A story I wrote for The Juvenile Community. (Trust me, the beginning does not accurately foreshadow the story at all. There should be a word for that.)
My body writhed and twisted in pain as the cruel whip struck me again and again. I would have liked to scream, but I had long since discovered it was useless; nobody here could hear me anyway. They were all too busy either screaming in pain as well or inflicting the same kind of pain on others. I would also have liked to cry if it was possible, but this heat was unnatural; the tears would have evaporated before they could get past the lower lashes.
Speaking of lashes…the whip left more marks of torture on my body: angry, pink fresh flesh which had no place on my brown skin, which had been repeatedly torn open by lashes in all places imaginable. Up till now, I was still confused about that one. I used to think that after the cross-over, flesh would cease to exist. But I supposed that whether…
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