I have thought a lot about what it means to be a slave since I arrived here. I always thought, in my previous life, that slavery is something that had existed in the past. I could not imagine how people would tolerate being forced into slavery or watching others being enslaved. We are taught that the problem of slavery was resolved once capitalism became dominant. We hear that it rears it's head in isolated places, but it is always stopped.
Now I saw it very differently. People accept slavery as the state of normalcy. They make justifications for it’s existence, and their role in it, on both sides. The ownership title may have gone away, but the relationships are all the same. Physical abuse has been replaced by narcissistic abuse.
The more time I spend here, the more I feel like this is somehow, something I deserve. It is a feeling more than a thought process. I can feel myself going to lengths to accept my situation, even while my mind rejects this situation. I can also see the perspective of some of the other women. Being a slave here is sometimes better than being a wage slave in capitalist society. We do not have to worry about struggling to survive beyond taking care of men's needs. We were doing the same thing in capitalist society, on top of worrying about how we were going to feed ourselves, and our children. This is easier. In many ways, we do not have to think, we are told what to do.
He now spends mornings in meetings, and I have a little more free time. Cleaning his room does not take all morning. I have time to write, and go by the kitchen. He meets me at the pool in the afternoons, then we return to his room in the evenings. Sometimes we go out dancing at the playroom, but it is less frequent than it used to be. Maybe he does not need to show me off as much anymore. I think his mind is focused on other things, now that he has me.
One day, I went by the kitchen I found that one of my favorite cooks, Janet, was gone. They told me she died of pneumonia. She had kept working even though she was sick. It is not like she had a choice. It seems the guests do not worry about sick food workers.
When we went back to his room that evening, I was still upset about her passing. He asked me what was wrong, and I told him one of the cooks died. I had been fond of her, she gave me bits of food to taste, and helped me understand the needs of the kitchen, while I was working there. I was also angry that her death could have easily been prevented, if we had adequate health care.
After a weak attempt at consoling me, he said, “Slaves are disposable. We don’t need the burden of taking care of old aged mortals. If they can’t do their work, they are a useless burden.”
At the time, I really could not believe he said this, as if he was talking about an old horse that needed to be put down. I must have had a look of shock on my face because he said, “This should not disturb you. It is the same thing that happens in the rest of the world. Only there, the slaves are given enough money to survive, considering they work hard enough to carry them into old age. When they run out of money, they die. It's natural.”
I was furious, I did not want to talk to him anymore. He is such a heartless piece of shit. It was clear to me he saw us as animals. He was trying to explain his twisted reality in the face of my grief. He has no empathy or compassion.