Crossing The Line

Preview

Chapter 1

May 3rd, 2019

In my world a whip shows the highest social status. For you folks it might be money, or popularity, or even fancy clothing. I think a whip makes more sense because the slave never whips the master, the master whips the slave. Whoever holds the whip is on top. They're the lion, the wolf, the bear. As much as I fear the whip, I don't fear the man holding it. Without it he holds no power over us. Without it, is he even a master?
The tip raked against his back, tearing his musty shirt, shredding his skin, and exposing his crimson blood. Master Banks, the man holding the whip, stared at his slave with a crazed expression. He might have been mistaken for a mad scientist testing some concoction on a rat. I winced every time Master snapped the whip, almost as if I was the one in the chair.
He does this to protect us, I told myself. It  has to be done.
I've never been outside the plantation, but Master Banks told us it's like living in a wasteland. He said that the world was much better when slavery was legal, back when we didn't have to hide in India. Another slave told me that Master traveled all the way from another continent in a giant flying machine that looked like a bird! Maybe one day I would fly in one of these bird-like contraptions. I hope not, because then I'd have to leave my home and venture into the                          w a s t e l a n d.
Another slave stepped up to the chair and I thought about the first time I had been whipped. If my memory is working, I was about 3 or 4 years old. Oh man, did I cry. But now I realize this is necessary, as Master Banks tells us, for keeping us slaves in line. One time I heard Master Mah Ahuja telling Master Banks that he thought whipping was awful. Master Banks told him that "it is what it is." I'm not quite sure what that means, but Master Banks told us to stay away from Master Mah after that day.
    I guess I should stop rambling and introduce myself. My name is Camille Banks. Before you ask, because I know you will, Master Banks is not my Papa, but he acts like it sometimes. He teaches us how to harvest corn and what-not. Instead of giving us money, he gives us scraps of bread and stalls to sleep in. One slave asked why he don't get no money and Master told him that he is rescuing us from the rest of the world, so we should pay him. He is kind, though, so he don't make us do that.
    One day, I want to have a family. Master Banks says that ain't allowed. This one slave wanted to marry this other slave real bad so she asked Master if she could leave the plantation to do so. I guess that slave left, because I never saw her again.
    There are about 10 slaves on the plantation, all around 16 years old, like me. Most of us were taken here as babies. From a young age we was told that we wasn't as good as white folks. It took me a while to understand, but I've accepted it.
    From what Master told us, our plantation is small compared to most. There's one house, and it's real fancy looking, at least compared to where I sleep. Like I mentioned, all the slaves live in stalls, right next to Master Banks' and Master Mah Ahuja's house. We stay silent at night so as not to disturb our Masters. Master Banks told us we will get whipped for 5 times longer if we make noise! I'm okay with that rule. It means I can relax after a day's work and listen to the chirping of the Jerusalem crickets and the gentle sways of the corn in the field.
    Regaining my focus on my surroundings, I glanced around the room. There was that chair, where you have to sit backwards on it like you're hugging it so Master could whip you on the back. The walls were illuminated with torches. The flames curled and snapped, as if in sync with the whip, now a mere few feet from me.
    The whip was a smaller one, about half the size of me. It began with a short handle, wrapped in black leather. I didn't get to see the tail all that much. If the whip wasn't slashing the air it was locked away in Master Banks' house, but in the few glimpses I caught, it looked dangerous. The tail consisted of a thin black rope with some pieces of wire at the tip. Now that don't seem like it would do more than sting, but it sure does hurt coming at you that fast. There's this one slave, Jeffery, he has these nasty scars up his spine from all the times he tried to run. Long strips of bumpy, reddish skin running up and down the planes of his back. He don't like to take his shirt off much. It seems like a goonga idea, running away from the only safe place for us Africans, but I guess he just wanted to be a part of the wasteland he calls the outside world.
Only one slave in front of me now. She straddled that chair like her life depended on it, clutching the wooden rails on the back. With a blood-curdling scream, the sharp tail of the whip scraped her skin like a dagger.
After what seemed like a lifetime, the woman stood, tears flowing down her cheeks like a river. I took 7 steps forward, as always. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Sitting down hard I wrapped my arms around the back like it was my mama. My feet curled around the bottom, the pain of the splintery wood miniscule compared to the whip that would soon be snapped at me. I squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself, more mentally than physically, for what I was about to experience.

Thanks for reading! If you want to continue, my book will be available on the Lulu Bookstore as of June 30th.