54 Those Monsters

Rowlandson's Narrative from a Child's Perspective

Marissa Vargas

It was a muggy Sunday morning when I heard the front door of my house slam open so hard it fell off the hinge, jumping me awake out of bed. All of a sudden I heard screams and glass shattering. My first instinct was to run to my mother, Mary Rowlandson, and cling on to her as any other six year old child would do. I found my mother out in the kitchen kicking and punching these scary, dark and tall men who had my brother in their arms. Before I could even comprehend what was happening, my brother was out the door in the hands of the scary dark men. I had no clue what was going on, leaving me even more terrified than before. I wondered if that would be the last time I ever saw my big brother.

Before I could even finish my thoughts, I saw more men come in and man handle my mom, like she was a puppet or something. I looked around my house only to realize, everyone had been taken, but me and my mom. All I could think to do was hold onto her leg for dear life and hope they take me with her. In the process of my mother fighting for her life and mine, we both were beat and injured by the monsters. I had open wounds, that I am sure would go untreated by the looks of the monsters and how they already treated us.

We were forced to follow them into the countryside, traveling through the wilderness on feet until it became too much. I started to feel weak, sick and very sweaty. I looked up into my mothers beautiful blue eyes and could distinct the worry in them. I could tell she wasn’t sure if we would survive. I myself, wasn’t so sure either.

The longer the travel, the more I started to become ill and unable to do much of anything. I could tell these monsters called “Indians” had no sympathy for me or my mother. It eventually got to the point where my knees and legs would refuse to work, so my mother, sick as well, had to carry me as we followed these men. I had no clue where we were going or why; all I knew was, I was scared I was going to die. Every time my mom looked down at me, I could see the worrisome on her pale, sunken face. We barely ate for days and it was starting to hit us both. Her skin used to be so beautiful with a bright glow, but when I looked at her, she didn’t look like my mother. Her eyes were sunken into dark purple circles and her face looked more pale than the moon. She then could no longer walk either, it became too much for her as it did for me long before her. Was I more sick than her? I didn’t understand.

Next thing I know,  My weak and almost lifeless body in being thrown onto the back of horse that has no saddles or anything for support. I felt a body next to me and looked over to see my mom, very sick and weak. Did the Indians put us on this horse? Was it too much for my mother to carry me and herself? I was so confused, but so sick and delirious from my fever, that I just couldn’t bring myself to care. As I closed my eyes to doze off into a sleep, I felt my tiny body hit the ground as I heard my mother’s body fall next to mine. Leaving us both covered in dirt and even more scratches. All I could think was, “when am I going to die? Will the pain and suffering ever end?” I didn’t want to leave this earth, nor my mother, but I wasn’t sure I could hold on much longer. Even breathing was becoming very hard for me.

I heard the Indians mention something to my mother about a wigman, master and King Philip and how she was to report to them. She didn’t want to leave my lifeless body, but the men insisted she go. I was worried for her sake, so I let myself go, in order to save my mother. I finally slipped into a peaceful sleep, where I no longer felt any pain or fear.


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The Open Anthology of Earlier American Literature: A PSU-Based Project Copyright © 2016 by Marissa Vargas is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.

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