Post by YUSEF AL-SAYF on Sept 7, 2012 11:43:27 GMT -6
The first memory I had was walking down a dusty road in drapes, a hood pulled up over my head and watching another childs dirty feet scuff in the dirt. His feet were bleeding, mine were not. Obviously this child was not used to walking around the streets with no shoes on. Me? I was used to playing football with no shoes on with a ball made of sheep bladder and I was only... Christ. Three or four? If that. Already I regarded the other children around me as below me, beneath me.
These children turned out to be my best friends.
High up in the mountains we were finally allowed to rest after being herded through a wrought iron gate of black by men on two Arab horses wearing scarves that covered their head and face from the sun. We only had sheets. We were so tired from walking eventually most of us just passed out before they could even give us water. I think a couple of children died, because I remembered seeing small bodies under sheets with their feet sticking out. One of the children's feet were blooded.
The next memory after that was at nine years old. I remembered distinctly being allowed a day off from my studies, sitting with friends in the main court yard when again the black gates were open and two men on horseback herded another group of frightened, hooded children into the encampment. Honestly I didn't see anything to fear because once your skin toughened up to the beatings then you really didn't have to worry about anything. Then again I was Yusef Al-Sayf. I never got beat. All the tutors knew me as the boy who had good posture because even though I was raised in a poor community I'd always walked with my head up high and my shoulders back.
I'm not one to brag about how I look, but I knew from a very early age that I'd have a relatively good life ahead of me. I was tanned, I had a lithe build and although I was not old enough for the muscle to begin forming into the state it is in today, I still worked to stay as athletic as possible. I was told that people tended to like athletic men more.
These children looked scared and it perked my interest.
"Father, why are they so scared?"
There was only two women on the compound. One was Abla - who's name meant 'woman with a full figure' ironically enough -, the leaders eighteen year old daughter who all of the young boys including myself lusted after, and the old wise woman Dima, which meant blood and life. Abla was a close friend of mine, and although she was close to ten years my senior she was much a bigger sister to all of us than anything else no matter where our lust took us.
"Because they are not used to this, Yusef."[/i] Abla answered my question before Father had the chance and I noticed the man shoot her an annoyed look, paid it no mind. I didn't honestly understand, what was there to not be used to? They would grow up just the same as we did, their feet would toughen up as would their skin. They would become like me, living, breathing instruments of ruin for man. I was very aware of where my life was going to go.
Jacinto was my only friend really. He was half-blood, blond but arab faced and throughout the time from the ages three to fifteen we were rarely seen one without the other. Most thought us man on man relations but to be honest we were nothing but brothers except no one really took us all that seriously when we defended ourselves. Jacinto got stick, he was in a full blood Arab camp but he was fastest runner out of all of us. I once jokingly told him it was because of his other-wordly-nature because around he was known as the alien. He seemed to like that one, but I got a playful smack for it.
By the time I reached my thirteenth cycle my body had already grown, matured. I was starting to grow muscle and it was starting to tense and pull itself into the formation of a man not a boy. My voice dropped. Honestly the change scared me, football now had more of an aggressive twist. Fights broke out more often. The boys started making dirty comments towards Abla more and more openly regardless as to whether or not her father was there. It made me sick. Then she got sick. Literally.
Once a month we got a break from our studies and our rigorous training regime and once a month I'd offer her a ride on one of the black Arabians up to the summit to just look out at the sky. I had no interest in her in a sexual sense... Many people did in fact accuse me of looking at them in more of a sexual way than I looked at her. The night of my thirteenth birthday she finally agreed. Remember, I'd grown up in a slave camp all my life so I wasn't spoiled rotten, I worked for what I got and I worked damn hard for it. I had a mature head on my shoulders, maybe nineteen or twenty years old in mind and thirteen in body. I was already an able bodied horseman, having learnt riding above all else.
Upon receiving her aging father's permission - the people on the compound called him Jiddo, which in our language was Grandfather. Upon his permission I did take her up to the summit and we ate our days rations together sitting around the fire and just talking to one another, looking at the compound far below as the lights went out one by one and from then on we just watched the stars together. My body ached, my head hurt but what hurt me worse was the ache from the saddle.
Before we left though, that night, she put her hands on my arm and looked at me in silence for a moment until I paid her any attention. She said it once and once only. "I am going to die soon."[/i].
Abla threw herself off that same summit less than a week later. It broke my heart. Jacinto - who had always been in love with her - wept for days upon days and even when it came to having our piercings put into place he still wept. Everyone knew though that he did not weep from the pain to his body but the ache in his soul. He was sold on not much later, although not for a high a price as a strong slave like I would. I don't remember getting my piercings, I just remember looking towards the wooden door that led outside of the healers office lying on a scruff old blanket in complete and utter agony, on my side to avoid rolling on anything. I think the pain and the memories around that time period forced me to block it all out. I don't remember a thing past that.
I have twenty four piercings in all. I have six running along my tongue, often referred to as erotiki sfairi. The smallest piercing is at the front of the tongue, a gold ball and the same gold balls line the muscle all the way up to the sixth which is the biggest. Honestly I don't find it so difficult to eat anymore. But I used to. Two piercings on my hips, they look nice when I stretch out I will admit and, like my tongue, they are golden balls. All my piercings are gold. Piercings nine and ten are the dimples in my back, I can not remove them. Seven piercings mark my right ear, they range from hoops from the bottom and turn into gold balls further towards the top. That's seventeen. Four mark my left ear, again, following the same principles. The last three however, are in a much more sensitive area only my Idikos gets to see. Now these are a lot of piercings, and they take time to keep clean and to stop infection even now but I'm so used to it I never realize. It took them three hours to pierce me completely. Twelve to tattoo my skin.
Idikos is my term for a male owner, by the way. Idika is a female.
My first slave auction was in a town three days ride away from the town. I traveled with five others at the age of fifteen, no longer a boy or a teenager but a man. My body had strengthened, hardened, my piercings had healed and my tattoo swirled against the skin. Like the typical Arab I wore the typical mode of dress, my hair was thick and shaggy and came down to my shoulders and I had a couple of days growth on my face. Remember. Most Western children would still be demanding an X-box 360 or whatever had come out before hand. Then there was... Me and my friends.
Nothing can prepare you, no matter of training can tell you what's going to happen the moment you walk through those doors and although we had an idea of how things worked we were not sure especially what was going to happen, who would be sold and who would go back to the compound to be sold on at the next auction.
The air was thick with smoke, I was used to it, but it still brought on a heavy, drugged euphoric state. It left us all out of it for a few hours while we were sold to men we could not see, bound and gagged and our hands tied behind us in order to avoid trying to make a last ditch escape when that was the last thing on my mind at that moment in time. I had no reason to run.
I was sold into the house of a King as nothing but a servant boy. I worked the house, tidied, did anything and everything I was told to do and I never got lashings for it until I turned sixteen and the King found... Other ways to use me. I'm not going into detail because to be perfectly honest those years working for the king as a Tsolous were the worst years of my life. He was cruel to his slaves once they breached the sex border and it wasn't long until he grew bored of me. Often I think: Did he get bored or did I just get too old? But again. It's nothing to dwel on so I don't since there's hardly any point to it at all.
My second owner lived in a much colder region where I was required to wear fur coats almost constantly all year round aside from when the mistress and master wanted pleasing. I was there for six months before being sold on to the Ukraine where I spent the ages from nineteen to twenty two serving in the household as both a slave and sex slave. That was honestly unremarkable and he was - frankly - crap in bed so generally it was me doing all the work when I'd always been taught to lie there and act pleased unless told to do otherwise. Then again every so often he'd draw blood from me and that - in some sick way - kept me happy and content enough.
Now I'm on to my third owner - the six months didn't count - with a good reputation behind me among black market buyers. I tried to run from the compound once and now my perfect back is marred by an arching scar but that doesn't seem to be a bother to Khalid. He was impressed the moment he saw me, I know he was for even though I was staring straight ahead I had long since grown a very impressive range of peripheral vision. I could see him probably before he even saw me. Khalid doesn't hit me, he treats me well and he gives me my freedom. I don't know why he's so scared about me running away, perhaps just protecting his investments? He did give up a tiger cub to have me in his home. No matter how many times I assure him I shall not run I guess I'll just have to wait for him to come around and see the truth himself.
I don't spend my time asking for things, or socializing much at all. It's not in my catagory to socialize with my owners because honestly unless they want fucking, music or dance I can not provide simple human company... I just can't. It's like there's a giant mental barrier that I can't get passed... So long as I see them as my owners I can rarely find it in me to actually befriend them.
Allah knows that I know he has a plan for me. Whether I am to stay here, be beaten to death, or to live as a fre man which - in all honesty - would kill me there is only one out of three ways in which I survive the next three or four years. Please. All I pray is that this is my last family and I can stay here for the rest of my days, even if its just as a servant or a Tsolous.
Please.
Don't throw me back into the cold again.
Don't throw me back into the cold again.
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ATTIRE His usual black drawstring pants >.> CREDIT sam ! of Confronting the Faceless. Don't remove the credit or I will find you. LYRICS set fire to the rain - adele NOTES He had a lot to say WORD COUNT 2,282
