I wrote this a month ago for a story and poetry site. Who knew that a month later, I'd feel even worse than when I wrote it.
The slave cast her eyes down, her body trembling, the faint flush of shame reddening her cheeks, and her legs weak with fear. An air of defeat hung around her, a dark cloud of despair and hopelessness, the last gasp of freedom had long been exhaled from her lungs.
I need this job. I need to eat. I need all the things a body requires.
For that she had sold her soul.
"You're a worthless piece of…"
The slave shut the doors of her mind, not wanting to hear another assault on her bleeding ears.
"Now go and sell this…" Piece of junk.
"Extol its virtues…" Lie through your teeth.
"To all the deserving…" Suckers like me, who can't even afford a meal without bowing to the bastards of this world.
"Sell! Sell! Sell!" Bull, bull, bull…
"Do you hear me…"
Slave number one one five four at your service, sir. And may your soul rot in hell.