James

by Percival Everett

I realized I couldn’t be made more afraid than I was, than I had been my entire life.

“Why on earth would you think that I can’t imagine the trouble I’m in? After you’ve tortured me and eviscerated me and emasculated me and left me to burn slowly to death, is there something else you’ll do to me? Tell me, Judge Thatcher, what is there that I can’t imagine?”

I had never seen a white man filled with such fear. The remarkable truth, however, was that it was not the pistol, but my language, the fact that I didn’t conform to his expectations, that I could read, that had so disturbed and frightened him.

I can’t feed your fantasy that you’re a good, kind master. No matter how gentle you were when you applied the whip, no matter how much compassion you showed when you raped.

“Are you guilty?” Holly asked. “Does it matter?” I asked. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

“And who are you?” “I am James.” “James what?” “Just James.”