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Northern Slave
The whip slashes across my back. I am a slave, sold by my parents for a profit they did not need. I am from a rich, white family sold because of greed. This life, worse than that of a black slave on a cotton plantation. My body, covered by scars from old wounds and the scabs of new ones. The pain unbearable, made even worse by the bitter cold of the north.
Every night I pray to my Lord to end this pain. To show me mercy in the form of death. I am on the verge. I can feel it. As the whip strikes again, I feel my body go numb. My brain is slowing, preparing for the final stage of life. Death. I feel warm. There is no pain. Just a soothing light. I know my prayers have been answered. I am dead.
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