[fancypost bgcolor=; borderwidth=0px; width: 500px; letter-spacing:5px][align=center][font=bookman oldstyle][color=black]Lennon Harlan Campbell[hr][size=8][/fancypost][align=center]
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[justify][font=times][color=black][sup][sup]From the center of the room, Lennon could hear birds chirping from their home in the trees. And in the background, he could hear the faint songs slipping from the lips of the slaves who worked away out on the plantation. Their accents, thick as if they had just arrived, singing of something unknown to the white man's flesh. A secret song among the many who were leaned over, sweat dripping from their dark skin as their hands never dared to stop moving. Perhaps, the birds sung higher, as if to mask over their songs in fear that it would be used against them. A whip to the back for breaking the miserable silence as they worked. Or perhaps their songs were a gift granted to them. The ability to hum as long as they got their work done. No one seemed to stop them from singing. Not his uncle, who lit a cigar out on the porch as his wife began to make her way inside the home, her eyes unwavering as she walked past him. She was angry for what he had done. Making her feel black, worthy of a slap for saying the wrong thing.
Then Lennon silenced them. He blocked out their deep whispers as he shifted his weight, his eyes scanning the room as the young housemaid took his words into consideration. There was his bed, to his right. A small one covered over in a dark blue blanket and a single pillow. Beside it, a small bedside table with an unlit candle sitting on top. Next to the door, a small wooden dresser with a bowl and pitcher on top. And past it, across from the bed, sat an empty desk with a chair pushed in. Lennon's small desk at home had been crowded with books and papers. His mother would tell him to clean it in fear that it would catch fire. But he never would, knowing that it wouldn't stay clean for long. His mind was too scattered to stay clean for a long period of time. Even when cleaning, he couldn't seem to stay focused long enough to get the job done.
Standing there, Lennon couldn't seem to stand still as he awaited her response. He had flustered her, that was clear enough as she stood there, racking her brain for an appropriate response. But after a few moments, her pink lips slowly parted. [i]"I am required to address all visitors of his house as Sir or Ma'am, Sir," And like a whipped dog she addressed him as Sir at the end of her statement, whether she meant to or not. But that's just how things went with those who had no choice in their profession, and Lennon could predict that. He could predict every stutter and flinching movement as they were ordered around like a child. But they were no children. They were individuals who deserved a say in their own life.
Lennon's parents had strong opinions on the matter of slavery. They were kind people who wouldn't kill an insect that lingered too far into their home. They believed every living organism had feelings, and it their duty to respect those feelings. Even when the two families had their argument. They went home and occupied their time without a word said of the matter. They didn't believe in talking bad of other people, especially in front of Lennon who was still a young lad and learning the ways of becoming an adult. But he was aware of the feelings they held towards their own family, and he absorbed it like a sponge. He grew to feel distaste towards his aunt and uncle, and upon arriving, he realized they felt the same way. Perhaps if there was never an argument they wouldn't find him so repulsive. Perhaps they wouldn't think he killed his own parents, even if it were true.
"Unless you would have me call you by a different title." Lennon thought about this, his hand absently reaching towards his cheek, scratching it gently as he thought. He did not want her to call him Sir. It made him feel old, and nonetheless, it made him feel as if he was superior to her, and he wasn't. Or, at least he didn't consider himself to be. After all, they were around the same age. They should be equal, he felt. An uncommon feeling to have, he was aware. But he couldn't help himself, standing there with her nervous in his presence. He held power over her, as if he were holding a whip, threatening it with her as he twirled it around his slim fingers. He wasn't his uncle, who felt the need to wear it against his side, simply in case someone was to act up. Lennon held more trust in them, and it was clear when he spoke his turn.
"Well," he spoke, shrugging simply. "I will have you address me by a different title, if that were what you would prefer." He was giving her a choice. An opportunity to chose what she would call him from now on, for however long he would be staying. His light brown eyes stayed focused on her gently, trying to access what she was feeling.
OOC:
Rambling is not a problem! In fact I prefer long, rambling posts. Mine, this time, is a bit short and plain. Sorry about that. I rushed through it with the little muse I had.
The uncle's name is August and the aunt's name is Catherine.
