I'm back.. in black. (Pun brought to you by the SPN fandom)

The year was 1765; I was seven or maybe eight. I was born in France though I'm not sure where. However, I do know I grew up in a house in the country side. It may have been small, but I'd always thought it huge. The roof leaked in the fall and the heat was overbearing in the summer. In the winter the fireplace kept us warm and my nanny, a woman called Clotilde, would make bread. Papa always left in the spring. I'd thought him so important, dressing in fine reds and blues. Clotilde had always tried to explain his work to me, but I'd never understood nor did my uninhibited young mind care to.

Clotilde was a very devout woman. But her devotion was unceremonious. She'd slap me on the hand if I ate before praying or tried to avoid studying. When I misbehaved, she'd always have the same thing to say. She'd wag her lanky finger at me and caution, "Gluttony is a sin", "Only the honest are worthy of God's grace.", or "Would you risk your immortal soul to save you an hour of arithmetic?"

The threat of hell became a perfunctory warning; much like 'You'll be put to bed without dinner.'

The looks I'd receive when walking through the town or playing with other children never warranted my notice. I recall, however, one summer evening when I'd called upon a new boy to come and play. His mother had looked horrified at the suggestion. Her face morphed as though I'd asked it alright if I beat her boy with a club behind the stable. I told Clotilde of this that night while she was stirring Cassoulet. "It's because you're a bastard." She'd said, as though she were merely commenting on the weather.

My mother and father were not married and never would be. She died bringing me into the world. I, of course, knew I had a mother; boys did not just pop out of the earth. (Papa had explained sex to me in so many words.) But there was nothing to raise the question of who she was; no portraits, mementos, or even stories. Papa must not have liked to talk about her; I never asked. I suppose I'd never thought to ask after her because I'd always had Clotilde. She was strict but she was also kind and intelligent. I'd looked to her as a mother even if I'd never granted her the title. I wonder if it is a shame then, that I no longer can recall her face.

Barring those years, my story begins on a spring morning when I was seven (or maybe eight). I'd come in from feeding the chickens and was eating the apple Clotilde had given me when he strode in, throwing the door open as if it weighed no more than one of the feathers clinging to my pale hair.

My father, tall and blonde, was considered very handsome. He was Clotilde's contradiction. Never had I seen Papa at mass, nor bow his head in prayer. He approached everything with a sort of carefree humor that seemed recalcitrant. He was what Clotilde called 'revolutionary'. The dreams and plans he drowned drunkenly on holidays were nonviable to his ability. Or, they had been.

Papa told me that we were to go on a grand adventure; that we would begin a new life in a land of opportunity. He'd made a great deal of money with some wise investment. All of my belongings fit into a single trunk; Papa's in two. I'd never seen a ship before, not in person anyway. It was larger than I expected. Within the first week on the ship, I was growing restless. I was not used to being confined and it was uncomfortable. Even sleeping below deck, water would trickle through the cracks and the constant rocking from side to side made many nauseous. There was no private place to relieve one's self and the chamber pots were only emptied once a day. Barrels of water were brought on board when the Ship had sailed from France, but after a week Papa had refused to allow me to drink it. He'd said it was no longer safe after remaining stagnant for so long. It was on the ship that I had my first taste of alcohol. It was bitter and burned my throat. Clotilde had always said that alcohol was the devil's water and the only exception was sacramental wine.

"How is it?" There was a playful lilt to his voice, his brow arched inquisitively.

"It's fine." Papa gave me a worried look and I, wanting to appear mature merely shrugged it off. Though the tears in my eyes must have been a giveaway, he said nothing and I quickly downed the rest of it. Alcohol brought on a sort of deliria. The ship seemed to sway far more than usual and by noon, I was bent over the ship's railing emptying my breakfast into the Atlantic. When I saw Papa later that day, my stomach must have been obvious on my face because he laughed until his stomach hurt.

It took roughly a month and a half to get to America. We'd bathed in sea water and hadn't changed our clothes to avoid ruining another set. The smell was horrid but it grew on me, much like rum.

We finally arrived in the port town of Charleston. I imagined that it must have been what Paris was like, yet cleaner. There were more people than I could count. The buildings- whether they were homes or stores- were taller than I thought possible. It seemed far more alive, everyone walking briskly as though they had somewhere to be. The women were dressed in fancier dresses than I'd seen but the men seemed to have the same style that those in France had, with the exception of a few who accompanied women in the more elaborate dresses. A whistle caught my attention and I turned. During my ogling, Papa had already procured a carriage and secured our trunks to it. I practically hung out the window as we rode down the street, awed at the difference.

A man standing on a pedestal was waving his cane around and preaching boisterously; behind him stood a row of dark skinned men. They had collars like dog's wore made of metal around their necks and they were shackled together by the ankles. They looked rather angry and I'd thought that perhaps they'd committed a crime. "Why,"

"They're just slaves."

That wasn't what I was going to ask, but there was finality to Papa's tone I didn't want to test. The rest of the ride was spent in silence. The carriage came to a stop in front of a large, rose coloured home. It was two stories tall and made of brick. Curtain's hung in the second story window, a bright white and complete contrast to the dark wood framing them. I looked to papa but he was busy helping two dark skinned men unload the trunks. The door was wide open and I took that as an invitation, taking the stairs. The floor gleamed and caught the light from the doorway and I marveled at it, my mouth falling open. The walls were bare but the first room to my left was huge, big enough to fit two rooms inside it. A sofa and two chairs sat in the middle, surrounding a small table that featured a floral teapot and a vase of roses.

Cautiously, I ran my hand over the ornamental pieces atop the fireplace. The stone was cold beneath my fingertips and the I could see my reflection in the trimmings.

I wandered through an adjacent door and found the kitchen. There was one door leading from the kitchen into the dining room and only one door leading from the dining room to the hall I'd been in. I'd walked in a circle.

"Be careful going up!"

I heard Papa yell at me as I ran up the stairs but didn't look back. There'd been only one floor in our old house. The upstairs hall was much longer and there were many more rooms. The first on my right that I opened was more like a cupboard so I closed it and went onto the next. The second door was a room about half the size of the foyer downstairs. A bed sat against the far wall, beside the window. And a small nightstand sat beside it. What would be my wardrobe stood against the wall opposite the bed. I made a bee-line for the large window, recognizing the white curtains. My suspicions were confirmed as I peered out of it and down to the street, watching the two dark men unload the last trunk.

I was taken completely off guard and shrieked as I was hefted into the air. The melodic drone of Papa's laughter as he tickled me was less of a reassurance and I did my best to look angry even at his contagious gaiety, struggling in his arms. He relented only after my face was flushed.

"What do you think Mathieu?" I couldn't tell if he meant the house of the town but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking out the window, a wistful smile playing at his lips.

"I don't like it." That caught his attention and he squinted at me for a moment before setting me on my feet. He heaved a sigh, his brows pulling together as he dropped to a squat in front of me.

"I know it's a lot to take in, but this will be good for us. This way, I can work from home and won't have to travel between France and the Americas. And there are plenty of children for you to play with. Just give it some time and if you don't warm up to it w-"

"Papa," I stopped him. "Je l'aime." That was a stretch, but clearly what he wanted to hear. His face broke out into a grin and he patted me on the head before departing. I listened until I could no longer hear his boots on the stairs and turned back to the window, climbing onto the windowsill.

Charleston came alive at midday.