Mines

Chapter Fourteen

     There's only one thing I'd change if I was in charge of the whippings. I'd make the victim where a mask, or a tarp, or a bag, something, anything, to avoid looking at his peers' faces. Most of the slaves looked shocked, disgusted, remorseful, or unconcerned about my predicament, so I stare them down, instead of looking at the complete pain on my friends faces. Another whistling blow, and the sound of horrible impact as white hot pain dances on my back. I grit my teeth and bare it however, because I know this will work, I'm like... 70% sure. Blood drips down my back and onto the wood below me, tears of pain start to spring in my eyes, so I widen my eyes, in hopes of drying them. It's my only option with my hands tied behind my back. I must have gone through twenty lashes by the time the pain finally fully enters my brain. It's begging me to pass out, but I know I have to hold my ground for as long as I can. A new slash is formed right below the base of my neck, and second one quickly follows, stretching over to my collarbone and to my right shoulder blade. And then other, and a another, and again and again until I know I can't keep my eyes open anymore. My eyelids drop until they're closed, and the tears I've been holding back start streaming down my face along with my sweat. The whip lands across my back yet again, and I know I can't hold on any longer. My body slumps forward, my blood pouring freely now without the whip to interfere. I can hear sobbing coming from somewhere in the crowd, and I know it's Lafayette, and then another choked sob echo's around the quarry which can only be Herc. Knowing them, Lafayette had to restrain Herc from jumping on the platform to risk his life to save mine, and now is crying into Hercules' back. And yet again, I have no idea how Alex is reacting. I'm shoved roughly on my back, which brings up new waves of pain as my irritated flesh tries to resist the dirty wood. I feel two thick fingers coated with my blood check the pulse on my neck, and as I feel him pressing, I can feel my heart slowing down. The fingers release their pressure, and with the burning hot sun pounding on my eyelids I can see the shadow of the man who just whipped me, stand up, and pronounce my current form.
     "He's not long for this world." I hear a cold voice snarl with pleasure over the crowd. The sobbing I can hear coming from Laf increases, and more choked cries echo around the excavation. And I know, with all my heart, I have to be dead.

It's not comfortable being transported in a truck. Especially when you're presumed dead, because since a dead body takes up too much space on it's own, I'm being carried with multiple wooden boxes full of who knows what. One fell on me when we went over a particularly large sand dune. I guess I should consider myself lucky that I was whipped on a day where no one else was condemned. Because at least I don't have to travel with dead bodies. After six hours of driving, the truck comes to a screeching stop. Through my closed eyelids, I see the hot desert sun beating down on two black figures, who, moments later shove me roughly into a wooden coffin. It's as comfortable as I could have hoped for. I feel myself being transported through the town I grew up in, and I pull up a mental image of the villagers' cold faces seeing the new victim of the mines being taken through the run down town.

     After ten minutes of being carried, I can feel the two British soldiers stop, and with my heart leaping into my chest, I imagine my old house. After a loud knock, yelling, and a door opening, I hear my father's voice.
     "What do you want?" he growls at the soldiers in his deep, rough voice. His words are slurred together with means he's drunk. As usual.
     "Your son was killed in the mines," A troop says in his high squeaky tones. "We are here delivering his body to you."
     "Son?" I hear the questioning in my dad's voice. "Do you mean John?"
     "John Laurens, yes." The second solider says.
      "Oh. I thought he died years ago." I feel the hope in my chest sinking, even though I should have expected this, it still hurts to hear the unconcern coming from my father.
     "We are here delivering his body-" The first troop says but then my dad cuts him off.
     "Yeah yeah, to me, I know. You told me. Well, lay it on the couch, and a fat lot of good it will do you," Walking again, then being tossed on a supposedly soft surface. Then walking without me being carried, a door closing, and silence. I lay for about thirty minutes until I'm completely sure it's safe for me to reveal myself. I sit up so fast a new spout of blood pours down my back from the movement.   "Holy-" I see my father tumbling backwards, then tripping over empty beer bottles. He falls onto the ground with the sound of breaking glass. Without waiting for him to get up, I swing my legs over the side of the coffin and stand up, ignoring the pain in my back. "Hold up. Who the fuck are you?" Mr. Laurens asks. I don't answer put start going up the stairs. I jump as I feel a hand on being placed on my shoulder.
     "Get off me!" I shout, shoving his hand away. And for the first time in two years I get a good look at my father's face. Same angry little eyes, black and cold as every. His light brown hair that used to be almost shaved now falling in waves down his shoulders. He has a beard, because I guess he was too lazy to change. And he's gained more than a few pounds. This makes me think about how his life has been so much easier than mine recently. A lot of the slaves would be muscular if we had been fed properly, but all of our hard efforts in the mines when to trying to keep ourselves alive.
     "What are you doing here? I thought you were dead." he whispers.
     "Well, unluckily for you I'm not." I counter.
     "Your bleeding." he says, ignoring my last sentence.
     "I am? Wow, let me think why. Hmm, maybe because I was just fucking whipped?"
     "You were whipped?" His eyes widen. "Good."
     "What?" I say shocked. Good? Nice welcome home present dad.
     "A faggot like you deserves to be whipped," he hisses. "Get out of my house. You're no son of mine." His words, which used to hurt like the lashings I just received, barely make a dent anymore.
     "Trust me, I hate being here as much as you do. I want to get new clothes because I'm wearing the same thing I was when I left here two years ago!" and with that, I turn around leaving him in a shocked silence because I've grown from a little boy who cried over flowers, to a young man who wants to fight back.