Short Stories from my High School Days

Story 2: The Windmill

This story was also written for my history class. It takes place in the 1800s, when Slavery was in the states (unbelievable that it still is in parts of the world)... I think I wrote this for that unit, idk. It was pretty depressing to research stuff for this. Humans are terrible :|

Remember, this is unedited... so any grammar mistakes, I'm sorry 😅
All mah stories will be in their original glory

*I acknowledge that this story was not written on/for Wattpad, and that having submitted these stories for marks makes them partially property of my teachers (even though they didn't write them... plagiarism statement bois)*

The Windmill

The forest is dark and cool. The leaves on the trees are still wet from last night's rain, and little droplets fall on my bare shoulders every now and then. Streaks of warm sunlight embrace me through the cracks in the trees, though a stiff breeze still freezes me. The trail I've left is littered in a boy's blood... my blood: a wound sustained in an inescapable encounter.
I hear a stream nearby. I long for water; I've been stumbling around this forest for days, and my throat is dry and sore, aching for relief.
The stream is fast, but shallow, so I wade in. I shiver at the chill of the water, for it feels like ice penetrating my legs, infusing itself in my bones. I scoop water into my hands, pouring it down my pale rusted leg; red seeps into the water, engulfing small leaves and twigs as they float downstream. I splash water onto my face next, which was covered in dirt. I decide to follow the stream, so I can try and find a settlement, where hopefully I'll be able to find help, and keep heading north.
The stream empties into a muddy swamp. I limp out onto the grass, a dizziness overcoming me. Night is falling quickly. As I stare ahead of me, my eyes fixate on a lonely windmill, illuminated by the sun behind it. I begin to limp faster towards it, praying to God that I will find someone who can help me.
I hear a raven's caw in the trees, and instinctively I glance towards it. It's large black body is easily visible; it's even darker eyes pierce through me. It holds my stare for a few moments, and with a whoosh of its wings, it's off, floating over the trees, gracefully gliding through a gap in the windmill's blades.
*****
New Jersey's summers are warm, often humid; everything either grows or dies then.
The year was 1804, an important year for the state: dishonourable men shamefully gave other men their well-deserved freedom; Alexander Hamilton died at dawn in Weehawken, defending his honour against a man who, notably, called many men his own, too.
I remember being up at dawn as well, every morning, for the entire farming season. My father needed my help, and as his only son, I always felt obligated to assist him. Because of the abolition, we no longer had as many farmhands. My father would often curse the president's name, and I would just sit and listen; what'd I know? What could I say, to a man too ignorant to know that Jefferson had owned slaves too, and probably intended to keep them past their childhood as well?
In July 1804, we had three slaves. Two were children, girls; the other was their mother, Rebecca, widowed because of a cotton gin 'accident', my father'd swore.
Rebecca was weak, and had been fighting an illness for awhile. She tried to stay strong for her daughters, but I could tell she was dying.
On the evening of August 2nd, she fell asleep, never to awaken. Her two daughters, so close to freedom, were quite broken-hearted. My father couldn't care less, and was in fact angry that, now, he was down another slave.
It was the next day when my uncle and his trusty (unnecessary) guard dog came to our humble farm, ready to help my father complete the harvest season.
I hated that dog.
*****
I open my blurry eyes, a throbbing pain in the back of my head. My leg doesn't hurt so much anymore...
I'm flat on my back on the floor of the abandoned windmill.
I remember now: I eventually stumbled into the windmill, gasping for help. Gasping- and for some reason turning towards the opening again, staring up at the ceiling.
Blood loss took me down, as I fainted, falling backwards.