History's Perspective

Life of a Slave

I'm 8 years old, but I always feel as if I'm different in a way--somehow. Pricks or feelings always seem to get to me at night and yet I never cry. Mama says I'm a strong boy and tough and I can grow up to be so much in the future, but I don't see myself in that way-not anymore, my potential was wasted once I left my home land if I could still call it that. I've heard all the white scary men say other things I wish not to speak of. They haunt me. They drag me---And they choke me with their venomous words. Oh how I wish it could stop.

I still remember that day like the back of my hand. My own people had draped cloth over me till I passed out. I woke up to millions and millions of pairs of eyes. Just like mine.

I had stared wide-eyed, as if in a trance, and then a trigger suddenly snapped my sanity in half. I looked around frantically, scouring for something I couldn't find. My heart clenched with fear and my eyes welled with an unfamiliar feeling. I pulled myself into a ball and rocked myself back and forth. I yelled for my mom and thousands of eyes showered me with pity.

"Your moms not coming honey. "

I walked and bit into my tongue. A metallic taste filled my mouth, but it just blended into the background.

Don't cry.

It was the phrase I kept repeating and over. My mom's words kept echoing in my head and I felt like I was going insane. What's going on? Where did the sun go? Where is Everyone?

I screamed at the top of my lungs and a white man came down. Everyone was asleep, or so it had looked like. No I know they were probably faking. The white man had whipped me until I couldn't feel blood reaching my legs anymore. He was vile and still his.

He is my owner.

This cruel, cruel man. After that I couldn't hold it anymore. I cried.

And cried.

And cried.

But it helped me grow. I now knew. They made us feel the color that were given us, and made us special. They cursed our names with vigor words.

Negroes.

They spit the word out as they fling their whips. The leather comes down upon me everyday. I'm too slow they say. Too weak.

Too colored.

I cry myself to sleep everyday. I had yearned everyday to go back and see my mothers face. Now I know it's no longer an option. Neither is freedom.

So I do their dirty work. From day to night everyday as they auction me off as if a human can be used to be sold. Humans are priceless, they shan't be paid for. If only they knew that. I scratch at my skin, scabs and all--scars and all. I want to get rid of it. All of it! I used to love colors, and now, I despise them.

White men

Black men

Colors

Everywhere.

A/N

I might continue this perspective, but for now enjoy!

-Mer <3