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  Through​ ​the​ ​Eyes​ ​of​ ​Margaret​ ​Green  By:​ ​Anasofia​ ​Vazquez  Chapter​ ​1​ ​The​ ​Massacre As​ ​I​ ​began​ ​to​ ​rest​ ​my​ ​head​ ​on​ ​the​ ​bed,​ ​I​ ​could​ ​feel​ ​the​ ​uneasiness​ ​in​ ​the​ ​air.​ ​It​ ​was​ ​a​ ​very cold​ ​night.​ ​The​ ​snow​ ​was​ ​falling​ ​slowly,​ ​from​ ​what​ ​I​ ​could​ ​see​ ​through​ ​my​ ​window.​ ​Ever​ ​since British​ ​troops​ ​arrived​ ​t
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  Through ​the ​Eyes ​of ​Margaret ​Green By:​ ​Anasofia ​Vazquez Chapter    1   The   Massacre As I    began to rest   my head on   the    bed, I   could feel the   uneasiness   in the air. It   was a   very cold night.   The   snow was falling   slowly, from   what I could   see   through my   window. Ever    since British   troops   arrived   two years ago, the   streets have never been   the same. We   were   all being watched   like   a flock of sheep   in a   large field, waiting   to see   if    one of us   runs off.   I   layed   in bed, staring at the   ceiling in the   room that   I   shared with my two   younger    sisters. I   don’t know   how they were   able to fall   asleep so quickly,   I guess   they   are just lucky. “Fire!”   “Fire!”    A fire, right    now?   I thought   as a forced   myself up.   “Fire!”   several    people shouted   from afar.   A minute   later,   my father     burst in the    bedroom.   “ Stay here.” he   told us trying to   tie up   his    boots. My sisters were   already   wide awake on   their     beds. “I   am going   to go   see   what is   going   on   outside”. And   with that,   he dashed   down   the stairs   to put on his   coat   and made   his way out   of    the house.   My sisters and I   scrambled our way to   window that   looked   over our    street. We could not see   a fire   from where   we were.   I decided to go   see   where   it was.   I ran   down   the stairs   and grabbed my coat   and boots   that   were by the   doorway. At first   I   hesitated to   open the door,    but   I needed to see   for    myself.   And so,   I turned   the   knob.   As I took a   step through   the doorway, gunshots drew   me back    into the   house. Screams   and cries   followed   after. I   opened the door    once again   and followed the   voices. They   seemed to be coming   from outside the   Custom  House.   I ran   towards King   Street, maneuvering   my way through   the people   that   were running   the opposite way. As I   got onto the   street, I   froze. A   troop   of British soldiers   were   holding their muskets   towards a group of     people.   As I cautiously got   closer, I   noticed on   of the   soldiers   standing in front of    the others, he   must have  been the   captain. “   Do not   fire!   I repeat   do   not fire!” he shouted   at   his men.   And in   front of him, laid   5    bodies.   I looked    back at   the soldiers.   One of them   had blood   slowly dripping   down   his face.   His musket   had gunfire smoke   coming   out of    it. We   made eye   contact, he looked   very young   and   his   eyes    began to water. “Margret!   What   in bloody hell   are you doing here?”   my father    called out to   me. I   turned   around to   the sound of    his voice.   He was kneeling next   to a wounded man   on   the ground.   I   walked   closer to him   avoiding   to look at   any other bodies.   My father    was trying   to stop the    bleeding   that was   coming from   the man’s chest. “Quickly,    put your    hands on   his   chest and  put    pressure!” my father    instructed me.   I got to   my knees,   feeling the    brisk    snow on   my legs.   I forgotten   that   I was still   in my night   gown. As I    put my hands   on   the man's chest, I   looked at   his face.   His eyes had   already gone blank    and his   skin was turning   white.   “Father, he’s gone.”   I said removing   my    blood stained hands   from the man.   A   man just   died right   in   front of me.   That was something   that I   will never forget. Chapter    2   The   Aftermath I   don’t remember    how I   got back    home after    the event.   But   when I opened   my eyes,   I was in    bed all   alone. I   slowly got up and   sat on   the   edge of    my bed. I   looked at   my hands,   noticing  that   their was still   some blood   embeded under my   nails. “Margaret, you're   awake.”   Abigail   said walking in   the bedroom.   I   slid   my hands under    my thighs   so she   wouldn’t   see the    blood. “I   heard what   happened last night,   father told   me.”   she said   sitting down   next me.   “What exactly did he say?” I   asked. “Well,   I guess   everyone who   heard the ‘fire’   call assumed it   was an actual fire.” But   when he got there,    people were   running   and women were   crying.” He went   to the first  person that   he saw, Mr.   Samuel   Adams, and   asked what   had happened.   He told father    that   the Boston Garrison   opened fire   on   a group of     people.” she finished   recalling. “Why would   the Garrison do   that?” I asked   her.   “I   have no   idea,   only God   knows.” she   responded getting   off    the  bed   and walking towards the   door. “But I   heard this morning   that   the   soldiers were   arrested.” And   with that,   she left   the room.   Something is   not adding up,   I   thought. Why   would    the soldiers willingly    shoot    the people,    I don’t    understand. I   went the washroom to   remove the blood   from my   hands. I changed   out of    my night   gown into   my shifts.   I decided to wear    my light   green dress and   slipped into   my green silk    satin shoes   that belonged   to my   mother. I am   actually quite  pleased   that I   inherited her    small feet. As I   made my   way down to   the kitchen to go   have   some   fresh bread and possibly an apple   if my   father    had not already   grabbed it. Even though my   dear father was   a blacksmith   in town,   he   made decent amount   of money   to provide   for    his   three daughters. Being the   oldest, I have the   most   responsibilities, but the   one thing   I am   not responsible for    is the   cooking. I   leave that   to my   sister Abigail.   Even though she   is 12,   mother taught   her    how   to cook at   a young age. My   littlest sister, Emilienne has   no   chores since she   is only six..   When my   mother died when she was   only one,   I had   to raise and   take care   of her    since father    was too busy in   the shop. She   is extremely shy, and   only talks to me   and Abigail.  Our kitchen was   very small.   It was   out of sight   in the    back of    the house.   The   fireplace was   made of    red brick    and   the cabinets   that loosely hung on   the   walls   carried the necessities   we needed   to cook our    meals. The   loaf of     bread that was    placed on the center    of our    table was already half    eaten. I split myself    a piece of the   loaf and decided to go visit my   friend Lily who lived   two   roads   down.   Lily and I   met when we were    both 11   and   her parents   had just   moved into Boston from New   York. Her    father    worked in the   docks and   her mother    was a maid.   When I turned   14,   Lily’s   mother was   able to   find me   a job as   a maid   for    Mr.   John Adams and   his wife Abigail   Adams. They were   a very   kind family   and paid   me well   over the   year I have    been working   with   them.   Since working   for    the Adam’s, I   have learned   what had been   going on with the   British coming into   Boston. Apparently, the   King   of England wanted   to make   sure the colonies   were still in   his control and    power since rebellion   was brewing   in several   towns. Of course,   the    people   of Boston were   quite   displeased with   the arrangement. Walking to Lily’s   was   a pleasing walk. I   stopped    by   my favorite   shop that   sold fruit,  pastries and homemade   soaps to    but three apples. After a   ten minute   walk, I   finally made   it   to Lily’s   front door    and knocked   three times. I   knew her little    brother would    be   the one to   open the door    and   ask me   for    the secret    phrase. I   am the   only one he   does it   to. The   door creaked   open slowly just   enough   to peek inside. “Tell   me   the secret    phrase and you may    pass.” whispered the  blonde   haired   8   year old boy.   I   leaned in a little   closer the   the crack in   the doorway   looking into his   eyes   saying, “ Long   live   the great   and noble Christopher.”   And   with that,   he opened   the door and   let me   in.   “How   are you Christopher?” I asked   making   my way to the   living room.   “Doing alright,   did   you    bring   me anything?” He replied   leaning on   the chair    I sat   down   on.   “I brought you   a   sweet, but you   first   have   to bring   you   sister here.”   I said   holding the   sweet   in my hand.
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