Simply Difficult

Reassigned

I'm lead down a hall I've only walked down once. It was the day I had first come here, the day they had first branded me.

Whenever you were sold to a wealthy Royal family, most of the time they would imprint a type of insignia on you, to show ownership. It was done so if you were dumb enough to try to run away, then they'd know who to return you to when (not if) they caught you.

For this family it was a crescent moon shape tattooed over the left eye. If you were sold to another wealthy family they would have to remove the mark, and simply replace it with a mark of their own. The thought of how painful that must be flashed through my thoughts.

For this particular Royal family they not only decided to burn a perminate-until-further-notice mark into their slave's skin, they also tattooed your entire schedule of work on your arms.

The pain from when I first got assigned was like running through flaming hell naked for a day, the pain now numb after my three and a half years of working here.

The pain however for being reassigned had to be at least 10 times worse. This was like walking through flaming hell naked doused in oil for a year.

When I walked into the room packed with scalpels, needles, and concoctions in bizarre looking jars, not even the Royal guard's tight grip escorting me could stop my shaking. There was a man in a long white trench coat beckoning me forward, and as reluctant as I felt, I obeyed.

He laid me on my stomach, pulling my left arm forward onto a hard metal table. I looked at my old schedule printed into my flesh.

A list of back breaking deeds I won't have to do again. It was really the only english I've ever been able to actually read, it wasn't like they ever gave us an education. When I'm brought out my reverie into present time, I realized I'm strapped down. I look up to the Royal and he now has a scalpel.

I close my eyes and block out as much as I can, hopefully the pain is pushed away as well.

I hear the scalpel dig through my flesh before I feel it, and a horrible cry is snaked from down my throat. He cuts away at my skin like its fabric, and all I can do is helplessly wait for it to be over. He finally stopped and I looked up, just in time to see him lift the skin from my arm and casually discard it.

He turns away for a moment and I whimper anticipating what would come next. When he returns his attention to me he has a strange vile in his hand, screwing the top off he empties the bottle's contents onto my red fleshy dripping arm, and I wail with horror. The liquid could make acid feel like water. Then it begins to tingle and in a matter of seconds my skin on my arm begins to repair itself.

Once my flesh is back in place all pain simply disappears. I sigh, relieved its almost over, but I'm wrong. He now has a strange looking needle gripped tightly in his hand, which, I can only conclude now as a tattooing needle.

The pain is only beginning.