XXX

It happened. There's nothing we can do about it. We just sit there and wait for some one to save us. Yet, no one does.

This is not the world you live in. To us, your world is nothing we have ever seen before. It's only what we dream about, when we get the chance to close our eyes. What we think heaven to look like, as we are thrown on our knees to beg for death. No, this is nothing like your world.

Women are pigs to men. Slaves to their every will, and I do mean every will. Like toys to them. Play with us once, then wonder what would happen if you threw us against the wall. Think about how long we can stay under water, last without food or sleep, or how loud they can get us to scream when they beat us down.

Women are giving roles, jobs as they call them. Some are breeders, others are pets or workers, mostly we are all bleeders.

Breeders are hand picked to create more of this damned life. They make sure that they can create life without problems, trying to make a better human race. Pets are personal slaves to the men. Very personal slaves to the men. Workers do as they are told. Clean, cook, raise the kids, make the clothes, the list goes on. But bleeders have the worst job of them all. They work from dawn till dusk, until they bleed. They are magnets to pain, and death.

They made me a cleaner.

They gave me papers, thinking I could read and write. I just sat there, looking at the blank spaces and words.

"Can you read?" That to me was the kindest voice I had ever heard from a male. I mostly hear them bark orders at me, calling me 'scum' every chance they could.

"No, sir," I said back. "Women are not aloud to know such things."

He sat beside me, and did something men would never dare to do even in privet. This man looked me square in the eye and offered to help me.

"Sir, you will get in much trouble if we are scene here. For I am already owned by the highest class with in the land. I do not wish for you to be lashed for such a trivial thing." I looked away from him.

"And I would hate for you to be lashed at something even more trivial. They make the laws that women can not go to school and learn, and yet they give you sheets to fill, as if you even know your own name, let alone know how to write it."

"Men never call women by their names, sir. They are only used among ourselves. A slave ,like myself, is identified by this code on our arm." I reached my wrist towards him, showing the lines and numbers that are suppose to mean something, they only show that I am only an object.

"May I see your face please?" He asked in his kind voice. "That will help me decode your arm."

I turned to look at him, for I was trained to fallow the orders of man. I am not sure how I could not see it before, but he didn't have a face. It was hidden by the shadows of the hood cloak that he wore.

"Do I frighten you?" He asked.

"Yes, sir. The slasher never shows his face, and I fear that you are him."

He laughed, as most men did. " If I were the slasher, I would not be able to talk. He tongue was torn from his mouth, giving him the anger he needs to punished those who sin."

"And he shall yet again see you," Through the halls came the man that used to own me, when I was a cleaner. "You should be so wise as to hold your tongue around men." His hand raised to hit my face like any normal time he found me out of place.

The cloaked man caught his arm before he struck me. " You sir, should no better than to harm that which belongs to the prince, even more so in front of him."

The beater backed down from the cloaked man. Fear filled his eyes as he spoke these word to him. "My deepest apologies, your highness, I could not see your face. "

"You should be shamed," The cloaked man released the beaters arm, nearly tossing him to the floor with ease. "Decode her arm, so I know what to call my bride,"

"My lord, you call her what ever you wish, you do not need my help for such a thing-"

"I gave you an order," The prince's voice grew sharp as the beater try to find any he could to flee.

The beater garbed my arm. Hard enough to hurt me, yet no so that the prince could see. I knew better than to whimper, beaters like that. They love the sounds we make in pain, and over the many years I had been in the hands of this beater, he has never heard me scream.

"My lord," the beater spoke. "Her name is Emily,"