Write Fight #7: Historical Challenge
She was a beautiful child. She truly was. Her light skin, slightly curled hair. And eyes like the Master's; hazel. Her mother knew she wouldn't be in the slave house with her for much longer. She was almost weened.
The babe's mother wondered if it would be better to cover the child' face, hold her under the water or simply snap that tiny neck. Could she endure knowing her child would face horror s that she had known in her thirteen years or worse? Her people were strong. Her mother had told her in the native language of her people how she and others had sailed across the ocean packed and chained tightly together and stacked on top of one another. She told her of the dead bodies rotting under the live ones and the once free people who were thrown over the side to lighten the ship's load. And yet, here they still stood. Back breaking labor and rape did not kill them. That was left to the whips, hands, ropes and guns of the white Masters.
She'd never known a man before the Master took her. That in and of itself was a death, and not a small one. The Master had talked to her while her did what was natural to his kind. He told her how pretty her dark skin was. He said her lips and nose weren't as ugly as most of the other dark women's. In fact, she was much prettier than her mother, whom he had taken when she was only 15. As the Master had pushed and pushed, rocking his body and hers, he had gripped her small budding breasts while he grunted and mumbled that their size was almost like that of his wife's. When his moment came he'd hurt her more as he shoved inside very hard. She didn't make a sound, even then.
The all too young mother looked down at her suckling baby. It was the main house for her. You could barely tell that she had a dark skinned mother. As she brushed her hand over the child's head, she thought that she would give her baby's life a chance. After all, she was not living her mother's life trapped on a ship, and her babe would surely have a better life than hers. A White life.
The babe's mother wondered if it would be better to cover the child' face, hold her under the water or simply snap that tiny neck. Could she endure knowing her child would face horror s that she had known in her thirteen years or worse? Her people were strong. Her mother had told her in the native language of her people how she and others had sailed across the ocean packed and chained tightly together and stacked on top of one another. She told her of the dead bodies rotting under the live ones and the once free people who were thrown over the side to lighten the ship's load. And yet, here they still stood. Back breaking labor and rape did not kill them. That was left to the whips, hands, ropes and guns of the white Masters.
She'd never known a man before the Master took her. That in and of itself was a death, and not a small one. The Master had talked to her while her did what was natural to his kind. He told her how pretty her dark skin was. He said her lips and nose weren't as ugly as most of the other dark women's. In fact, she was much prettier than her mother, whom he had taken when she was only 15. As the Master had pushed and pushed, rocking his body and hers, he had gripped her small budding breasts while he grunted and mumbled that their size was almost like that of his wife's. When his moment came he'd hurt her more as he shoved inside very hard. She didn't make a sound, even then.
The all too young mother looked down at her suckling baby. It was the main house for her. You could barely tell that she had a dark skinned mother. As she brushed her hand over the child's head, she thought that she would give her baby's life a chance. After all, she was not living her mother's life trapped on a ship, and her babe would surely have a better life than hers. A White life.