“I’m not him anymore,” I said.
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. “I’m not him anymore,” I said
And the boy with my face was still there. Polishing. Smiling. “I’m not him anymore
You will be, he said. When you wake up. You will be him forever.
The door hung open. Inside, a woman sat rocking. She had no face. Only smooth, dark skin where her features should have been. But I knew her. She was my mother. The one sold away when I was seven.