His approach was rapid. I’d been outside the gates no more than a minute, pausing behind the rock in the shade to catch my breath and slow my racing heart. The sounds of frogs and insects near the water were disturbed by the swishing in the long grass, the sound only a person walking swiftly would make. Then I saw him, the master’s son, with his hand hovering over the hip that a holstered whip. He was striding towards me, to where I had paused just off the path to the property.
Did he know? How could he?
I had moved swiftly for the ax, raising my hand and ducking my chin as trained, a reverent greeting. My palms moistened with sweat and the beating of my heart thundered such that I was sure he would hear it as he approached.
Freedom. I could almost taste it, crisp and refreshing as the creek water on my feet on this broiling August day.
One swing of the ax is all it would take. One perfectly aimed swing, and my escape was assured. But how many would hunt me then?
I tightened my grip on the ax and offered a slight smile. Freedom would be mine.
via Flash! Friday: Vol 3 – 13. (Follow the link to see the visual prompts!)