In the corner stood a boy. No older than ten. He wore a linen shirt stained with tobacco juice and something darker. He was polishing the master’s boots. Over and over. The same motion. Left, right, left, right. His wrists were ringed in scars.
When at last I did wake—gasping, sweating, the iron collar cold against my throat—the first thing I saw was the master’s boots, standing by the door. Polished. Waiting.
You will be, he said. When you wake up. You will be him forever. slave's nightmare
I tried to wake. I always tried to wake. But the dream had teeth, and it would not let go. The boots in the boy’s hands became my hands. The lash on my back became my breath. The horn became the only music.
The boy smiled. It was the worst thing I had ever seen. In the corner stood a boy
“Who is he?” I asked.
I turned back to the boy. He lifted his head. His eyes were mine. But empty. So empty. Like two holes burned in a blanket. He was polishing the master’s boots
A root caught my ankle and I went down, face-first into black water. I did not scream. I had learned not to scream. Screaming brought them faster. Instead, I crawled. Hands and knees, through cypress knees and rotting leaves, until I reached a cabin that was not there a moment before.