THE MEN HAVEN'T spoken and nor has Amos. The gun is still in the air, the hand holding it is strong.
"Go," I tell Amos. My voice is a whisper. I don't even know if he can hear me.
I watch the hand because I am unable to watch the gun. I watch the white, muscular fingers and the chipped fingernails.
I speak to the man in my mind. I beg him to lower his arm.
"Go!" I shout at Amos. The hand twitches. My chest aches. I don't know if the pain is from fear in general or from the pressure of my heart thumping against my ribcage.
I need Amos to go. I need him to go, now. He can't die. He can't leave me, not now that we're finally free. Not when our lives are really just beginning.
I want to drag him away from the men but I can't feel my arms.
I wouldn't be able to, anyway, because he is a statue, glued in place. He is a statue that is waiting to be shattered.
I scream into my gritted teeth. I am going crazy.
Screaming.
Crazy.
Something touches my hand. I look down at Amos's fingers entwined in my own.
I want to kiss him.
Instead we run.
YOU ARE READING
Mind Of A Slave
Historical Fiction"The life we're living is the easiest of the difficult." Cass Jinney Jackson is a Louisianan slave girl. She has recently moved to a plantation near the woods, but her life there is far from ordinary. Growing up as the civil war rages on, she finds...
