fan, fuelling a new blaze in the pit of my stomach. Her lush green eyes, framed in swooping black lashes, stared down at me. She blinked in slow motion, unveiling pink, shimmery lids, a smile stretching slowly across her face. She reached out a slender hand to me, and as the tips of my fingers grazed hers, a white hand curled around her throat. Fear crawled over my skin, dousing the flame. I grabbed for her, but the large hand hauled her away from my grasp, and out of my sight.
My image replaced hers, or someone who looked a lot like me. There were differences. I stood in front of an ornately framed hall mirror, proud, my hard chest puffed out under a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a feeling of immense power coursing through me. Strength swelled veins, running the length of muscles in my arms. A thick moustache curled down the corners of my sinister grin. Dark blue eyes, identical to mine, exuding diabolic hatred, stared back at me.
The scene changed. Like a spirit, I floated upward, into the high ceiling, hovering like a cloud over the likeness of me. From above, I watched with unease as the massive, more powerful me picked up a bullwhip from a mahogany hall table and burst past a screened door.
My spirit followed outside, hovering in the air, invisible.
In front of a familiar, grand plantation house, an assembly of dark-skinned people gathered. They wore scraps for clothing, and most walked with bare feet. Agony and despair lined their faces, clawing at the heart of my spirit. Another smaller group of people burst through the assemblage. One tall white man, dressed in middle-class wear, dragged a slave boy across the lawn, throwing him at my likeness’ feet. I wanted no part of the scene I knew was about to unfold, but I had no control. So, I watched in horror as the flesh and blood me cracked the whip in the air. The slaves staggered backward.
The tall man held his head high and spoke. “Sir, the boy hid in the shade while the others picked cotton.”
A small, older woman stepped out of the crowd. “Please, he’s been sick with the fever. He came to the fields. He helped all he could.” She bowed, hiding her tear-streaked face.
I willed myself to move, to grab the boy and escape with him, to end this nightmare, but I had no body, no eyes to close. So in my spirit form, I watched in terror as Solomon, the plantation owner, the slave owner, erupted into a fury of rage. He threw the whip to the ground and grabbed the trembling boy by the throat, lifting him to his eye level. A wail tore through the grouping of slaves. The evil Solomon squeezed the boy’s neck until his bulging eyes turned lifeless, and his kicking ceased.
Veins bulged over muscle down the murderer’s neck as rage tore through his lips. He raised his other fist in the air. The slaves scattered and fled.
But for me, the nightmare had just begun.
The man, still holding the boy’s lifeless body, twisted his neck and looked up.
Fear clutched at my very soul, as the evil, blue-eyed master of this plantation held me prisoner with his glare. A deep, wicked laugh erupted from his throat.
“Don’t stress over the boy, Solomon.” He tossed the body to the ground. “Instilling the fear of their master—of you —in the wretches is the only way to ensure productivity.”
“But…” I tried to speak, but my non-existent mouth was dry. Bile welled in my throat. I went through the motions of swallowing, feeling my tongue moisten with the sour liquid.
“I’m not you.” My voice was just a whisper. “I’m not you,” I said, louder this time.
But somehow, in my wrenching gut, I knew this vile creature was indeed me, or had once been me. And in that sickening moment, I knew a lot more than I had known before. Yet, I knew nothing.
Another wicked laugh erupted from the evil image of myself.
“You understand now, don’t you, Solomon?” he said. “You feel the power coursing through our veins, and you crave more, thrive on