Native Americans: A Narrative Fiction

In the black shadow of the night there was a shattering scream. The scream was owned to my mother. As I woke, my eyes became more and more clear. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw my mom being hovered over by my father.My eyes started to run like the creek next to our village. My mother was assassinated by someone in the Shawnee tribe. I saw the blood running down her sides. The shape of a long, dark, worn out, splintered spear pierced her chest. My father had a soft heaving voice.
“Go get the healer, Inali,” he said, halfway crying. I bolted to the longhouse as if I were lightning, trying to greet the ground.
“Mullein! Are you here?” I shouted. Occasionally she would go out in the night to gather herbs. Mullein is not her actual
“Well”, as he was riding his pearly, snow, white horse…”
Boom! A horse neighed. Indians came ambushing us coming out of the forest.
“Run”, I screamed but then, an indian tackled me and brought me into the forest.
“Inali!” I recognized that voice!
“Dyami!” He was my friend when I was little.
“Are you on the British’s side?!” I said excitedly.
“What, no I would never work for those Red Coats, wait, you're on there side aren't you.”
“Yes why?”
“Well, Inali, I am going to have to kill you like I did your mother.”
“Those words coming from his mouth, they were like a gunshot to the heart.”
“Dyami, you were my best friend.”
“Was your best friend, but, then my tribe joined the French, because, we were promised war.”
Him killing my mother clouded my mind so I tackled him, pulled my knife out of its sheath and got ready to kill him. My knife gleamed with its sharpness and looked like it was hungry.
“Wait”, he said “I’m sorry plus two wrongs don’t make right.
He was right. I thought about it and he was right two wrong don’t make a right.
“Ok hey I’m sorry”
“You shouldn’t be”, he said as he stabbed me with his knife.
“Bye”, he said as he shoved my bleeding body off of his. Isaw George come running to