I do not know how to read nor write but I do know that this treatment is some kind of inhumane beastiality. There goes another day, another wasted day. Another day of cruelty, anxiety, injustice, for that is all I've ever known. I'm no different than any other slave. Before I could count I was whipped by white men with no mercy, no sympathy what so ever. There has not been one day in my life where I have not suffered and I hope to one day look at the scars on my back and know that they made me stronger.

The sun is setting, and as I look around this miserable field I don't feel anything. Even tough there is blood flowing through my heart and pumping my veins I feel entirely empty. I've been kicked, I've been pushed, I've been whipped yet I feel no pain. There was once a contrast from this angst in my life. My daughter Clementine, I was ever so infatuated with her. Her smile was so bright, so young, it could cure the deathiest of diseases. When she sang, this reppresed pain and frustration would fade away and I only felt sweet, sweet serenity. But that enlightening smile turned to bitter tears and her fearless voice turned to hysterical cries for help. She was seven years old when it happened. Her forehead started burning and she couldn't move a muscle. It all happended so fast, I uncondicionally begged the white men for help but they refused it every time. The day she left, I cried until I had no more tears to cry. No whip nor torture could compare to what I felt that day. I just wish to feel something again, to feel human.

I've taken up this petrifying idea about escaping somehow guided by this indomitable Moses. We've been walking clueless and endlessly for four days now. There are six other fugitives with me, we all come from the same plantation. Every time my feet touch the icy ground and every time I close my eyes it is nightmare full of vague distress. They must be searching us by now, the slave hunters. I know if they find me I'm dead; we're all dead. Moses talks about freedom to keep us going but I don't know what will anymore. The loneliness, the sole fear of being found, it's worse than that savage field.

I don't know what's happening to me. I've started hearing these voices, insatiably screaming and pleading for help. As the night falls they'reonly growing louder; I'm driving myself to madness. Suddenly the screams vanish and all I can hear is a voice aying "These are them, Peters wanted them dead". I turn around and see four white men each witha revolver in their hands and malice in their cold blooded heart. The sound of two gunshots echo through my bones and as I blink I stop hearing the voices and no longer feel fear.

When I open my eyes, I don't know where I am. I seem to be in this empty, misty, white room but see this silhouette coming towards me. This must be surreal because I recognize this person, it's my daughter. While hugging my daughter for wnat seemed to be a lifetime I ask myself why I am discontent. Then I remember my days in that bleak field and realize that I will suffer invariably for now I look at the scars on my back and do not feel stronger, I do not feel anything.