Day 1:
(South Carolina)
I might as well start with who I am.
I am a slave.
I am no more than property that my master owns. I work in a cotton plantation. For hours I would be outside picking cotton and then going inside to clean the cotton with my cotton gin. It is painful work that eventually will break your back.
Now my master. He is not my first master. He is my third. My first master is the one that my parents where owned by. He still gives me nightmares. He would beat me with his rough hands. I would cuddle with my mother, half dead. He sold me away when I broke my ankle.
My second master was kind. He fixed my broken ankle and taught me how to write. A slave is not allowed to write or know their letters, but I do. My second master had to sell me because he didn't have enough money to carry on his farm. In the end, his land was worth more than me.
The master I have now is sickly. He is almost always in bed. My friend, Sara, tends to him everyday. The local doc comes once every week. My master hired a white man to watch us and give us orders. His name is Mr. Frinde. He whips us daily.
They are all different, but the same. To them, I am property.
Mr. Frinde is yelling so I better stop writing for now. I will write as often as I can. Good-bye.
-Edith
YOU ARE READING
Why I Ran
Historical FictionI hear hounds barking in the distance. They better not find where I hide. I am not going back to that retched place. Not ever again. The scars on my back say so. They are getting closer. I either have to run for it or trust that the hounds won't sme...
