Nightmare | Slave's

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.

“I’m not him anymore,” I said.

She lifted a finger to where her lips would have been. Shh. Then she pointed to the corner. slave's nightmare

The horn sounded again. Closer now. The dogs began to bay. In the corner stood a boy

Because the nightmare was not the running. The nightmare was the waking. slave's nightmare

I turned back to the boy. He lifted his head. His eyes were mine. But empty. So empty. Like two holes burned in a blanket.