Slave's Nightmare |link| [ Top 100 BEST ]

When at last I did wake—gasping, sweating, the iron collar cold against my throat—the first thing I saw was the master’s boots, standing by the door. Polished. Waiting.

“Who is he?” I asked.

My chest burned. My back burned too, though I dared not touch it. I remembered the lash from waking life—how it had carved rivers into my skin. In the dream, those rivers were weeping. I felt blood trickle down my thighs, warm at first, then cold as the swamp air found it. slave's nightmare

Because the nightmare was not the running. The nightmare was the waking. When at last I did wake—gasping, sweating, the

“I’m not him anymore,” I said.

“Mama,” I whispered. My throat was dust. “Who is he

The faceless woman rocked faster. You, she said. Not with a mouth—with the air itself. That is you. Before you learned to run. Before you forgot how.