I'm the author! Just a heads up, this is a re:vamped version from some other website I was using. Leave comments! and be gentle...

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My life, I have always known it to be hot and dry. The weather couldn't stop hugging me in a dry blanket. The sand slipped into my sandal, and swam through the cracks in my dry feet.  My clothes feel the slight refreshing breeze, my cloth wrapping lifting up due to the sudden change. It hugs my waist nicely, and doesn’t fall to reveal my necessities.

Every step I took though pulled enough strength from me to raise ten mountains, figuratively.

It's the thought that counts. Although the same could be said about the chains upon my feet, as they drag upon the ground. Everyone else in the chain gang goes through the same experience as I, except that the time I have here is more than theirs. It is obvious with my hardened feet, the blisters no longer bother them. Yet no one ever looks there.

I am different. I know that when I have the chance to look at myself, which only comes at night with the moon high in the sky.

Different as in my body had a red-brown tan, not a regular brown tan like those that trudged behind me. Different as in my eyes, my hair, they are both red. As dark as red can be. The lightest portion on me is the soles of my feet, due to them being blister red.

My comrades behind me are all lightly browned, with a few patches of red here and there. The only white patches seen would be under the metal cuffs on our feet.

The groans behind me begin, the symphony of voices most likely torture and salvation to some. This happens all the time on our treks back, especially for the new slaves just taken in. I don't dare turn around to comfort them, since I am leading this journey back to the compound. The only reason as to why I lead, is because the other older slaves died from their sincerity.

I never show kindness. It's an excuse to become some slaver's plaything. I have seen it happen many times over this life of mine. I cannot become what the slavers call girlish, not even in the slightest.

After the groans stop, the screams begin. The slavers are sadistic even at this time, torturing the new ones with whips they make from hide.

As to what hide is used for the whips, you will often feel a human fingernail or tooth dig into your skin, courtesy of the dead seniors.

The screaming doesn't last long, and the sound of a falling body is heard and the chains straining with the extra weight that must be pulled… I take a quick glance towards the sound, to see a slaver dragging a new slave by the foot. My weight off my back, and I turn back around quickly to avoid any attempts to whip me.

Looks like that guy will be gone tomorrow, in a way.

I offer a prayer to the god that takes care of our souls, as I know the new slave will be tortured tonight. I can’t be bothered with naming these so called gods, as they have never given me hope, neither physically nor mentally. I have not yet had the... pleasure, of such an act being brought upon me, which I believe myself to happy about. But that feeling flees with the air that escapes my lungs.

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Only a few slaves learn that the slavers don't like necrophilia, so basically only the older ones know. I know it as well, due to listening to slaver conversations. I like to learn, though the topics are often disturbing enough to rattle my brain. I have practiced in my sleep to make myself go limp, essentially acting dead. I have scared quite a few comrades by seemingly going into a state of near death.

The well that comes into view near the compound is where we get to refresh our dry throats. Only to have them aching from the sand that sometimes makes its way into it. It is sometimes used as a place of confinement, as I have been trapped plenty of times in there due to a slaver’s sense of humor. I will never understand why it is so funny, to make one laugh like that.

Slaves take turns cranking the pail up and down the well. Some get whipped. I make certain that I don't by using my full force on the crank, bringing up water as fast as I could. I take a glance to see the slavers grimacing, probably because they can't whip someone who does it fast.

After that short break, it is back to the menial tasks of building. Slavers are lazy, and do not protect the slaves from the dangers of the desert. Lizards with glaring eyes often snatch a kid or two, due to their size being just right. Luckily I am tall enough not to be taken by those monsters. Night approaches rapidly to those that work hard. We are all gathered into our prison, our sanctuary from all the evil slavery is. I sit in my comfy little haystack, with some comrades already talking amongst themselves or sleeping. I lay down, and go over all the things I have learned since being a child here.

Through my attempts at communication, I have learned many things of the outside world. I have learned of magic from some slaves who tried to break out once, and I never saw them again until much later. Whenever I try this magic, it always fails. Apparently, the outside world is teaming with life, and on day I wish to see such things. Swords, magic, and the kings themselves, I gather the intelligence I need for such a day from my comrades in chains.

But I do not know when such a day will come. I look up and out of my bed from the underground prison. My life of luxury consisting only of hopes and dreams, my life doesn’t feel like a tale from those I have talked to. My only window of freedom is looking at the moon itself.

It’s bright light shines on me, the cold air slides across me. The desert sings, and I listen to its song.

Something is calling for me, I can feel it.

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