Lying on the narrow mattress, her head echoed with the mantras he had forced her to recite: I am property. I have no standing. My will is not my own. She whispered her mother’s name like a talisman in the dark: Ruth. Ruth. Ruth. She strained to picture Ruth’s face and hear her voice, but the edges of the memory were already turning hazy under the weight of exhaustion.
Spring brought fierce heat to Dallas County, accelerating the cotton crop. From her third-floor window, Sarah could see the field gangs working the long furrows, their field hollers drifting faintly on the wind. She found herself envying them; whatever their daily miseries, they laboured alongside one another. She had only Thornwood.
The study sessions became a nightly fixture. Some evenings were psychological: forced recitations, balancing heavy ledgers on outstretched arms until her shoulders seized, or standing motionless for hours under threat of harsh labor drills. Other nights, the torment turned physical, though executed with clinical care to avoid visible contusions. He utilized sustained joint strain, nerve pressure points, and prolonged stress positions—techniques that left no external bruises for the household to see.
Throughout it all, Thornwood took notes. A thick, leather-bound volume sat on his desk, its pages filled with observations on her pain tolerance, behavioral compliance, and subtle signs of defiance. To him, she was an empirical problem to be solved through systematic pressure.
