They writhe, chained, below. No sleep, only the respite of discomfort before pain.
Soon they will be back on the oars, hauling themselves across oceans, fighting to live a life in chains rather than die in them. They’re just like us—the tribal tattoos inked on their forearms the only difference.
No, the men I work alongside are the real savages. They savour their positions: crew of a slave ship—what power! I don’t—but I’m grateful to be where I am.
They writhe; my fingers trace idly the scars on my forearms, where once my own tattoos were inked.