Because the nightmare was not the running. The nightmare was the waking.
“Who is he?” I asked.
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. slave's nightmare
My chest burned. My back burned too, though I dared not touch it. I remembered the lash from waking life—how it had carved rivers into my skin. In the dream, those rivers were weeping. I felt blood trickle down my thighs, warm at first, then cold as the swamp air found it. Because the nightmare was not the running
You will be, he said. When you wake up. You will be him forever. In the corner stood a boy
“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.