Misha, a quiet slave who was quartered here for a few months gave me the gift of reading. She learned from another white man she’d been housed with and with whom she had bore two children – unbeknownst to his wife, of course. She suspected though, and had Misha removed from the premises.
The words I was reading at the time my master had seen me doing so were from Misha herself. It was in code. The very same code that her and her old master used to exchange love letters with. You see, it wasn’t English Misha taught me to read. No, it was something far darker, and unknown to the world at large.
She wrote of a safe haven just a few miles down the road. A place where we could work, eat and sleep without the risk of torture or rape. A community run by blacks, for blacks. Those were words a guy could use. Barefoot and hardly dressed, I left for Utopia that night. I was received with open arms, and I never looked back. Not once.