Black Thoughts
Well. . . Isn't this an interesting change from what I normally write? No? Not interesting? Nevermind.
Disclaimer: I can only wish myself so talented as to have actually written and own TKaM!
Warning: Character death.
Me and the other prisoners walk slowly, silently around the prison yard, no quicker than we have to. There's no point; we barely exist outside our own thoughts. The wardens have succeeded in their task to 'beat the cheek out of us.'
As we trudge along, I'm struck with a thought, like God's lightning bolt come to strike the sinners. No matter what I do, no matter whether I'm free or not, it makes no difference. If my appeal fails, I'm a dead man; but the way I'd be treated if I were free is almost worse. Even I, a 'stupid black', can see that. From the moment Mayella Ewell first screamed, I was a dead man. Even though I haven't done it, I've been accused. Accused of raping a white woman.
Being accused of something is not how things are done in Maycomb. It stirs up trouble amongst the neighbours and upsets the women. If someone accuses you of doing something bad, it's almost worse than if you've actually done it. But at least then the hullabaloo is justified. When it comes to me, there is no justification – except for the relieving thought that I am black, and therefore must be the guilty person.
"Turn!" The prison warden shouts at us, spittle flying from his ugly mouth. Like scared and beaten dogs, we follow his order, our faces blank as usual. We've learnt not to show emotion. The slightest hint of a smile, and we are beaten half to death. The slightest grimace, and we're accused of not 'manning up'. Emotion here is a sin. We have no fighting spirit. Better we surrender our dignity and keep our lives than act as if we could ever have rights and throw away the right God gave us all – the right to breathe.
All of a sudden, I can take it no longer. God did not create us to bow down to fellow humans. Just because we are different colours on the outside doesn't mean we are better or worse than any other person. The rage flows through me, lighting a fire within my soul. I feel hate towards the Ewells, hate so blinding and strong it almost hurts to think of them. I also feel love. Love for my children and wife, who have supported me though I am not whole. But anger arises in me, driving out all my other emotions. I feel bitter frustration and disappointment at the cruelty of men. Why are these men so blind? Why do they not see that they are disobeying God's will? Why do they not see that what they are doing is Wrong?
My mind is filled with these thoughts. They crowd around my head, making it hard to think. Is there any point in living? I cannot make things better. I have brought shame to my family. If I die, my wife will be able to make a new life without me.
I offer a silent prayer to God, asking for His advice. Would it be better for me to go out fighting, trying to make a difference, or to go out quietly, with no one to notice? We round the final corner and I get the answer.
Like a sign from God, our supervisor turns away. He is staring suspiciously at another prisoner. I make a break for it. I run towards the fence, already leaping up to climb it. The first bullet hits me hard, like a punch to my back. I fall. I hear the shouts of the wardens and the other prisoners. Some are angry, some of them encouraging.
I cannot see them, nor can I hear the roaring of the guns. I cannot see anything but the blood, red blood, seeping into the dust, so dry and brown, around me. Everything has gone black as my skin.
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