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.
“Who is he?” I asked.
A root caught my ankle and I went down, face-first into black water. I did not scream. I had learned not to scream. Screaming brought them faster. Instead, I crawled. Hands and knees, through cypress knees and rotting leaves, until I reached a cabin that was not there a moment before. slave's nightmare
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. The faceless woman rocked faster
In the corner stood a boy. No older than ten. He wore a linen shirt stained with tobacco juice and something darker. He was polishing the master’s boots. Over and over. The same motion. Left, right, left, right. His wrists were ringed in scars. That is you
I tried to wake. I always tried to wake. But the dream had teeth, and it would not let go. The boots in the boy’s hands became my hands. The lash on my back became my breath. The horn became the only music.
Because the nightmare was not the running. The nightmare was the waking.
