Novel & Cerita Eleanor Langston

She told me about a woman named Eleanor. Not Eleanor Harrington, whom I had learned about through the Harrington Knight Foundation in California and whose name I had encountered as part of a history that had nothing to do with mine. A different Eleanor. Eleanor Moore, who had been Catherine Bell's closest friend for forty years and who had spent thirty-five of those years as the director of a legal aid organization in New York City that had provided pro bono legal services to communities that could not otherwise access the legal system. Eleanor Moore had died two years ago.

At least, that is what everyone else thinks, but that isn’t the true reason. You see, I have a secret. One that I can't tell a soul because if I do, I will die before I accomplish what it is I’m meant to achieve. You see, my name may be Eleanor, but my past name was Elise. Elise was born to a tyrant of an alpha and a weak mother who couldn’t protect her or her twin sister. She was given away at birth to suffer in an orphanage along the sea, where she was beaten and bullied day in and day out. When she was adopted by a farming family, she thought that things were looking up, but they were much worse than the orphanage, so much worse.

"I am only— "Plain pathetic," Eleanor cut in, rising to her feet from her chaise. She stalked around Leya like a stalking cat. "You believe that this bastard child is going to sweep you up off the floor into our family. That it'll re-make you." Her lips curled up, but not her eyes. "But a maid with child is no more than a maid. No more."

Ever since the arrival of Elliot 'the attack leader' as she would call him, all the slaves and maids has been busy like bees. At first he complained about the decorations saying it was too bright. He wanted it to be darker like really really dark. He even suggested colors like red and black. "We are not preparing for a funeral" Eleanor wanted to scream out loud, but that would only give her a free gate pass to visit her ancestors because a sword would slice through her throat before the last word slips out of her mouth. So currently, she and few other slaves were in the kitchen, sweeping and mopping every corner of the kitchen of it as requested by 'attack leader'. Somehow she thinks this ma

More often than not, it’s calls like this—the stern, sharp-eyed Director dragging us for our failures. Eleanor Hart is a fifty-year-old Black woman with a blunt bob cut as severe as her stony face. She was a tactical legend before she moved into the executive suite, and her personal connection to my family—having served with my sister Gina—doesn't make her soft. If anything, it makes her more brutal.

She always felt a connection between them, perhaps because she bears the name of her dead sister. Eleanor went to her room, took a warm bath, and dressed up. She looked at herself in the mirror. She adjusted her brown bonnet. She wore crazy jeans and a wild crop top, totally dressed like someone from the ghetto. She needs to look alive. She didn't see Harrison before leaving the house, he might ask her to dress corporate or wifely and she had no time to inconvenience herself. She headed straight to her mother's place, greeting Lina who was baking in the kitchen. "Is that bread I am perceiving?" She said out loud.

And every slave ended up submissive and reduced to nothing but a crying worshipping mess every time. Every puny slave except Eleanor. Yes, she did cry and mumble out words due to pain, but somehow she did that with her head held high. It was as if her body was battered and bruised, but her spirit was still holding up strong like she was some kind of queen or an alpha female from another pack in the place. Just who exactly did that bruised thing think she was?

I asked. He looked at me. "A lot." "That's not really an answer." "I know." He sighed and placed the photograph carefully beside the others. Then, slowly, he began telling me the smaller pieces. Eleanor used to hum when she worked, usually without realizing it. She loved walking through the city without deciding where she was going. She had once convinced him to take dance lessons with her, even though neither of them had any rhythm. I smiled when he told me that. "You couldn't dance?"

I nodded as my lips formed a thin line. My eyes widened in horror as gasps filled with shock left my lips. My whole being stiffed as my mind was clouded with unfathomable clouds of overwhelming pressure. I was deluged in the frights and ravage. Lost in the depths of despair, I remained motionless as I read the gravestone; Eleanor Elvis 17th Oct,1968 - 12th Feb,2015 May Your Soul Rest in Peace Aunt Eleanor… “This has to be a terrible joke…”

"Because I built them myself and I'm not ready to put down something I built just because I don't financially need it anymore. That feels like a bad habit to get into." The table was quiet for a moment. Then Eleanor picked her spoon back up and said, without looking at either of them, "I worked until I was sixty-four. Everyone told me I didn't need to. I told them need wasn't the point." She ate a spoonful of soup. "I think I'm going to like you," she said, to the soup rather than to Lena, in the tone of someone slightly annoyed to be discovering this.