What is it like being a slave in modern day America?

Slave. Not prostitute. Slave. A person owned by another person. A background story is unnecessary, because the past isn't important. The important thing is that I am a modern day slave in modern day America. I live in a large house in Portland, Oregon, with wealthy neighbors and even wealthier roommates. I have a comfortable bed, two healthy meals a day, and I never have to worry about where my next dollar will come from. That's a blessing I remind myself of every time his hand wraps around my throat. "Yessir." That's the only thing that will keep me alive. Right now, I am crouched in the middle of his bedroom, hugging my knees to my chest and trying to breathe. His hand has just let go of my throat, and after half a year of being his slave, I know his handprint will be gone in two days, and all that will be left is the memory. "You don't understand, Teal. I need you to _understand_." I stare up at him, eyes wide. "Yessir." "I didn't expect that to happen. You won't face punishment for it this time, but _you. Need. To. Understand._" I scrunch my eyebrows. "Yessir." "You need to understand that I didn't expect that to happen," he snaps, and then, "Oh. _Oh,_ Teal." His eyes widen, and a chuckle escapes his lips. "I think I've figured out the problem." "Yessir." "You don't know what I'm talking about," he says slowly. "Do you?" I hesitate for a moment, confused about what I'm doing here, confused about what I've done wrong, and confused about why he is _laughing?_ "Y-yessir?" "Oh, Teal. Listen here." He kneels down in front of me, wrapping his fingers around my wrists and pulling me up to my feet. I flinch a bit, bracing myself for a punch or a shove or a knee to the groin. Instead, he takes my hand in his, and leads me to the office. This man didn't buy me. He's the only owner I've ever had. I was born into this. I was born here, in America, in Portland, and, by some freak of nature, I was _born a slave._ My mother was a slave. My father was a slave. And I, Teal, was born a slave. I've grown up in this house. Grown up with this man. My master. I've never known anything else. And yet, I still remember the day he slapped me for the first time. I was only four years old, and I didn't even know I _was_ a slave. I thought I was just a normal child. That I was his son. "Hey," I said. "Daddy." "No, Teal." His voice was firm. "I'm not your daddy." "Then who's my mommy?" I asked. He sighed. "Your mommy's gone." "Why?" "Because she disobeyed, child," he snapped. "And _do not_ disobey, or you will suffer the same fate." "What's disobey?" I asked. He sighed again. "_Do not make me tell you again._" "I _doobeyed,_" I said, sticking out my bottom lip, and I _still remember_ the expression on his face. I still remember the way his eyes widened, the shock written all over his features. Right before his hand cracked across my cheek. I still remember the way it hurt. The way my eyes stung, and I started crying. And I still remember the way he whispered "I'm sorry, Teal." This man is bipolar. I know that, I saw him take his medicine. But that doesn't change the fact that sometimes, I make him so angry. I don't always know I've done something wrong. I don't always know what I've done wrong. He yanks me into the office, still laughing, and pushes me into his chair. "Teal," he says slowly, "I've been a good master for you, haven't I?" At least this is a question I know the answer to. _I'm just glad I know the answer to this question._ "Yessir." "I've been," he continues, "a very, very good master for you." I nod slowly. "Alright then. I'm going to count to ten, and I want you to tell me what I'm doing when I'm done." I bite my bottom lip, and for a second, I wonder if I should, but I'm just so _confused,_ and I need to know. "W-will you hit me, sir?" He chuckles again. "No. You did nothing wrong this time. But when I'm done, I _will_ be upset, so you will leave the room. Alright?" I nod. "Alright," he continues. "I'm going to count, and you will tell me what I'm doing at the end." In my head, I count along with him. Ten, nine, eight... Seven. This man is good to me. Except when he isn't. Six. He's nice. Except for when he's mean. Five. "Good master." Four. "Bad master." Three. You must obey. Two. I will obey. I swallows slowly. I _will_ obey. One. I take in a deep breath, and let it out. I look up, into his eyes. "I," I whisper, "am counting." His eyes widen, and I turn and bolt for the door. *** It's nighttime. I'm alone in my room. I've been staring at the wall for almost an hour now, and that's okay. Because I'm thinking, and that's all right. I'm _allowed_ to think. The only thing I'm not allowed to do is talk. I need to talk. I need to talk to... someone. I don't know who. I just need to talk, I need to ask for help. I need to ask... _If this is normal._ I don't know what normal is. Is this normal? Please. Is this normal? What is normal? I _need_ to know. I'm tempted, I'm so tempted, to leave. To find help. To run away, and... And ask... Is this normal? Am I normal? Is this normal? Normal, _normal, what is normal?_ I just want to know. I need to know. I have to know. But if I ask, if I talk, I will die. I will _die._ And I don't want to die. I don't want to die, but I _have_ to know, I _have_ to ask. But I can't, because if I do... I'll die. I'm so confused. What do I want, what do I need? I want help, I need help, but I don't want to die, I don't need to die. You must obey. You must not disobey. Or... You will die. Or... You are dead. ??? But... But... ***_BUT._*** I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I want help. I need to know. What is normal? What is normal? What is normal?! *** I leap off my bed, spinning around to his voice. "Sir?" He's leaning against the door frame, smiling at me. "Teal, you've been good for me. You must be rewarded." I swallow slowly, expecting him to hand me a few dollars. I've collected, over time, $34.21. I keep it hidden in my matress. I don't know what I plan to use it for. I just want money. But tonight, I'm rewarded with something better. A gift. I hold it tightly in my arms. It's my only friend. I've never met a child. I've never met another slave. I'm not allowed to talk to anyone else. But... I have Mr. Whiskers. A stuffed cat. I hold him tightly in my arms, smiling at my master. "Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir, thank you!" He chuckles. "I'm glad you like it, Teal." I nod, and continue to thank him, and clutch my Mr. Whiskers tightly to my heart, and for a moment, I forget. I forget I'm a slave. I'm happy, I'm happy, I'm happy, and that's all that matters. And then I hear him chuckle. "I think I'm going to call you Teala now," he says slowly. Teala is a slave. I've never heard of Teala. But I know that he's a slave. "I think Teala is a good name for you, slave." I tremble, holding onto Mr. Whiskers tightly, as he steps closer. "I...I...I like the name Teala," I whisper. I don't know what I'm trying to say. I don't know what I'm saying. I am Teala now. My master says so. I _have_ to believe it. "Yes," he says slowly. "You do." And then he starts to laugh. "You know, Teala. You are my slave, and you will always be my slave. But... but you are also my Teala." His eyes widen, and he slams his hand across my cheek. "Don't you ever forget it

What is it like being a slave in modern day America?

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