i . THE BAYOU'S DAUGHTER
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OH, THESE VIOLENT DELIGHTS
SINNERS

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|| THERE'S A MULTITUDE OF FLASHES FOLLOWING IN RAPID SECESSION—FILTERED WITH MUFFLED SOUNDS OF SCREAMS. Frantic shouts suffice of sorrow claim the once calm atmosphere. Voices pleading forth commands to another in desperation.

There's flashes of red splashed across the wall like a poor attempt at artistry. Whistles of sharpened arrows flicker by, of a thudding that follows the brightened lines as each slices through a body. A young woman looks up from her hands upon the floor—her body weaken and shaking.

A lone object lays beside her. But her sight fixes upon the blurry figures before her—dressed of uniforms, guns in hand. Her eyes slowly widened upon the grinding and rattling of a death machine approaching. A few men began shouting in a frenzy, pointing helplessly at the  approaching crowd.

As the surroundings that once gave her a feeling of safety become increasingly hostile—a firm hand grabs ahold of her weakened arm. Reality kicks in as the fear claims her shivering hands. The young woman's eyes quickly flicker over to a fellow woman. Her lips move slightly. But it's as if time had slowed to a crawl as she spoke, with her words never matching up pass their designated mark. They are slowed, garbled—but her panicked features say it all.

Before the girl has any chance to react, a man comes rushing over the bodies of the fallen—she feels a sudden tightness firmly grab ahold of her chest before being pushed against the wall. Dazed, her ears settle upon the humming of a pistol firing. Her voice slowly rings out, calling for the fellow woman by name, one that always seems to evade her knowledge—only to be masked by the surrounding chaos.

A barely audible wrenching scream rages up from within her, reaching her hand out... When a voice that seemed so familiar echos before her...

Darella...It calls, haunting, melodic in its way..

Hearing it makes her body shattered, a theme that has been in her every dream. Her eyes frantically switch from side to side—looking for the source. But she never finds it in time... She closes her eyes immediately, clenching them so tight—there's a sharp pain from within. But as everything around her disappears, the song like melody of her name call once more.

The pressure is lifted from her body and as her eyes open, the attacking solider is gone—but for only a moment when a hand of sharpened claws appears, trying to pull her forth from the flames that threatened to consume her...

"Come bow my Dari de .." The voice grumbles just as she screams forth, as something slowly appears before her sight... a man...

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      || EYES OF PALE BROWN SNAP OPEN—WITH A HARSH GRASP FOR AIR TUNNELING FROM TREMBLING LIPS. Pupils dilated upon the mellowing hues of beige and yellow above. Her chest quite upheaved with every breath shallowing escaping. A cold sweat has taken upon her forehead—snaking down across her cheekbones.

Her lids held beneath lightened brows, flutter faultily, shaking slightly as her eyes adjust. With Her heart pounding against its jail, the young woman remains still. Glancing around the room suspicious— paranoid that the horror may have followed her yet again. But upon a few half blinks, all that came into view was the lonely door positioned straight ahead—nothing more. No guns, no ghost that haunted her every sleep, no fire...

In the quiet aftermath, there is a gentle sigh of relief, like a cleansing tide washing away the lingering shadows of terror. Her body protests slightly, emitting a groan of discomfort as she braces herself for movement—using her arms to push herself upright. The tension that had gripped her neck dissipates with a satisfying crack.

Darella extends her arms to their full span, feeling the muscles stretch and awaken. Before deftly swinging her feet over the bed's ledge—-preparing to start the day. Taking a moment to gather her scattered thoughts, Darella braces herself. Social interactions have never been her forte, and she was keenly aware of her lack of social finesse.

Darella grew up beneath the sprawling oaks draped with Spanish moss. In a small, weathered house nestled on the edge of the bayou. From a young age, she knew the meaning of resilience, a trait instilled in her by the ever-shifting waters of the swamp and the stern hand of her father, Marcel. The air was always thick with the scent of wet earth and the melodies of cicadas harmonizing with the croaks of bullfrogs—-a symphony only appreciated by those who called the bayou home.

Often, Darella's steps were cautious, echoing the softness of her demeanor. She was described by those who knew her as timid, often choosing silence as her companion. This reticence was not due to a lack of words or thoughts but rather a protective shield she had crafted over the years. Her lineage was of Cajun descent, the descendants of the French Acadians—ones that were pushed out of Canada by the British for not conforming.

Growing up, she had always sensed the undercurrents of unspoken judgments that flowed beneath polite conversations. The whispers, painted them as different—-as if being different was something to be wary of. And so, Darella learned to navigate her world quietly, her footsteps light, her presence unobtrusive.

Yet, the world beyond the bayou looked upon Darella and her family with eyes clouded by misunderstanding. At school, whispers followed her like shadows. "Swamp girl," they'd call her, never understanding the history of her people that flowed through her veins like the Mississippi River carving its path.

Darella fought to fit into a society that never liked different. She learned to balance the charm of her Cajun tongue with the crisp English required to blend into the world beyond the swamp. Music and food had been her refuge, the soulful notes of zydeco and the spicy warmth of gumbo connecting her to her roots—plus offering a bridge to those curious enough to understand.

The brunette leans slightly forward, lowering her head down upon her hands. Her elbows dig into her thighs, taking the weight of a mind plagued with terror. As her dark hair cascades around her face, she squeezes her eyes shut, blocking out the bright light around her as though the very shadows themselves bore witness to her anguish.

Darella's jaw cracks beneath the pressure of her grinding teeth, a subconscious effort to muffle the silent screams echoing within her. Her throat feels raw and agitated, tingling even as she swallows. She couldn't remember if she had been yelling aloud or if it was just the cacophony of her thoughts bouncing off the walls of her mind.

The gentle rustle of the wind against the window enveloped Darella in a soothing lull. The hum was a lullaby attempting to coax her into calm, though it barely reached her heart.

A sharp inhale escapes her lips as though she were surfacing from underwater. Her nails slowly dig into her scalp, clenching her brunette strands beneath them. Anger bubbles beneath her surface, threatening to spill over. With a grunt, her hands quickly release—falling back beside her.

Her eyes dart to the sound of clanking and rattles from beside her. Darella's gaze fixes upon her pet rat in its cage— its big eyes staring back at her with unassuming curiosity. "I'm so sorry, lil one," she whispers beneath her breath, a pang of guilt swathing her aching heart. She reaches out, letting the pads of her fingers gently stroke the cage bars.

The sweet piebald rat named Cici twitched her tiny nose of pink and black, her bright eyes glinting with curiosity. Her delicate paws, a dance of light white and pink beans, clutched the iron wires, eager for freedom. Darella watched her with a soft smile, her worries momentarily dissolving.

"Let me get you outta there," she whispered, her voice barely breaking the silence. With a practiced motion, she unlatched the cage door. Cici, with the eagerness of a child on Christmas morning, scuttled onto her arm—her whiskers tickling upon Darella's skin.

The brunette had found her amidst the ruins of a war-torn town in Europe—a tiny creature with a big personality. It was a miracle she had been able to bring her back to the States. She went everywhere her with Darella, often tucked into the little pocket of the satchel. Ms. Elenor, the woman who ran the brothel, was quite unhappy at the thought of a rodent living amongst them.

Ms. Elenor was a force to be reckoned with, her presence as commanding as her stature. Built like a steel oil drum, she held herself with an unyielding force that belied her puffy, city-honed exterior. New York had been her stomping ground, a place where she had once thrived amidst the bustling crowds and towering skyscrapers. The owner of a bustling brothel, "The Velvet Rose," known for her shrewd business acumen

But the allure of better wages and a life less scrutinized by the ever-watchful eyes of the law had drawn her away. An unfortunate entanglement with the authorities had put her on the defensive—also prompting her relocation.

Darella and Elenor's paths crossed under the shadowy cover of similar predicaments. Darella had only just returned to the States a month ago—her homecoming was marred by the need for swift escape. It was in the midst that the two women collided, literally and metaphorically, in an alley. They were both fugitives in their own right.

Elenor at first was upset that this young woman nearly knocked her over, but when the Darella started apologizing in French. A light bulb went off in her mind. Most of her "staff" spoke only French, a language that Elenor herself had somewhat mastered over the years. But no one else here spoke it.

And so, there was Darella's escape... the very thing she had always wished for. To get away from the very place that hold down. She arrived at the brothel not too soon after. Here in Mississippi of all places...This town offered a semblance of refuge—a space where she could attempt to weave the frayed threads of her life into something whole. Yet, beneath lay an undercurrent of longing—a longing for acceptance, for understanding, for a place where she could let her guard down and simply be.

The brothel, nestled discreetly of the beaten path, was unlike any other. It was a place where the elite of society in the southern hemisphere came to indulge in their secret desires, and Darella quickly became one of its most intriguing members. Not for what one usually goes for in a brothel... no... she was used to perform seances for guests.

And when she wasn't busy with her daily chores or tending to the needs of the community, her fluency in French became a rare and invaluable asset. It meant the most of Darella since Cajun French was being outlawed in some states—with regulations forbidding its use in schools and public spaces. But Elenor had to touch Darella on how to be a proper lady, since her upbringing wasn't up to par with her tastes.

Beyond the French and seances, Darella possessed a knowledge of herbal remedies. Something that had been passed down through generations of her family— mainly in her mother's side. Whenever a sickness spread through the brothel, Darella's homemade tinctures provided some relief.

Her reputation as a traiteur spread quickly, and soon, visitors sought her not just for seances but for her healing touch. She would often sit by the window, mixing herbs with practiced precision—-the faint scent of lavender and chamomile wafting through the room. Her remedies, though simple, were effective, and she began to garner a reputation as the "The Bayou's Daughter."

Darella's dual talents made her indispensable to Ms.Elenor, and she quickly rose to a respected position within. Going from  tiny room, to a larger one that was embellished with the finest European furniture and Italian drapes. It was there that her seance room became a sanctuary where patrons not only came to escape the realities of the world outside but also to seek comfort and solace. Her ability to offer both was her true magic—a rare blend. And when men wanted anything else, Elenor was quick to step in. Her Darella was too precious for such rough hands...

And so, after all these years... she remained. Never looking back on the life she once had. Plus Darella had made friends here and there, but the most notable would be Ernest. A very shy and friendly young man. He had gotten a job as the grounds keeper and maintenance. The poor lad had served during the Great War, only to lose half his face from a shell. Most people stayed away from him, never understanding what he had been through. But not Darella, she was more intrigued than anything.

She quickly brushed her hair with Cici changing sides each time—she's not a fan of the brush of doom. She then lays her arm straight to the sink, allowing the rat to climb down. Using a tsk at the top of her mouth, giving the Que for the she-rat to start rummaging through the makeup bag.

As the Cajun starts twirling the brunette locks around her two index and middles fingers—Cici carefully picks through the assortment of hair pins. Followed in short by her little squeaks and frustration yawns.

Until, she finds the perfect one of a bronze color—quickly running it up to Darella, whom was patiently waiting with a smile. "40 seconds! You broke your record from last time."  remarking through joyous applause. Before Carefully pinning the tamed curls back, adding some color back to her tired face—the young Cajun was ready to take on the day.

9:30 am sharp marked the time for Darella to rendezvous with Mrs. Hutchinson in the kitchen. Their mission? To prepare some baked goods for county shop in town. One owned by Bo and Grace. They knew what kind of hotel Elenor ran, but the goods that came from there were just so Irresistible. Folks in these parts just couldn't get enough.

So Darella was on duty this time, well most of the time she was made too. But this was when the ladies of the night would be retiring for some sleep. She always found herself captivated by the elegance exuded by these women—their manner of speech, their meticulously styled hair, and their theatrical makeup that seemed right out of a movie set. The crimson shade of lipstick, in particular, held a peculiar allure for her, a stark contrast to the strict rules her mother had imposed regarding such bold choices.

The daily meetings with these remarkable women never failed to bring a smile to Darella's face, offering her a fleeting escape from the constraints her own mind had imposed upon her.

Descending the spiraling staircase with a grace befitting a debutante, Darella extended her greetings to Eleanor. "Good morning, sweetheart," she greeted with a demure bow, her voice a melodic symphony to the young Cajun.

Upon entering the expansive kitchen, a symphony of tantalizing scents enveloped Darella, signaling Mrs. Hutchinson's fervent baking endeavors. The matriarch of the kitchen stood at the epicenter, enveloped in a cloud of flour that danced around her like a whirlwind as she devotedly worked on a sizable mound of dough positioned atop the sprawling kitchen island. Two additional batches of dough stood by, patiently awaiting their turn for the masterful touch of the seasoned baker, a testament to her culinary prowess.

Mrs. Hutchinson hummed a cheerful tune as her seasoned hands deftly manipulated the dough, infusing it with love and expertise. Catching a glimpse of Darella entering the room, her eyes alighted with joy. "Ah, there you are, my darling," she exclaimed, her smile emitting a warmth that could thaw even the most frigid of dispositions.

Mrs. Hutchinson was a woman of round proportions, her silver and blonde curls cascading gracefully around her face, accentuating the gentle wrinkles that time had etched onto her forehead. Despite the frustration evident in her movements as she wrestled with the dough, her demeanor exuded warmth and kindness.

Darella meekly smiled, waving her hand slightly, " Hello.." she mustered—trying to avoid speaking in French. With each deft movement, Mrs. Hutchinson expertly shaped the dough, "Come, lend me a hand with these batches," she beckoned—-an accent lacing her words.

The brunette slowly sat Cici down, before walking over to wash her hands. Once giving her hands a proper dusting of flour, she began to slowly knead the cakey dough.

When the last batch of dough had been expertly kneaded and set aside to rise, Mrs. Hutchinson let out a contented sigh. Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction as she looked over at Celina. "Thank you, my dear," she said softly. As Darella bowed and turned to organize the goods for her journey, Mrs. Hutchinson's warm smile lingered. "Your presence brings joy to this old kitchen."

There was a certain depth in the way the older woman gazed at the young Cajun, a look that made her wonder if she somehow reminded Mrs. Hutchinson of a lost loved one—perhaps a daughter. The thought lingered in her mind, but she hesitated to voice the question.

Carefully placing the last batch of cookies into a leather sack, Darella took a moment to tie a satin bow of pink around them. In a world filled with darkness, she believed that a touch of color could bring a glimmer of happiness to those they were meant for.

As Darella stepped outside the cozy kitchen, she was greeted by the sight of Artemis—a feisty, silver bay mare. Artemis, or "Artie" as she fondly called her, had a gentle disposition that matched her striking appearance. She loved reading books on her off time, with Greek mythology catching her attention the most. Artemis, the Greek goddess of the hunt.

The mare's eyes were a bright blue, and they always seemed to light up whenever Darella approached—perhaps due to the promise of scraps.

Loading up the goods, securing them with practiced precision, the young brunette prepared to embark. She ascended the small steps positioned next to Artemis and settled herself onto the English saddle— after being here for years, she realized there were indeed different types of saddles.

With a soft click of her tongue and a gentle nudge, she urged Artemis forward. The mare responded with a burst of energy, galloping off with a grace that was both captivating and exhilarating. In that moment, as the wind tousled her hair and the world blurred by, feeling a surge bubbling within her—a sense of freedom that only a ride could evoke.

She had ridden many horses before whilst in Louisiana, it was her favorite pastime. Though the forests and weather was far different than other here, Darella still enjoyed a good ride. As the sun began its crest for mid afternoon, casting a warm golden glow over the countryside, the gentle rhythm of hooves against the dirt road could be heard in the distance.

Each dew-kissed leave shimmered with a translucent brilliance, painting a poetic scene as wildflowers bloomed in a breathtaking array of colors. A chorus of mourning doves set the stage with their gentle melody, evoking a sense of wistful nostalgia in all who were fortunate enough to bear witness.

Meanwhile, a herd of cattle, boasting various shades and sizes, meandered towards a barn tinted in hues of crimson. This rustic sanctuary had the capacity to shelter up to a hundred beasts hourly. Like gears in a well-oiled clock, the farmhands began their morning rituals.

Young and old, their attire adorned in rugged denim overalls and well-worn leather boots, converged in the central courtyard. Each face bore the marks of years, etched with lines that spoke of resilience.

A soft whistle from the rancher's hand echoed from her left. From the depths of the pasture, a harmonious melody arose as the cattle joined in, their calls melding with the rhythmic clanking of metal shoes on concrete and rocks, proudly worn by the sturdy quarter horses. The young boys around the ranch exchanged knowing glances and shared chuckles—some even pausing to finish their breakfast in the midst of the bustling scene.

The breeze tousled Darella's hair as she rode, the wind carrying the sweet scent of freshly baked donuts from the leather sack slung over Artemis' sturdy back. The pink satin bow fluttered in the wind, a cheerful pop of color against the dusty landscape.

As they rode, Darella's thoughts drifted back to Mrs. Hutchinson and the quaint little kitchen where she had spent countless hours learning the art of baking. The older woman's kind eyes and warm smile filled her with a sense of belonging she had never experienced before.

Artemis trotted along, her hooves kicking up small clouds of dust as they approached the outskirts of town. The familiar sights and sounds of the bustling marketplace greeted Darella as she guided the mare through the crowded streets, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and blooming flowers mingling in the air.

As they reached the country shop, Darella pulled gently upon the reins—with Artemis flaring her head back in response. The young brunette meekly nodded a simple hello to the young girl out front. Little Lisa was her name and she was all the fire of her mother's sassiness.

The leather of her saddle creaking softly under Darella's shifting weight. The young Lisa simply smiled, before calling out to her father.

Bo emerged, wiping his hands with a towel that had seen better days. His face lit up with a warm smile as he recognized the reason for his summoning. "Miss Darella," he murmured with a hint of affection, his gaze momentarily drawn to the leather sack overflowing with treats. "My wife would be delighted to take those for you," he added warmly, gesturing towards the other side of the street.

Darella scoffed lightly, her voice laced with a playful defiance, "Oh, sending me away already I see..." she mocked, her eyes glinting mischievously as she gently took the reins to one side. Her horse shuffled its feet, sensing the subtle tension in the air. Bo shook his head slightly, his expression caught between exasperation and amusement. "Now you know what I mean," he replied.

She furrowed her brow, the gesture almost exaggerated, as if she were performing a role she knew all too well. Placing her index finger thoughtfully upon her upper lip, she tilted her head slightly. "Hmm, I don't think I do," she mused, her tone deliberately innocent. Her eyes, however, betrayed her, dancing with a challenge, daring him to play along with their familiar banter.

Bo sighed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. "You never make anything easy, do you?" he asked, stepping closer, the familiar tug of affection pulling him near.

Darella's eyes softened, and for a moment, the teasing facade slipped, revealing a glimpse of something deeper. "Well, where would be the fun in that?" she retorted gently, her voice tinged with warmth. It was a moment more when Darella merely bowed her head—before gently nudging Artemis backwards.

As her horse started across the road—a woman quickly emerged from the store with an air of warmth. It was Grace, whose open arms and wide smile enveloped Darella like a comforting embrace. "Hello, Grace," she managed to muttered lightly.

The brunette slowly descended Artemis as Grace held the reins still. Her blue dress fluttered slightly as her feet kissed the ground. "Just on time." The raven haired woman assured, making sure to add some reassuring pats against Artemis's soft fur—with the skin wrinkling up everytime her finger gazed upon them.

Darella slowly took the reins from Grace, who in response offered a hand with a cheery "I try too."

The young Cajun's gaze lingered on Artemis, who clearly displayed her discontent at being in such a place. "Someone seems upset this morning," Grace observed with a gentle smile, though Darella could only manage a faint semblance of one in return. She knew Artemis was never one to hide her displeasure, especially in unfamiliar surroundings.

"Arty isn't happy anytime of the day," she remarked, her voice betraying a blend of English and French dialect.

As Grace placed her hands on her hips, her honey-colored eyes scanned over the leather bags Darella had brought.
"So, what do you have for us today?" she inquired, curiosity dancing in her gaze like early morning sunbeams. But Darella was only looking at the bold black mascara that adorned Grace's lashes—a stark contrast to her own plain appearance.

Darella took a deep breath, before meticulously unpacking the goods from her leather sack. The aroma of freshly baked pastries wafted through the air, mingling with the crisp scent of dew-kissed grass. She was in the midst of handing them off to Grace—when the serene tranquility was shattered by the arrival of some men.

Men Grace clearly did not care for. They were a group of local farmers, ones that resided on the outskirts of town. Wearing dusty overalls and wide-brimmed straw hats, their faces sun-weathered and stern. Their presence in the town square was familiar, yet unsettling; they seemed to carry with them the weight of past prejudices, casting glances filled with disdain at anyone who didn't fit their narrow view of belonging. This time, however, their attention was fixated on Darella.

As their eyes locked onto her, a tension filled the air, a silent confrontation that spoke volumes about the town's unspoken divisions. Yet Darella, refused to be intimidated, holding her head high as she continued. Everytime, she felt a grimace in the pit of her stomach.

Since seeing her, it caused some of them to get a bit rowdy—hooting and hollering like a batch of children. A couple even attempted to whistle, but Darella merely flashed a look of disdain. She was disgusted by them. She wasn't one for much social interaction, especially when it came to men.

In school, all grades, Darella never experienced being asked out, dancing with someone or even dating. Men were like another language to her—one she found quite boring. Frankly, she hated math just as much, but she rather the math class over talking to one of them.

However as Grace continued helping Darella unload, one bold man, driven by arrogance or folly, reached out his hand towards Artemis. The proud steed's response was immediate - a wild rearing up, causing the donuts perched precariously on the edge of the satchels to cascade to the ground in a sugary downfall.

Darella's eyes widened in alarm as the pastries tumbled onto the dirt, their delicate flakiness now besmirched by the unforgiving earth. The morning sun, with its golden spotlight, did not discriminate in illuminating the disaster that lay before her. All those hours meticulously spent in the kitchen, the attention to detail, the passion woven into each creation – all wasted in an instant.

Frantically, she bent down, her nimble fingers working feverishly to salvage the treats before they were irrevocably marred by the dirt. Her mind raced with a flurry of emotions – disappointment, irritation, and a growing resentment towards those who had, whether intentionally or not, caused this calamity.

Grace burst onto the scene in a whirlwind of fury, her normally composed façade shattered. With a sharp intake of breath, she surveyed the chaos, her honey eyes ablaze with righteous indignation.

"You there!" Grace's voice boomed, cutting through the tension like a knife. Her fist clenched tightly at her side. The scarlet hue of her lips formed a grim line as she pointed an accusatory finger towards the perpetrators. "Get out of here, the lot of ya!" Her command reverberated across the makeshift shopping block—a stern decree that brooked no argument.

In a daring display of defiance, Grace bent down amidst the shattered pastries, her nimble fingers wrapping around a torn one with a fierce resolve. With a swift motion, she hurled the sugary confection towards the retreating boys.

She did not care what may happen, only that she was over the games. Grace huffed loudly before turning on her heel and marching back towards the door—leaving Darella to bring the rest in.

The brunette pushed open the door to the quaint little shop, the bell above it tinkling softly. The shop was a treasure trove of curiosities, filled with shelves upon shelves of herbs, teas, and mysterious potions.

Grace was already behind the counter with the reminder of pastries—trying organizing the clean ones. She wore an expression of mild annoyance as she meticulously sorted—subtly muttering to herself. Hearing the bell, she glanced up for a just a moment to see Darella.

Grace sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. "Oh, those boys again. They're up to their usual antics, causing mischief wherever they go..."

" I understand more than ya think.." Darella exclaimed, pushing a stray lock of her brunette hair behind her ear.
Grace returned the smile, as Darella came to the counter. "I'm sure they are. That last one didn't take kindly to you ignoring him."

Darella chuckled, shaking her head. "That's exactly why. A real man would not pout and cause chaos over a rejection."

"Well if they aren't careful, I'll start planting stinging nettles along the route you take. So then they'll end up with a nasty rash," Grace countered, crossing her arms.

"Well, hopefully they learn their lesson," Darella replied. "Oh Speaking of herbs, I brought some fresh ones for Miss Annie. She's got some of the sharecroppers complaining about some arthritis again, and I thought these might help."

Reaching into her basket, Grace carefully pulled out a neat bundle of herbs, their earthy aroma filling the air. Darella took the herbs with gratitude, examining them closely.

"Oh, Grace, these look wonderful. Miss Annie will be thrilled," she remarked with a smile, admiring the vibrant greens. "You always know just what she needs."

Grace nodded, quite pleased. "I just hope they provide her some relief. But how have things been otherwise? Besides the trouble with the boys, of course."

Darella shrugged, her frustration melting away as she set the herbs aside. "Oh, you know, the usual hustle and bustle. But I can't complain too much. It's never boring around here."

They chatted a while longer, sharing stories, the troubles of the morning fading away like mist in the sunshine. But time was a wasting and she knew Annie wouldn't be to happy about her forgetting their rules. So Darella awkwardly had to wrap up the chat like usual—Grace was such a chatty lady. But when Darells finally got her chance to leave, Grace called after her.

"Thank you again for the pasties, please let Mrs. Hutchinson know I appreciate her work."

Darella nodded with a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she took another step towards the door. Grace's voice, filled with a mix of exasperation and affection, called out once more, "And if you see those boys, give them a piece of my mind, will you?"

Darella chuckled heartily, her laughter echoing through the room as she waved goodbye, her hand a vibrant blur in the sunlight. "I'll do my best. à bientôt!"

With a determined stride, she stepped back into the vibrant world outside, the warmth of the sun enveloping her. She steadied Artemis with a gentle touch— before vaulting over the saddle with practiced ease. With a subtle nudge, both horse and rider set off towards Annie's house.

You see, Miss Annie was a formidable woman, strong and beautiful—with an opinion that most never dared to challenge. Her aura commanded respect, and her presence was as captivating as a fierce storm rolling over the plains. It was her word or nothing in these parts, a testament to her indomitable spirit that rivaled even the harshest seasons. Most called her Missus, or Annie if one was in her circle of trust, a privileged few who dared to tread the waters of her inner sanctum.

To most of the sharecroppers' children, she was a distant figure of authority, an enigmatic presence cloaked in the mystery of her special herb mixes. These children, with their wide eyes and whispered stories, never dared to defy her, always echoing "Missus" in reverence as they collected the potent potions and teas she concocted. Her little shop was a beacon of earthy scents and colorful powders, where the shelves seemed to whisper tales of far-off lands and forgotten secrets.

Annie had owned the little shop even before the war broke out. It stood as a steadfast relic of the past, its weathered sign creaking in the wind like an old sailor recounting battles long forgotten. Selling spices and goods to the locals was more than just a means to an end; it was her sanctuary. Money wasn't exactly on her agenda, not since her baby had died, leaving her with a perpetual pallor of grief that clung to her like a second skin.

The heartache of her loss lingered in the corners of her eyes, a haunting shadow that never left her. Annie stayed, trying to make ends meet since her lover left, yet she was tethered to this place—-unable to sever the invisible chains binding her to the grave of her child.

Her lover's departure had left a gaping chasm in her heart, a void filled with memories too painful to recount. She carried her sorrow with the quiet dignity of a woman who had weathered many storms, yet found solace in her solitary existence.

Perhaps that's why she had taken a liking to Darella, a kindred spirit who bore her own scars with the same quiet grace. In Darella, Annie saw flickers of her former self—resilient, hopeful, and fiercely independent. Their bond was one forged in shared silences and a mutual understanding that transcended words. In Darella, Annie found a glimmer of hope, a spark that illuminated the path through her despair, reminding her that even in the depths of sorrow, there could still be moments of light.

It had taken a while for Annie to warm up to the Cajun girl. Initially, she grouped her with the rest of the white folks in the area—those who only pretended to care, who used their smiles as masks for their ulterior motives. But Darella was different, and Annie realized this through the small, considerate actions that unfolded over time. Darella spoke to Annie like she was speaking to a long-lost friend, without the veil of pretense or judgment.

Annie's skepticism was hard-won, nurtured by years of mistrust. She even suspected that Darella might be secretly working with the Klan, spying on them under the guise of friendship. But slowly, Annie recognized a kindred spirit in Darella, noticing the scars etched into her back—a silent testament to the horrors she had endured. Those marks told stories of pain and survival, of a spirit that refused to be broken.

Seeing this vulnerability, Annie's defenses began to crumble. She welcomed Darella into her life, sharing her treasured traditions. In return, Darella opened her world to Annie, teaching her the lore of the traiteurs. And when it came to cooking, Darella was quite good. Her crawfish boils and gumbo were made of the finest spices, each dish just like her mama had made it—infused with tastes that danced on one's palate.

After a year of acquaintance, the two developed a strong bond—mainly with both agreeing to help another. However, it was observed that Annie often adopted a maternal demeanor towards Darella, guiding and nurturing her with gentle care.

But in a world they lived in, there had to be boundaries. Annie had meticulously gone over the rules with Darella countless times—each session an incantation of warnings whispered under the moon's watchful gaze. She had sternly instructed Darella not to roam through her neck of the woods during the daylight hours unless between the hours 11-2pm when the croppers would be out picking cotton and especially not when theor children might be playing outside.

Annie harbored a deep-seated fear that the local gossip would spread like wildfire, her concerns fueled by the possibility that an outsider might take offense at the sight of a her hanging out with Darella. This fear was a constant battle, one that raged silently within her.

Every day Darella traversed a small, cut path through the woods. And when she walked, she pondered how to place her feet in such a way that would allow her passage without drawing unwanted attention. To many, the act of walking might have appeared simple, but for the Cajun, whose upbringing had been shaped by the harsh realities of life, every step was a calculated risk.

However, when she rode Artemis, she'd take the road for a while before trekking off into the woods towards the path—as to not be seen. As the brunette started upon the road, she hummed softly as she had numerous times before. Some good ole song from her childhood. When her mother often whispered in attempt to get her to bed.

But as she did, Darells started noticing Artemis's ear fluttering back in forth before immediately pinning back. But something deep down told the brunette it wasn't because of her. It was then that the world around her seemed to collapse into a tunnel of anticipation.

The steady rumble of a truck's engine grew louder from—vibrating through the ground and her very bones. Her heart began racing, an erratic, frantic drumming in her chest, as though it were trying to escape her body.

"Oh fuck..." she muttered softly, grabbing at the reins even tighter. In her mind, she could already see the boys, their faces twisted with malice and laughter, jeering and shouting as they bore down on her. Their taunts and sneers were ghostly echoes in her memory, fragments of times when they'd made her feel small and helpless. She knew she couldn't let them see her, let alone follow her to Annie's place.

But that fierceness that she always had ignited within her, burning away the fog of fear. In a snap decision, her muscles tensed, making Darella jerk the reins to the left. Artie responded with an obedient twitch—veering off the known path and plunging headlong into the woods.

The forest closed in around them, the dense thicket embracing them in a tangle of leaves and branches. The air was rich with the scent of fresh earth and pine, a stark contrast to the oil and smoke of the road. Branches clawed at her clothes like skeletal fingers, eager to hold her back, but she pressed on. Her heart pounded in sync with Artie's galloping hooves, a wild, untamed music that matched the urgency of their escape.

Every instinct within her screamed to remain unseen, to hide among the shadows and the whispers of the forest. She knew that to protect the sanctuary she cherished, she must become a part of the forest itself—a breath, a heartbeat, a mere whisper in the vast green sea. Her resolve was ironclad, steeling her against the fear that threatened to overwhelm her.

As they raced deeper into the woods, Darella felt a strange sense of calm settle over her, a clarity of purpose that was both liberating and terrifying.

It was in that moment when a voice pierced the stillness of the forest, calling her name with a distinct urgency—a man's voice, rich and resonant, echoing through the trees. The sound compelled her, almost instinctively, to drive Artie forward with increased urgency, heedless of the branches that lashed at her skin.

Another mocking shout rang out, they were following her or at least, attempting to. Making her to whip her head around, eyes wide, heart pounding in her chest. Her lips twisted into a frown, emotions swirling as she swung the satchel securely to the other side.

As Artie galloped past a towering tree, a lower branch reached out like a thief in the night, ensnaring the delicate chain around Darella's neck. With a sharp tug, her cherished necklace severed, and a small, leather pouch—worn and familiar, yet holding immense personal value—slipped silently from her clothing, before resting softly among the fallen leaves.

Alarmed, Darella reined in Artie sharply, the horse's hooves skidding awkwardly on the forest floor, nearly losing balance. In practiced motion, she threw herself from the saddle, her heart racing with a mix of fear and determination. Joe could this had happened to her?

Falling to her knees, her hands fumbled frantically over the dry, brittle leaves—eyes scanning for the lost treasure. Within moments, panic took hold, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she began to mutter desperate pleas in French, her voice a mix of hope and dread.

Inexplicably, it must have worked. She flipped it up when her hand ran over it. Carefully, Darella cradles it tenderly in her palm, examining it with a quiet reverence—her fingers tracing its well-worn contours. Slowly, she raises it to her lips. Her whisper, soft yet resonant, escapes in a breath of French, an intimate prayer that dances delicately on the air.

In reality, the brunette had never fully comprehended its significance, a mystery bestowed upon her by her mother on the day she first drew breath. Such a simple pouch, an ever-present companion, that accompanied her through life's adventures—be it a refreshing swim, a shopping trip, or a bath.

Her mother, Eva, a woman of formidable faith and celebrated for her traiteur talents, held this small talisman in high esteem. Eva's insistence on Darella wearing it was unwavering, a rule as immutable as the stars. Her childhood was embroidered with her mother's gentle yet firm admonitions whenever the pouch was absent from its rightful place. She was made to wear it at all hours of the day.

Eva's fervor would ignite into a blazing fury if she ever sensed the slightest hint of Darella's intent to part with the precious keepsake.

She would grab her the forearms harshly, a frantic frenzy filled her eyes as she spoke. "This is for warding off the evil spirits.." Those very words, with the severity of which her mother would say it scared the young Darella to her core. Her words echoed in the back of her mind every time a thought about removing it ever passed. Eva was a very practical woman, always taking Darella along to her meetings. Much to her dismay that is. It wasn't until later in life, that she realized it was her mother's only way at escaping.

Forced to sit around in a circle with other women who were twice her age. They would chant and she would watch as they performed their healing on those who seeked them out. Darella never believed in the power at first, until witnessing it for herself. It was one of those occasions, where the older women had called both back to their cabin in the bayou. It was there where they performed their ritual, if one could call it that, upon Eva's bruised body. It took some days, of which Darella was suspicious, until she noticed the bruises began disappearing.

Her dad never cared for such nonsense— calling voodoo and being traiteur an evil practice. Darella never understood how such a kind soul as her mother could have married such an evil man.

Marcel was a man molded by hardship and tradition. His expectations weighed heavily on Darella, his only child. "A strong back and a strong will," he often said, "that's what makes you true Cajun." His overbearing nature was a storm Darella learned to navigate, often finding solace in the quieter corners of the swamp, where the cypress trees whispered secrets of freedom.

He was a weak man, who would beat Eva if she didn't cook his steak or chicken the right way. If his vegetables were steamed incorrectly or if she spoke in their native tongue. Her mum was always sporting a black eye or twisted nose. But she always carried on like it was nothing.

There was nothing physical about the abuse, but she was shattered nonetheless. Every facet of her personality was denigrated and shunned. She was less than nothing, not even as loved as an object to be used. Every look that came her way was laced with contempt, annoyance. Yet Eva never let it show, Always going about her days with a meek smile—-always tending to her customers.

Darella was beaten as will, if she didn't act just the right way, a belt would come down upon her back or a ruler to her palms. He always remark, " Nothing is ever free! Everything has a debt...." Even to her mother, he'd sneer, " remember who gave that to you, remember I did that for you."

Every conversation was a subtle competition, for even the smallest of infractions can bring on his anger. He dominated Eva, hurt her, waged war, when all she ever wanted was love, understanding, peace.

Darella watched this every time, watching after his tantrums that he would make Eva plead for his affection all over again—making her beg like a dog. Taking her self esteem and burning it to ashes. But that wasn't all...

Even at school Darella could never escape his evil wrath. She was never allowed to have friends of her own, often needing  "permission" to be friends with anyone. He'd even antagonize her if she laughed too much. She often wondered, was happiness offensive to him? The only friends or acquaintances she ever made with Annie and Grace up till this point. In truth he was a bully, instilling fear, obligation and guilt.

No matter how many calls were made to the house, the police never found an issue. Marcel was a smooth talker even when he was drinking, able to worm himself out of anything. Always portraying himself as the overworked victim, showing no empathy. And he was good looking, clean cut, even for someone in their price bracket. It was usually just that smile of his that did it.

Mama always said there was evil in everything, no matter how sincere the smile may be. We're all saints and sinners alike in this world...

Yet there Darella sat, holding tightly onto the pouch—afraid of losing the last piece of her mother. As a single tear fell upon her cheek, she uttered her final prayer. A distant gun shot pierced through the dense canopy of trees—causing her to snap back to reality. Without hesitation, she carefully secured the necklace around her neck—the pendant shifting slightly as it nestled beneath her shirt.

With a determined pivot, the young brunette set off once more—urging her horse Artemis forward in the direction of Annie's humble abode. The verdant surroundings blurred as she picked up speed, her azure dress billowing around her, the damp foliage caressing her skin with a gentle touch. The

The sensation was not unfamiliar, a poignant reminder of the mire and grime that had once been her constant companions amidst the ravages of war-torn Europe.

The return to American soil had not heralded the reprieve she had sought; if anything, it had served to amplify the phantoms that tormented her restless slumber. Each night, the same harrowing visions unfolded before her sleeping eyes, casting her into a hellish tableau of flames and frenzied voices hurling accusations like stones at her battered soul....

——————- ——————

GEORGIA

      || A HUNDRED MILES AWAY, OVER A DESOLATE LANDSCAPE THAT STRETCHED OUT over the vast expanse—-swallowing the lone cabin in its midst. Ravaged by time and neglect, it stood as a relic of past glory, the creaking timbers and peeling paint whispering secrets of a time long forgotten. Now, reduced to a mere shadow of its former self, the cabin seemed to weep with every gust of the bitter wind that rattled its broken windowpanes. A refuge it had become, though a fragile one, for a solitary figure seeking solace in its dilapidated embrace.

In the corner of the dimly lit interior, a body lay dormant, almost merging with the encompassing darkness. The air was thick with dust, each breath a reminder of the years of abandonment. The man, a mere silhouette in the gloom, huddled tightly as if trying to fade into oblivion, his fingers tracing the grain of the worn wooden floor as if searching for a lost connection to the world outside. He sniffled lightly to himself, still shivering from the chill that seemed to seep from the very walls, trying to regain his energy from running.

Even though he hadn't moved an inch the entire time the sun had been up, the precise moment felt like a bolt of lightning striking his soul. It was as if a dormant spirit had been roused from its slumber, awakening with a fierce urgency. His frame, which moments ago seemed a mere silhouette against the backdrop of the day's passage, now burst forth with an intense energy—reminiscent of a creature startled from its lair. His eyes, fiery and untamed like a storm brewing on the horizon, snapped open with an intensity that seemed to pierce the very fabric of reality.

A tremor coursed through his body, the vibrations echoing through his being from head to toe, culminating in a shuddering breath drawn deeply into his lungs. It was as though life's essence itself renewed him. A fleeting smile danced upon his lips, a subtle warmth amidst the stark coldness engulfing him, like the sun peeking through stormy clouds. "There you are..." he murmured softly, the words scarcely more than a whisper carried on the ethereal wings of reverberation—tinged with madness, longing, and a profound sense of discovery. "Finally, I've found you..."

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—— WHOOP WHOOP FIRST CHAPTER
I'M SO SORRY IT TOOK FOREVERRRRR
but please let me know how this is 😈

Also I only write in 3rd person, it's easier for me

Who's readyyyyyy