Trail of Tears

Assignment for U.S. History. I was supposed to imagine what it was like to be a Native American forced out of my home and to walk for miles, far to the west, to join up with our western tribe. And this is the result.

Trail of Tears

            The red liquid on my hands disgusted me. I stared at the blood, mortified. Bile gathered upon the tip of my tongue; I tasted it, revolted.

            “Come along, Alexander,” one of the elders called to me. “Leave your mother behind.”

            I stood slowly, stunned, and allowed myself to be dragged away by my brother, Elijah.

            “They killed her,” I whispered, clenching my fists.

            “Yes, and we shall have our revenge for mother.” Elijah kept dragging me by the collar of my shirt, but I twisted deftly, escaping his grasp.

            “There won’t be revenge!” I screamed. “These white men are armed with muskets and dogs and bayonets!”

            “Keep your voice down, you filthy son of a—” one of the soldiers bit back the rest of his retort. “President Jackson was in his right mind to ban you b******s from the states.”

            We were walking—had been walking for day—to the west to join our western kinsmen. These soldiers had torn us from our homes, burned our civilization to the ground, and forced us on this damned God forsaken march.

            “We do not want trouble,” Elijah was saying.

            “You red-skinned folk always want to cause trouble,” the soldier said with obvious contempt lining his voice. I heard the sound of metal being pulled from leather and the unmistakable sound of a gun being discharged.

            My brother fell to the ground beside me, convulsed once, and then was motionless.

            I hadn’t even moved, but now I flung myself forward with a knife flashing in my hand. The weapon was crudely forged—the hilt was made of the bone from a buffalo and the blade itself was made of jagged rock.

            Then I was upon the man, clawing at the white man’s face with the knife. This time I relished in the sight of the blood as the warm liquid splashed against my face.

            “Now I am truly a red skin,” I snarled, stabbing the blade into the soldier’s chest. I plunged my knife into the man’s chest long after the man was dead and unmoving.

            I pirouetted and slammed the hilt of the dagger into another soldier’s temple, then again and again until I was sure the man was dead. I stood and looked at the white men’s corpses. I turned away and tried to sprint off, but the white men had horses.

            I had only run twenty yards before a pair of horsemen caught up with me.

            One horseman reined in his horse, but the second raised his rifle and shot.

            The last thing I saw was the sight of my own blood and the horsemen galloping away.

            I gave into the blackness.

Reviews

[Eldee]

Your imagination is vivid darling.
Did you make a high grade? You should have ;)
I suppose I can't call this beautiful... and neither can I say it is strictly truth.
At the same time, this story doesn't only apply to one event of oppression, but all. Prejudice still plagues us today, as does humanity's contempt for those who are different. You epitomized this event wonderfully, congratulations.