A Living Hell
The sun beat down on the dark, sun-kissed skin of the 14-year old slave. He was bent at the waist, reaching, pulling the weeds out. Over and over and over. He looked up. His master stalked around atop a white, proud stallion, snapping his whip at a couple of older women who were to slow for his liking. The boy felt a beast rise within him, but he held it down. He could not get in trouble again; his back was still raw from his last beating. He cast his eyes down and wiped the sweat from his brow, careful of the open cut above his eye. He stopped for a moment, watching a ladybug crawl across his barefoot. He couldn't help but stop what he was doing and watch the bug walk freely without fear. Oh, how he wished he was free.
He was so caught up in his fantasies of freedom that the sharp snap of a leather whip across his raw back broke his day dreams. The pain was intense, so intense he could hardly breathe, let alone scream. He quickly scrambled to grabbing the weeds by the fistfuls, and shook the ladybug of his barefoot. He heard the clomping of the horse's feet against the hard dirt, and tensed in preparation of an onslaught of pain. But the shadow of the horse and rider fell across him and a loud spitting voice was heard behind him. "Why are you so slow! Faster! I don't have all day! You stupid niggers, always dragging your feet and begging for food. Pathetic! I should sell you to the worst of them, make you learn some respect!" The white man snapped his whip in the air, and turned to go down the line of the other black workers.
The boy winced; his family was his only motivation to keep going. His little sister was his only happiness. He would not provoke his master into selling him, or his family. He looked up across the hedges of cotton plants towards his little sister. She was 7, hardly old enough to be working in the fields, but his master was a cruel man. His breath caught as he saw his owner standing behind his younger sister. He could see her working faster, periodically wiping her face of tears. The man watched her with a sickening look that made the boy's insides turn. Suddenly, the man's arm snapped, his whip lashed out, and his sister's body arched in a pain. A whisper of a scream carried away on the wind as she let out her breath.
The boy stopped. He stood up, and finding the biggest stick he could, threw it at his owner. Damn him, and damn him if he tries to hurt my sister. Damn him if he tries to send me away, at least she's safe. The boy's mind raged, screaming, lighting his sight on fire as murderous thought after murderous thought raced through his brain, trying to form a coherent idea. The man looked at him, startled. But it only fueled the adolescent teen's fury. His fists clenched and unclenched, his barely controlled anger simmering beneath the surface.
The man raced over, his whip high above his head, snapping down on the boy's body before the boy could start running. The pain brought the boy to his knees. He could hear the man screaming, yelling, but the pain was too much. He could feel liquid pouring down his back and the back of his legs and knew it was his own blood. He barely lifted his head, and through his tears, he could see his sister staring at him in horror. Well, he thought, at least she's safe.