A broken shovel.

 

The man has had enough. For years he has worked under the eyes of the watchful eagles; hands so blistered and calloused they could pass for the mats hot pans were set upon. Sun beating down on his scarred, dark back. Beads of sweat dropping off him as he moved. Long ago he had been human. He had known love and family. It has been trialling for him to be a white man’s tool, to be cheap labour and the lesser man. To be an animal.
The overseer’s shotgun was by the door.
Loaded.
It was a pile of twigs and polished iron, pulled from the earth and crafted into a machine through which the man could extract justice.
His aim had never been good but he was quiet. The overseer’s back had a magnetic attraction he knew he couldn’t miss. Nobody would see the first shot.
Everyone would see the second.