good evening Lance, do you have a letter for me?” Elsie asked, excitement evident.

      “‘Course,” he said.

       Lance was an African American, or a negro as southerners liked to say. He had a large forehead below a tuft of black, curly textured hair. His eyes were wide, above his wide nose and broader smile, showing off his pearly whites. In contrast, Elsie was pale as could be. Her skin was milky, with a heart shaped face, wide cheekbones, and thick lips below a dainty nose. Rose gold hair tumbled over her left shoulder as she reached out to hug Lance.

      Lance was taken aback. When the Yankee woman let him go, he chuckled and awkwardly shuffled.

      “Here's a paper Miz McDowell. Enjoy yer night.”

      With sweeping gestures, Lance disappeared, and Elsie was over in with excitement. Her feet padded against the grassy ground, then the solid porch. It wasn't more than a moment when she landed on her bed in a childish fit of giggles. She swiftly ripped open the letter casing, which revealed three whole pages.

       “By the fire in God,” she cursed, wide eyed. “I can't believe it!”

      This was the most he had ever written her. It was a treat.

Dear Elsie,

       I'm glad to get a letter from you. Things here in the Confederate army aren't what you'd imagine. We walk in broken boots. Our clothes are torn. Most of us have lost motivation.

How's everything in Clayton?

Here it seems like there's a dark cloud over us, and the only thing making people happy is food and women. Of course, I'd never do anything like that. My southern chivalry wouldn't allow it. You give me hope, Elsie. Your sparkling brown eyes just look deep into me. Your girlish,  soft hands seem to caress my soul. It is only you that keeps me awake and alive.

      Elsie had no idea how to think. Her ability to breathe had long since left her face red. She was astonished. Never had any of Ivan's letters been so detailed, and cheery sounding. It was almost as if he was a completely different person. As the Yankee woman read on, her grip on the fragile paper tightened, tears threatening. Ivan explained battles in extraordinarily well written detail. He told her about the disgusting habits of the southern men - from drinking, to sleeping around, and chewing tobacco.

      As Elsie finished reading, her heart beat faster than a morning train. Her body trembled in unadulterated joy.

      Life continued this way for a few more months. Elsie would stay up until the lights dimmed, and she'd race out in her silk slips, bare feet padding on the grass and dirt. At the sight of one of his letters, her eyes would light up, akin to the night sky.

      “Eloise! Stop dawdling!”

       Elsie frowned as her mother let out a rough bark of frustration. Her mother jerked her thumb towards the door, and Elsie stumbled out the door.

      “Clutzy fool,” she heard her mother mutter as she stepped into the car where her father awaited. Elsie pushed back her tears, and straightened her back. Her mother would never see her weak.

       Ever since the battle of Gettysburg, Elsie's mother had never been the same. She began to yell at Elsie, and hit. She ordered her around like a dog. She was so different from the mother she once knew. Eloise entered the car, and greeted her father.

      “Good morning Elsie,” her daddy called cheerily.

       “Edwin, if you don't start the car were going to be late,” her mother snapped. Her husband didn't bat an eyelash, and placed a kiss on his daughter's forehead. She giggled as his whiskers tickled her chin. Her mother was not amused.

      The ride in the car was silent, absent of music or voices. It would have “irritated Margaret” her father told her once. Elsie huffed, staring out the window. Her family was invited to a formal occasion. It was in honor of the fallen soldiers in their most recent scuffle with the Union. Her father said he absolutely had to come to pay respects, regardless of their opinion on slavery and states rights.

       Her mother disagreed, never failing to insult the southern ways “heathenous and disgusting.”

      “The only thing heathenous is your attitude,” Elsie muttered, thinking of her chivalrous Ivan.

      As the days went on, Elsie only loathed her mother more, and loved her less. In difference, her adoration and respect for Ivan grew to an unimaginable size.

     “I only desire a picture of my precious soon-to-be bride…” Elsie read aloud, her cheeks flaming with heat and embarrassment. Elsie continued to read.

      “I've gathered over the course of our letters that you're the most beautiful woman alive, Eloise. Your have a childish sense of delight, which is refreshing. You see only the good in the best people. You're kind, and can be stubborn. You love to help people, and it's this that makes me love you so. Yes, Eloise, I love you. And when I see you again, I'll wrap you in my arms and whisper it in your ear. I need to be with you again.”

      The paper in Elsie's fists fell to the floor in a heap. The letter fluttered around and deftly landed on her carpeted bedroom floor. Elsie's eyes stared at her olive green wallpaper. It soon began to blur as crystalline droplets fell from her eyes, leaving trails of the salty water behind. Her knees dropped, and a sob escaped from her dry and swollen throat.

      “Ivan,” she cried out in agony. “Come home to me, please.”

       Elsie had come to the cruel realization that it could be any day that her beloved could die. He fought gruesome battles, with bullets flying by and blood caking the ground like Gods art canvas. She could only sob in pain, wracked with agony of the possibility of never seeing Ivan again. She wanted to run her fingers through his smooth black hair, and stare into his dark cognac eyes.

      Eloise Mary Lee McDowell had fallen completely and utterly in love with the man writing her letters.

      Stanley stood with his back to the sunset, eyes deeply boring into the dark side of the sky.

      “Thank you,” a voice said from beside Stanley. It was Ivan Holloway. Stanley glanced at the black haired man who held his stoic expression in place.

      “Don't thank me,” Stanley murmured, voice becoming muffled by the lump in his throat. “I don't deserve it.”

      “She's happy. That's all that matters. Take care of Elsie, will you Stanley? For me?”

       “You know I would. You were a great man, Holloway. There's not a day I don't think about you.” Stanley stared deep at Ivan, and had the urge to hug the man.

        “So are you, Stan.”

      Stanley made his way back from the graveyard, eyes cast downward. It had been three weeks since Ivan Holloway died. He was a brave soldier with a desire to save his country. Stanley would miss the man who he could trust with his life.  But the fact that he had fallen for Ivan's fiancé was something he felt he could never pay back.

      The black man pulled his cap off and ran his fingers through his wild curly hair. Stanley was a tall man, towering over most of the other soldiers with his height of five feet seven inches. His skin was a lighter variety of brown, showcasing his mixed ethnicity. His eyes were a startling blue, and his nose was wide. He was only one of four black men in sector five, but didn't fit in with the black men either.

      Stanley was an oddity. He was neither white nor black, so he was left to his own devices.

      “I should've never written her those letters,” Stanley whispered to himself, wincing. “I should've just told her he died. Nothing’ more.”

      But it hadn't been that simple. Feeling compelled by Elsie's complex wording and creative stories and poem, Stanley couldn't tell such a thing to an innocent and pure soul like her. It would desecrate her very being. But now, as he pretended to be her beloved ‘Ike’ he wished he'd never written anything at all. Being the passionate man he was, Stanley was overcome with a reason to write. A beautiful reason.

      “Hey, negro! Git yerself over here before I bust a cap in yer ugly face,” a white man shouted out. He was drunk, and he could barely walk, but it didn't stop him from stumbling to Stanley's knees.

       “What do you need?” Stanley asked in exasperation.

      “Carry me to camp.”

      “Are you serious?” Stanley groaned, but watched as the man just stared at him until Stanley offered his back to the man. The duo jogged the whole way to the camp, where Stanley dropped off the man at a random cabin, and headed into his own tent to sleep for the night.

      It all happened in a blur. Stanley's legs moved faster as he heard dogs chasing his tail. His breathing was erratic. Sweat dripped into his mouth. He was gonna die.

      “Lord almighty, save this poor man,” Stanley prayed.

       It had been late at night. The man who Stanley had dropped off  - apparently named Vincent -  had been killed. As the members of the sector were questioned, all fingers pointed to Stanley. He was forced into execution, but barely escaped by sprinting away before a bullet could touch him. Now he ran for his life. He was a wanted man.

      “You can run, negro!” Someone spat into the depths of the forest. “But ye can't hide.”

      Stanley stumbled. His ears rang. His throat was dry. His stomach grumbled. He could barely focus on anything as exhaustion leaked into his fatigued body. Never before had Stanley felt the cold, bony fingers of death as clearly as he did now. He had been a house slave. Not a plantation slave.

       A light appeared. Through the dark night, two identical lights appeared before Stanley.

      No longer able to hold himself up, he collapsed, the howling of dogs ripping through the night sky.

—

Elsie is in the picture above. I hope I'm accurately representing the people in that day and age.

If something is incorrect, pls inform Me.