please give me answer
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Okay, let's go. It's gonna be fun.
It was a night. There was no one. At 1 am, I started hearing the noise of cats crying. I heard someone climbing our stairs. At first, I thought I was just hallucinating, but to my surprise, I was right and somebody was there. I was just about to pick up my phone when I heard my door opening. Phew, air!
What nonsense was happening to me? I was like, have to go to the doctor tomorrow. Felt like going to the washroom, and I went there. To add to my fear, the washroom was changed, completely. The bathtub I had was a fine piece of marble, but it was then converted into a bathtub made up of tin. Importantly,
slave architecture was an inherent fact in "my" bathroom. I was about to think that was a dream, but then I looked into my face, in the mirror, I couldn't identify myself. I was an 18th century British, whiter than I was, wearing a British coat, trousers, and a slipper. I walked into my room. The architecture changed here completely. The door was much fancier, with Indian and Latino architecture. My table wasn't ordinary plywood, like which I had. Instead, it was converted into a great wooden table, with 18th-century art. I have had no idea what was going on. Who the hell was playing with my consciousness. The changes, which I had, like my body changes, were permanent or temporary. I was sitting there in the old plantation house, distressed. Then something pulled me from my bed and set me on that chair. I opened a not-so colorful diary, like which I had. But it was heavily crafted on. My hand, or should I say my owner's hand, started writing on the diary:
September 2nd, 1761
Phew, a mosquito is annoying me. Will this small little insect be the reason for my death? Edward and Stuart fled. Thomas too has fled. Maybe, I'm a bit greedy, and so I'm unable to run from here. Oh, another one. It is sin to lie here. I committed a lot of atrocities back in England. I'm sure they remember them, so I have to be here, in America. Beside the graves of my wife, Mary, and my son, Rory, I shall lie. No slave shall cry on my death, for I have been so harsh on them. The problem is with my beloved dog, Lenny. Oh, thy loyal dog, they will beat you to death, when I'm not here.
I opened a shelf and from there, unloaded a gun. It was finely crafted. I called my dog, Lenny. The voice wasn't mine. A hound came, waving its tail. I pointed the gun at him. His eyes were filled with surprise. Bang and he lay down, dead!
The sounds of slaves were coming, it was approaching me faster and faster. If caught, I'd suffer a painful death. Those creatures were monstrous. So, I sat down on my bed. The knot of the revolver was hot when I pointed it to my head. The sound was getting closure. Then, bang. I don't know what happened next.
"Hey bro, wake up man. It's almost eight. C'mon, let's have our breakfast." Edna, my sister, returned this morning.
"C'mon, brush up.", she added.
Will anyone believe, what happened to me, on the occasion of the plantation owner's 150th death anniversary?