Trigger Warning!!
Mark; a word or symbol imprinted on an object to give information or claim territories. If words none spoken, a mark or a tattoo expressed thousands of words about a person and how they feel.
The door clicked open, making me flutter my eyes open, my hand immediately going in front of my eyes to protect them from the blinding light. I turned my head to look at the person who entered the room. I held the same expression as I slowly got up, the chains attached to me clinking in the process. The sound made the male aware that I have woken up, he looked at me with the corners of his eyes before ignoring my existence and going back to doing what he came here for.
He opened the wardrobe as I blatantly stared at him, my eyes following his every move; how his utterly strong arms opened the wooden wardrobe, how they then extended to take out another pair of white shirt and black pants (the usual). In the eerie silence of the room, I could hear the buttons getting unbuttoned, the raven-head looking down while doing so. He removed his shirt and then his movements stopped.
There it was, the tattoo wounded around his arms, drawing across his neck to meet with the two perfect, sculpted halves of his body. The patterns it held were like never seen before. Chinese dragon, signifying auspicious power and strength, snaking down his amazingly graven back; downward facing Koi fishes surrounding the dragon meaning that the struggles instilled in one's mind are not faced due to lack of strength and courage; on the upper shoulders, the two devils that faced each other screamed sin and rebellion. Other details embedded the male's body. But what always intrigued me the most were the chains circling his arms.
That signifies slavery and imprisonment. He wouldn't speak but they showed that he was suffocating. Suffocating from the bonds of the long, black chains reaching up to his wrists. They were similar to the chains that were physically tied to me.
He knew I was staring. He knew I had questions he would never answer, and so he continued changing his clothes.
After dressing up, he turned around. I could clearly look at his face; beneath the fresh wounds was a beautiful face that defined innocence, but eyes as lifeless as the desert, void of emotions and feelings, or maybe suppressed.
With a new pair of pyjamas in his hand, he walked towards me; it was time to change my clothes. He spoke nothing as he unbuttoned my shirt. It was his duty not to speak and my helplessness.
He came here every day, changed his and my clothes, fed me and left. The lack of conversation was visible every time, but I burned with fear whenever we were apart.
Strange it is. I don't know his name, what he does, we never speak and yet I could understand every word he could never speak, every feeling hidden inside of him.
I don't remember how long it has been since I've been caged in this four-walled room with nothing to look at, maybe a year or two, but it's incomparable to the enslavement this man has gone through.
I quite recall that I was taken as a replacement for the money my father was unable to pay. It was easy for him to replace me with something like money because even at home, I was treated like an object. I, for sure, know that he would not come here to save me.
But the fact is, I don't wanna be saved. I wanna be enslaved. Just like him; enslaved with him.
"Water" I spoke in a voice that wasn't even audible but he heard me. He let me sit naked and got the jug kept on the white table near the bed. I even forgot that I have a voice because there's no one to talk to.
He harshly grabbed my chin and lifted it, pushing the water down my throat. How is it that everything he does is so harsh yet I feel so loved?
I coughed because of the lack of air. He went back to dressing me up as I sat quietly, watching his styled black hair shine because of the light.
