I suppose in life one always must understand how life works out for them; how life was originally set out to be and what was meant for you. A saying that works out correspondingly is “Living is Easy with Eyes Closed.” by John Lennon, this is the protection to the life's realities-one may perceive it.

“I was already born...a gift from God, established with over 100 years of pain, grief, and endless peril. This was supposedly said by my parents at the time. I remember them saying ‘that with every trial and tribulation I had to bear including the scars they left; they were the marks of realization of my past, present, and future.’ I never understood what exactly she meant however, it would be realized later in life, sooner than expected; than I would ever had predicted. Every day I wonder why me; why ought God choose I, to hold the burden of my ancestors. For me to represent the pain and struggle through every whiplash, strike, and suffrage I went through depicted by each and every individual cratered cicatrice left behind on my disfigured back and arms left by Mas’ah due to my disobedience is completely not in my character description as a growing child in this slaughteringly heated hell.

As the child of the Mas’ah’s house family, (so said by the mistress who dos the papers of the house) I never truly knew my role in mainly anywhere. There were times in the dry-musty fields where anywhen I placed my hands, a cracking sound of blood and exposed flesh peered out of my skin. Says ‘I’s touchin’ spots of which not to be messin’ wit.’ I also tried my presence within the house of my Mas’ah’s castle. (Just to point out: I’m may be naive but for sure, family would have the same traits as you do. Smooth features, soft hair, abrasion less skin, clean clothes with vibrant designs, usually would run in the same family not to the parallel of my field mother) My luck never truly panned out the way I hoped it to. For instance, I was told to go in den to clean and polish the silver, apparently I was wrong for using the Kerosene for the apparent harshness of the chemical was so called too abrasive. If I were told to prepare the table for supper, I would tend to have the plates and utensils incorrect and improperly organized. (How would I know how these scar less heathens want their plate positioning?)Due to these little things, that’s how I ended up in the place I am now; a hot box, rotting, blood soaked sheets and blankets with haunting and traumatic images of times of a young’un. My so called “incompblitence” allowed me to be sold for hoes and gardening tools. I was traded for many of the things mother were to get beatens with. Stakes, trowels, toadstabber, and whenever the Mas’ah were to get one of his fixins’ again were his medium of abuse.

Times and times again, no matters what times it is, I would hear the anger of Mas’ah’s rage due to the moonshine triggering his fixins’. His slurred beckoning onto my field mother’s presence began to emerge. His dominative abuse engaged her screams and the same whip-ripping fleshy sound; that same sound that curdles my blood launched me up to my feet to come ever so humbly to her aid. Though I didn’t know my consequences at the time or at any time, with every slash and blunt strike that her delicate soft body absorbed, it almost reassured my reasoning and my timid steps. I guess that’s what my mother was referring to when she said that ‘each slash on my back and arms were a representation of the pain over a century ago’ because with every strike and slap I heard my mother take, it coursed through the dead nerves tracing the canals of my injuries. The anger that was originally instilled in me, festering up inside forced me to trust those same blood caked, pus and infection filled swollen fingers to guide my way through this maze of a house. During my journey, black figures abruptly moved within my way as the screams became more and more distressful. I felt as if someone were watching and lurking around me but then again how could I have told if that was slightly true. Anyway, during my quest of vigilante work, the screams and pantings were to becoming more and more smothered. Kinda how the son of Mas’ah, Bobby Joe died. ‘Made the same sounds that he made when the cloth of poison enveloped over his face’; that was years ago when most of my life was a blur. Daniel of the Morrison Plantation told me this and swore I were to never to tell a soul. He died also as a child. Unsure of what he did to die specifically. He died near the scented magnolias right after the white family left sermon in their best white linen.

The muffled-up blips of agony became more and more choppy like the sensory signals I receive through my maimed fingers. I soon came to the door of mystery where at that point, sound bites of mayhem and distress turned to viciously sharp and precise attacks to the skin of which whips rip across her ‘dermis flints of scarred tissue surprisingly invited me in with the drive of a lion and the strength of a cricket. To the sound of the 30 pound mammoth door sculpted of antique Irish Pine was truly unpleasant. A bass like tone that shook the entire house of its bearings accompanied with the creaking of a witch’s sneer wasn’t welcoming in the least. There, with the slightest amount of eyesight blessed upon me; though blurry, I saw my mother stripped of her garments and bloomers barely gasping for the slightest amount of oxygen applicable for human necessity. Above her in a lurking knelt position on top of her was Mas’ah with his trousers removed and blood splattered onto him as well. The last words I may have recalled said that night which were from the devil himself before I had a .69 Caliber French Flintlock Pistol obliterate the bridge of my nose was ‘Your druthers is my ruthers’, in a sum would mean "Your wish is my command.” In his own arrogant and twisted ways he knew of which I come. Risking the entirety of my life for the woman of the fields who raised me strong, no regrets to fear, and no future to look upon. For he knew this had to be its end and so it was.”