I took it too far, I guess. I can almos' see flashes of pain in them dark, dark eyes, jus' surrounded by mo' an' mo' dark skin. My heart pings, although it shouldn't, an' I find myself feelin' real bad. He probably picturin' daddy with his whip, standin' over Samuel as Mista Johnston holds 'em down. He probably feelin' it, like it on 'em, cuttin' into 'is skin, stainin' the grass red. I can almos' see it happenin' too. An' I 'ear 'em- make it stop. Make it stop.
"I jus' teasin'," I say, real loud fo' no other reason than to block my thoughts. "I ain't gonna call my daddy."
"Oh."
He turns 'round, back to feedin' the cotton through. In a way- Samuel real lucky. Workin' that Cotton Gin ain't too bad at all- it rather easy compared to pickin' the cotton itself. He don't gotta be surrounded in a bubble of heat, his tongue always thirstin' fo' water.
I wait fo' 'em to say somethin' else- maybe go back to the man who showed me the writin'. Say somethin' nice an' not rude an' somethin' a respectable white man would say. After all, I did come in 'er ta talk to 'em, or at leas' listen to 'em talk to me. Finally, the silence is too much.
"You kno', daddy didn't even tell me to come 'ere," I say. Samuel don't look over or stop 'is work, but the other slave do. Starin' at me as if I a crazy girl. I want 'em to leave, but I don' kno' how to make 'em.
"You kno' why I 'ere?"
He still don't make no move to respond, not even acknowledging me even a little. I blink away that pesky water in my eyes, blamin' it on the cotton dust. No black man got that much power over me. No sir.
I wait an' I wait, but say nothin' again. If he wanna talk- if he wanna kno'- he gotta ask. I ain't given' in. In fact once I leave this room, I ain't never gonna talk to this... dirty rotten, scary slave again. Never. He makin' my head too crazy, an' he shoul' be hun' fo' it.
I choke on my thoughts. No. No- he don't deserve that.
Shakin' them improper thoughts outta my head, I turn to leave, my hand lingerin' on the door. He got one las' shot, an' then no words will be spoken between us. I open the door.
"Why you 'ere?"
I suppress a smile, lettin' go of the handle an' lookin' over. I don't kno' what to say. There ain't no real reason why I 'ere.
"I jus' teasin'," I say, real loud fo' no other reason than to block my thoughts. "I ain't gonna call my daddy."
"Oh."
He turns 'round, back to feedin' the cotton through. In a way- Samuel real lucky. Workin' that Cotton Gin ain't too bad at all- it rather easy compared to pickin' the cotton itself. He don't gotta be surrounded in a bubble of heat, his tongue always thirstin' fo' water.
I wait fo' 'em to say somethin' else- maybe go back to the man who showed me the writin'. Say somethin' nice an' not rude an' somethin' a respectable white man would say. After all, I did come in 'er ta talk to 'em, or at leas' listen to 'em talk to me. Finally, the silence is too much.
"You kno', daddy didn't even tell me to come 'ere," I say. Samuel don't look over or stop 'is work, but the other slave do. Starin' at me as if I a crazy girl. I want 'em to leave, but I don' kno' how to make 'em.
"You kno' why I 'ere?"
He still don't make no move to respond, not even acknowledging me even a little. I blink away that pesky water in my eyes, blamin' it on the cotton dust. No black man got that much power over me. No sir.
I wait an' I wait, but say nothin' again. If he wanna talk- if he wanna kno'- he gotta ask. I ain't given' in. In fact once I leave this room, I ain't never gonna talk to this... dirty rotten, scary slave again. Never. He makin' my head too crazy, an' he shoul' be hun' fo' it.
I choke on my thoughts. No. No- he don't deserve that.
Shakin' them improper thoughts outta my head, I turn to leave, my hand lingerin' on the door. He got one las' shot, an' then no words will be spoken between us. I open the door.
"Why you 'ere?"
I suppress a smile, lettin' go of the handle an' lookin' over. I don't kno' what to say. There ain't no real reason why I 'ere.
