A/N: We were instructed to rewrite a chapter of Copper Sun in the form of a narrative. I got an A+ on it, so I figured I'd post it here. Honestly, I think that it's not so much my writing quality as much as that compared to most of the other kids in my class, I look like Shakespeare. Seriously, some of them can't even spell dire or consequence! It's extremely tedious, but if it makes me look like Shakespeare, I'll take it.

I did revise this like crazy when I remembered I had this in my drive. I hate auto-correct. It changed pry to ply.

MENTIONED: torture, rape, genocide, murder, racism, character death, something that could be interpreted as racism but it's meant as an endearment, depression, lack of will to live, branding, miscarriage, psychological peril.

GRAPHIC: murder, racism, psychological peril, character death, depression.

It had been hard to fall asleep, curled in the corral, surrounded by friends whimpering in pain - both physical and psychological. Once I had fallen asleep, I wished I hadn't, for my mind replayed the moment that my brother was struck by that damned spear. His tears, my sorrow, my despair...all of it racked my body through the night. And once I woke to the howling sounds of the monkeys (oh, how I wished I could've heard the cheerful shouts of Kwasi among them, playing and swinging in the treetops), I had no choice but to open my eyes and admit that corpses of my fellow villagers were commonplace.

I could see the genocide, it was that tangible. I cursed our naivety, and I cursed my lack of courage for not protesting of the strangers.

Our defeat was like that of the one from the story the visitors from the place they called Greece told my father - the story of the Trojan Horse. My father had told it to us a few times, and I could almost remember it word for word.

"A beautiful woman, whom was called Helen (the guiding light), caught the attention of a chief leader called Paris, who was able to convince the witch Aphrodite to make Helen fall in love with him. Paris then took Helen back to his village, and kept her there.

"But the people from her hometown had a plan to get her back, so they hid in the belly of a huge horse, and waited for Paris' soldiers to bring the horse into the city. Once they did, the men inside the horse jumped out and defeated Paris and his army, and took Helen back to their town, where everyone was very happy to see her."

Did we belong to them? Why would we belong to these strange men? Why would they think they have the right to steal us, to kill us? What wrong did we do?

There was no time to ponder, however, as the strange white men hoisted us up into standing positions and snapped collars around our necks. The collars were connected with chains, so that strings of six were forced to stand single file. Next, the white men pulled my hands behind my back, and bound them. They were doing it to the others, as well.

Some of the babies that the white men had been unable to pry from the arms of their mothers were bound to their chests. The children, were connected to their mother with a collar. Theirs were connected by a chain to their mothers, and everytime they tried to run and play with the other children, not only were they whipped and beaten, but they pulled on their mother's neck, choking them. Additionally, our legs were shackled, so we could not run away to freedom, I guessed.

We were shoved in the direction that the sun sets in, and we were yelled at when we did not move. Eventually, we began to walk, and most of the yelling ceased. Much of the remaining men tried to struggle, though with little success. A few were able to fall into the white men, but they were soon dragged off of them and beaten. One of my neighbors was pregnant. Within days, she became noticeably thinner, as did the rest of us. But it was one day when she bled from her womb, and she cried, distraught. Many of the babies were stolen from their mothers while we slept, and were left. The mothers struggled to get back to their children, but were unsuccessful. The men rioted, and many were whipped. A few were shot with the fire sticks. Once shot, they moaned in pain, and soon, they were still. Their bodies were left and we pretended that we did not see them.

Tirza refused to walk any longer. We were all beaten, we were all whipped, but the five of us with will tried to stand. Tirza did not. They kicked her, and she flinched and struggled, causing us to fall again. The strings of six continued, for we had been near the front. They gave up, and shot Tirza, unbuckled the collars from her, and left her body there for us all to pretend not to see as we were marched on. We continued on.

I was dehydrated and ashamed. I wanted to die, but for some reason unknown to me, I kept walking. Perhaps I thought hope would save me? I did not know, but I continued, through the beatings, through everything.

We crossed paths with people from other tribes, none were in better states then we were. I watched as too many of us fell, as too many of us died. My heart wracked with despair, I cried. I wanted Kwasi to be here to hug, but I did not want him to suffer like the other children.

I smelled something strange in the air, and then the white men started talking, happily, repeating words I did not understand. I resolved to try to learn what they said, but I could not understand. Besa refused to look at me. I found I could not look at him. It was one day, when my feet had bled so much from the walking, and healed too many times to count, that I saw more water than I could ever imagine.

There was a huge building, made of stones that sat near the edge of the land. I was afraid it would fall into the sea, for it seemed unstable. Why would someone build a house out of rock? I wondered.

I heard some of the people from other villages talking amongst themselves, quietly, as to avoid being whipped. "I've heard of this place. It's called Cape Coast Castle," a man said. The man looked older than any of the men or women that the white men had taken from the village. Everyone from my village who was old enough to have grandchildren was killed. This man looked like he was nearing the age of sixty.

"What's Cape Coast Castle?" A woman asked skeptically.

"It's a place where white men and some of our own people sell us like animals. They put us on ships and we never come back," the man replied.

"How do you know this?" The woman questioned.

"We've had visitors, some who have partaken in the capture and sale of our own people. Some who have escaped capture by the white men many times. My sister's husband was one of them."

"What happened to him?" I asked.

The man looked me in the eye. His own were full of sorrow. "He betrayed us. He led the people into our village, he helped them."

"Why would he do that!"

"My sister told me the people promised that she would be spared. They lied, they broke their oaths. My sister is dead. She suffered a miscarriage and her children fell ill and died soon after. She went to sleep one night on the walk here, and no amount of pleading could get her to wake up. It as if she refused to live, to breath."

"And her husband?" The woman from before inquired. "He deserves death! He deserves to be outcasted for such a misdeed!"

"He is dead. He fought them, when he saw my sister being chained. They shot him. I do not hate him, for what he did. I am sorrowful, yes. But I understand his reasoning. I would have done the same for my wife, if I had one still."

No one spoke after that, too caught up in deciphering his meaning, his reason for refusing to hate the man that caused so much death unto him and his kin.

In the morning, the man was dead.

I could not stop thinking about what the old man had told us of the castle. Not when they marched me into a dark room, not when they put fire on my shoulder, not when I was raped and humiliated by the sailors. I would not forget the man, though his name I knew not.

I knew his heart, I knew his story, and that was enough.