Slave to Love

Slave to Love

(I'm not sure what kind of stories go on this site so I don't know if mine is going to fit in or whaa and I am not a professional, I know that. I write for fun and I am sharing to get constructive yah:) Selling and buying innocent people is sick. Downright sick and wrong in every way. Letting a playful innocent girl suffer or Samaritans be treated like a thing and not a person; no. It’s inhumane. But… What about bad people? Criminals. Gang’s. Menace’s to society. Is that r

Chapter 1

Chapter one: Remembering

Selling and buying innocent people is sick. Downright sick and wrong in every way. Letting a playful innocent girl suffer or Samaritan’s be treated like a thing and not a person; no. It’s inhumane.

But… What about bad people? Criminals. Gang’s. Menace’s to society. Is that right? Can you buy and sell them like objects? Let people use them, torture them, scar them in many ways than one? Is that morally right?

I don’t know. Do bad people deserve bad things?

It seems logical. But how far do you go?

That far that you’re at a point where people are in cages, being tortured and starved to death with little hygiene and quality of life only to be bought by a random stranger who will treat them in the same conditions if not worse? To let bad people be ripped away from their loved ones and stick them in animalistic cages, down grade them to worthless objects and ban them from fresh air or sunlight for years? Let them be r*ped, tortured, beat up, neglected, stripped of all rights and even murdered?

Because that’s what’s happening. Every day to bad people.

Including me.

I have been stuck in this cage for a long time. Although it is hard to tell. Never knowing when day starts and when night ends. Never knowing the time, the month, the year. I do not know how old I am. I do not know how much I have aged or how much I have spent in places like this. I have been used and I have been used again. Like a recycled toy that’s slowly losing it’s touch. If I have not already.

I would not know whether I was asleep or not if it was not for the constant torture filled screams. Or maybe it’s the thudding pain of every bone in my body. Or the cold that bites me. Or the numbing hunger that gnaws at my stomach. It’s hard to tell.

I have been auctioned off before. It was one of the few times I saw daylight again. It blinded my eyes and the fresh air felt foreign on my tongue and in my lungs. I was still in chains, stumbling around like a new born calf. It was like I’d never used my legs before – which had been nearly right as I had been stripped from the privilege of walking for probably years. I remember the greedy faces of men and women judging me. It was mostly men there – looking for a toy to play with.

I did not know how old I was until the auctioneer said I was fourteen to the audience. I remember feeling pride of being such an older age than I was - like a naive child. I was taken at twelve – I was now a teenager! But then it hit me that I’d been in the horrid system for two years and my happiness was drowned by the pain.

I was bought by an old man and after a month of use I was taken back into the system after trying to escape too many times. I was branded as a troublesome one (a large iron-branded ‘T’ on my chest) which was painful. I remember how it felt. I was just an animal to them.

People, the rick folk, they come round to see us in our cages. A private buy away from the auction that cost’s extra. They don’t usually come down here to us troublesome one’s – too much trouble, too much effort. We have already been used – second hand. No one wants that.

Would you want something that’s forgotten and recycled?

There was one time, when a woman with her family came down. It seemed they were all looking for a family pet. Sick. Taking your young children to this place – full of torture and pain. But it seemed like a normal family occurrence as neither of the two children were fazed. It made me feel disgusted. I remember when the woman’s long finger pointed at me and my cage opened. I was too weak to try and run – what was the point? Too hungry, too tired, too weak, too much pain.

I was dragged out by my hair. I remember the feeling of the guards grubby hands grabbing my throat and slamming me into the wall. My head lolling to the side because I was too weak to keep it straight myself. I remember being beat till I did. It was not until blood came dripping out my mouth that I mustered the strength to face the family.

I opened my black eyes and stared at them. I felt bare. Naked. Blood dripping down me. My hair bald in some places from where it had been torn out, bruises covering any visible skin and my poor unhealthy weight. But who cared of my appearance? Who cared of anything anymore?

There was a woman, her two children and a man. The man looked different to the family and his piercing blue eyes had stared into my black ones giving me a head ache. I remembered him. I remembered his face. And throughout the time I have been locked away in this cage I still remember.

The family soon left. Left me to the hands of hell where they beat me till I was near death. I wanted death and welcomed it with open arms but they are clever. Letting you think you’re on your death bed but never really killing you. They make you want to die yet they never let you take that easy way out. What was the fun in that? No, keep you alive. Let you receive more means of torture. Much more amusing. Much more entertaining.

But I am bad. Bad, bad, bad.

So I deserve everything.

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