Madness came in the form of freedom.

I, Charles Prince, have never experienced something as vile as the images that burned brightly in front of me, no doubt leaving behind a vivid memory of such cruel events. The year 1831 seemed so promising, the canes were full and painted the fields canary yellow. It was one of the reasons why I moved from London to the beautiful island of Montego Bay, Jamaica. My uncle claimed that I would truly find joy in my travels, one of the many well thought out declarations that prompted my greedy appetite to take on such an unforgiving voyage.

However, the thick stifling smoke, which bled from the fields, contrasted greatly from the wild expectations I had created on the canvas of my mind. Tongues of fire created blackened patches on the plantation, rotting the frames of the once flourishing ocean of canes. It bore witness to the evolution of the most dangerous creatures on earth.

Humans.

The hollow trees moaned at the pressure on their spines while the dirt - galloping from the frenzy -whispered a solemn song. One that somehow, unexplainably, captured the lament of the area with frightening accuracy.

It was the first - and probably the last, as I looked back now - time I ever found myself so terribly scared. The white estate buildings bloomed red and the the sound of war perched sinister wings of horror onto my heart. The rolling mountains shaped by the rivers could never ease the fright written onto my soul as I cursed the day I was born and the day I step foot on this wretched land. My bloodless skin couldn't save me now, nor my status, as I cursed "beautiful Jamaica."

All that was left was the haunting sounds of the cries, woes, and screams from the ghosts of the occupants and my bitter hate.

It was later that folks labeled the event the Christmas rebellion. By then, I was done with Jamaica. I could no longer find it in myself to love the blue skies, the lush vegetations, or the spotted blue mountains and oh!

How could I forget the morning coffee?

Not without remembering last week's events. No matter how it was blessed with riches, I would never return. Instead, I think I would admire its beauty from afar - perhaps in my uncle's rushed writings.

They did, however, eventually find the perpetrator, for which I was glad but when I saw him, all I saw was a man carved in abuse and misery. He seemed so strong compared to the weakling I had created in my mind. So beautiful with his stunning bronze skin compared to the monster inside my head. I had believed he was a man with absolutely nothing to live for but as he shouted out his last words, I finally understood:

"I would rather die upon yonder gallows, than live in slavery."

They were words belonging to a man who carried the skies upon his head, a man who saw how cruel the world could be, the many horrors of man kind and a man who had his, along with others, future to weave in gold which would, one day,spread out like brilliant flames instead of covering in shame. Someone whom history could and should never forgot. Later in my life, I got the opportunity to know his name - Samuel Sharpe, a name befitting his personality.

His see words vibrated through the square and before they could marinate among the congregation, the board on the gallows shifted from under his feet. His body shot in an uncontrollable quiver and before I could understand what was taking place, he was dead.