Work Text:
“...the harlot, Slavery.” My words echoed throughout the great Senate hall, my fellow senators silent. Butler especially seemed stricken, perhaps not yet having grown accustomed to the harsh condemnations of American politics.
The South Carolinans stared in utter disgust at the words I had dared to speak, defaming one of theirs to make a statement. It was obvious that I would not back down on the issue of slavery.
I believed that I had made this sentiment quite clear to my coworkers, however, as I turned my gaze away from the abashed senator, a wooden cane fell in front of my eyes. By the time I had realized what had occurred, the metal tip had already come crashing down into my skull.
When I finally glanced at the perpetrator, another swing had already flown my way. Preston Brooks, Butler’s kinsman, was attacking me.
The senator’s face gleaned with anger and disgust, undoubtedly as a result of my smear against his cousin, and by extension, him. My aching body screamed for relief as I met his eyes, betrayed by both his lack of courtesy and the complete audacity needed to attack one’s own peer on the senate floor itself. He seemed betrayed too, shaken by his drive to injure–no–to kill.
My coworkers, my friends, stared in shock and horror at the sight in front of them. They watched my bloodied body be tossed around by the cane of one who was once seen as a gentleman, or, at the very least, decent.
His disdain for me was apparent. Even in his brief moments of hesitation, he swiftly determined himself to strike harder than before.
At once, I met Brooks’ eyes for a second time. The eyes of a man so far gone as to attempt public assassination. However, in the brief moments I could garner enough strength to look at him, a small glimmer of remorse–or perhaps regret–shone. It would have been beautiful if not for the circumstances, two rivals finally connecting right as one delivers the other straight to death’s door, but he knew better than anyone the importance of finishing what you’ve started.
Despite the simplicity of his mind, I do not know why he had been compelled to this torment–he had never reacted so strongly to disagreement before. Perhaps it was me in particular he held such strong emotions over, or perhaps it was simply a week rife with hardship. Unfortunately, it is difficult to think so complexly about the inner workings of the man beating you to near death.
It has been the longest minute of my life when he was finally pulled off of me. I was bloodied and bruised like I had never been before, hardly able to hear or see as I was rushed away by a medic.