Victor was tired. He'd been alone all night---or what was dictated as night as the light bulb turned off above his head. Usually he was with an old bearded man with dark skin and bright eyes, but a couple days ago that man had been taken. The overseers hadn't had a man or woman with them---they always brought around the prospective buyers so they could see the slaves they were interested in. Of course, Victor knew what had happened: They had killed him. There was little use for a man so old and frail, so seemingly useless in the eyes of those lords and ladies. They would judge him on his outward appearance and wave their hand, flashing their beautiful, expensive bands and bangles, and sweep on.

They just kept Victor around for those people who thought him well enough to clean the house, or meet their twisted, sometimes sadistic secret wishes or desires. Sitting in the back of the stall, Victor uncovered his hands and pulled the edge of his sweater over his knees. It was so quiet in his stall now. On either side of him, other slaves were kept, talking, moaning, crying, sometimes muttering to themselves, but the walls were thick, so it was hard to hear. They had clothes given to them by the overseers, usually gray rags that were cleaned once a week until they were sold off. Victor's clothes were ever simpler---a sweater made for him by an old, lonely man that didn't live much more than two weeks after he had bought Victor. Since that day, he only ever wore the sweater. Its neck was stretched, and its oversized arms went over his hands.

Feeling tired, exhausted from pacing over thick hay all night, Victor curled up beside his water trough and closed his pale blue eyes. The other slaves were all of varying tone---brown, black, beige, tan, with hair of black, brown, red, yellow, and sometimes gray or white. Victor was pale all over. His skin was almost as white as a cloud, his stringy hair resembling washed-out sunlight, and his eyes easily compared to a pale sky, giving him the impression of being blind, though he wasn't. Lonely, however, he certainly was.

Victor was half-awake. He only vaguely noticed the shadows that slid across the floor, cut by the light above him. He struggled to sit up right and pull his sweater down below his knees again, fighting to make his fingers work. Pulling his legs up, his wide eyes began to water. Optimism filtered through the cold shell that encased his heart and slid into his stomach. When the door open, successfully letting the bed of straw and hay shift under him. Victor averted his eyes as the lord stepped inside. He'd learned not to look potential buyers in the eye or directly in the face. It gave a sense of familiarity that didn't exist yet, and would earn Victor a severe kick to the side or stomach. It wasn't unheard of for a buyer to immediately strike a slave they haven't bought yet, but intended to do so.

Tears fell from his eyes. Why was he crying...? This one didn't seem so inclined toward violence. But he'd seen it before. They kept up their appearances for everyone around them, then when they were behind closed doors, they would do whatever they liked. Victor tried to see the good in it, though---he refused to believe he'd always be hit about and abused. However, that optimism came at a price, which allowed him to trust far too quickly and somehow become attached to his master.

Blinking hard, Victor lowered his head and kept his eyes upward. "M-my name... is..." He gritted his teeth. "... Victor... I mean... My name is X." He uncovered his arms, revealing the black tattooed Xs on the backs of each wrist.

When they spoke to one another, Victor looked down. When the slavemaster spoke of him, he flinched. It was often he was compared to a useless item or dead thing, but the sting never wore down. With the finished transfer, Victor struggled to his feet to obey as quickly as possible, but tripped a bit when he stepped out on a raised pile of hay and stumbled. Silently scolding himself, he kept his gaze on the floor as he walked, and watched the heels of his new owner to know where to follow. When his hand was taken, Victor was relieved, grasping the man's arm tightly to avoid stumbling. The street was warm, and he periodically avoided broken glass. He'd never been allowed to wear shoes outside a two-week interval.

When the man spoke, Victor lifted his head in acknowledgement. He nodded. "Yes, Mas---I mean, Des..." He quickly corrected himself. This was certainly a strange one---even the old man that made him his sweater had required Victor to call him Master. It was as the slave was to do---they had little to be respected for, after all. As he raised his head, Victor caught sight of the place they were walking toward. Without realizing it, he had been led somewhat away from town and they were approaching a large manor. It was just as impressive as any he'd been to before, but had a different, more regal sense about it. Victor couldn't pinpoint it directly---

---As he ogled the place, its extensive grounds and high windows, Victor tripped over a raised stone along the path and fell completely, ripping his hands away from Des. Gasping, his knees scraped the ground hard, stinging. Tearing up, Victor gritted his teeth without looking up. "I'm sorry..." He muttered. Weak. The slavemaster was right in saying he was weak. Useless. He couldn't even walk.

Victor pulled his sweater down nervously. He was already becoming a burden---a bad first impression had no doubt sealed in Des's mind what Victor would be, how troublesome. "I-I can... walk. I can." He spoke brokenly, blinking away the tears. He always had cried easily---though it was years ago, he remembered his mother had always called him a gentle soul, unfit for the harsh life of a low-class being.

As he stepped over the stone that had caught his foot, Victor put his covered hands up to grasp his sweater. "I... I-I'd rather... keep my shirt..." He admitted hesitantly. "It was... m-made for me... b-by a friend..." He'd had it since he was fifteen. That had been some time ago, but it had been the only act of kindness he'd received since being separated from his parents. "If that's... okay..." He added quickly, his face growing only a faint shade of pinkish.

Victor kept one hand clasped around the neck of his shirt as they were greeted rather sternly. The look he was given made him turn his gaze down. He watched his feet this time as he was led along, warming slightly when Des allowed him to keep the shirt. It'd be nice to see it clean again---when he had first acquired it, new and fresh, it had been white, just like his skin and almost matching his hair. Now, after years of sleeping among mold, filthy hay, damp underground stone and dirty old mattresses, it had become almost black. He'd been sure not to allow holes to form, but the body had stretched, allowing it to be worn by itself. "Th-thank you... He did..." Recalling the old man, that couldn't even handle life near the end, made a mix of emotions flood into his mind. He was like a substitute father, for the short time he'd been alive.

When they paused outside a door that was mostly closed, Victor returned his gaze to Des. "M-m-my..." He stuttered, forcing himself to be quiet before making a fool of himself yet again. "Uhm... okay..." Raising his arms over his head, Victor grasped the back of the sweater and pulled it over his head, keeping it in front of himself and shaking his dirty hair back. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a real bath---slaves were normally stripped and hosed down when their stalls were rinsed and changed. His face had grown hot, but the color that stained his cheeks, forehead, shoulders, and ears still gave a pale pinkish tone.

Victor gasped a bit when he was lifted by Des. The only reason anyone ever touched him otherwise was to harm or use him, and for half a second the thought of those past happenings froze him in place until the comfort of warm water and a slight tingle around his most recent wounds told him that he'd be okay. The new discovery of momentary bliss let him smile, until he snapped back to reality and listened to Des speak.

He looked down to the water's surface and bit his lip. "I... I can do it..." He muttered, keeping his arms under the water. He had a lot to be ashamed of, nothing that was so easily noticed under the dirt and layers of filth that a simple hosing down wouldn't remove. Closing his eyes, Victor lowered himself a bit more, submerging his shoulders and chin. It was as though he felt the water would evaporate immediately and force him to show the scars.

He closed the door before Victor was able to reply, but felt slightly at ease left alone. Bringing up his arms, Victor looked at the nearly-white skin. Long scars criss-crossed in a specific pattern, carved deep with a clean, stainless kitchen knife. The multitude of silver lines had come from a master several years ago, who in the evenings would steal Victor away to the kitchen and run a sharp blade into his skin. The odd man had enjoyed the bright red of his blood against his stark white skin, and often collected it. Victor had had to grit his teeth and bear the stinging pain, or the man would have used a riding crop on him.

Victor shuddered and ducked his head under the water, running his fingers over his hair and loosening the dirt caked in it. Taking one of the bottles he’d been told contained shampoo, Victor rubbed a handful into his hair, sighing in appreciation at the clean feeling already bringing back his optimism. How long had it been since he’d had a real bath? Years, no doubt. He couldn’t recall his exact age, but he couldn’t be more than twenty. Any master who allowed him a bath couldn’t be bad. And any master who preferred his slave to call him by his real name had to feel sorry for him at the very least.

Running his fingers through his hair, Victor pulled the knots and clumps of unknown filth out. Ducking down again, holding his breath for a moment that made his head spin slightly, Victor came back up to a faceful of clean hair that had regained its shiny, pale-sunlight tone. The water, however, had become quite gray. He gasped when a knock sounded, having almost forgotten where he was.

“Yes, sir, Des...!” Victor called back, instinctively grasping for the neck of the sweater that wasn’t there. “I... I shouldn’t be much longer!” Shaking his hair back, Victor lifted the second bottle. Bringing it to his nose, his mouth watered at the floral scent. Deciding to move more quickly, Victor went about carefully washing every inch of his skin, darkening the water a bit more, but feeling cleaner than he had in far too long. Confident at that small fact, Victor lifted himself out of the water, finding the towels that had been set nearby and drying himself, wrapping his body as well as he could.

Victor allowed himself to be dealt with, trusting Des despite having a sheet of foolish decisions. If this wasn’t another check on that sheet, Victor didn’t know what would be. Des had been right in knowing these clothes would be rather ill-fitting, and because he was a head shorter than Des, they were somewhat too large. Still, he was glad that Des respected him enough to not poke about the origin of these particular scars. They weren’t as easily hidden as the ones on his back, his chest, or his legs. And in some cases they couldn’t be hidden at all, not when his masters wanted their way with him. But Des seemed different. It made him smile as he walked, gladly holding onto the man’s hand as they approached a new door.

Cautiously, Victor stepped toward it when it was opened. A window, with panes that weren’t cracked or painted shut. It let in a bit of light. It didn’t smell musty, dirty, damp, or full of mold. Indeed, it had the fresh scent of clean cloth, a place anyone would like to rest. Unconsciously, Victor brought up his hands, putting them over his mouth as the reality hit him---he wasn’t to sleep in the cold attic or wet basement, not on a dirty mattress or in a shed or share a barn with horses and pigs. He almost didn’t hear what Des said. “It’s... o-okay... I...” He faltered, unable to speak through the restriction that had grasped his throat, and settled on putting his arms around Des and letting the burning tears fall with a few blinks. “Th-thank you. Thank you so much... I won’t disappoint, I promise.” To be sent back to the slaves’ compound after this would be too much to handle. He wouldn’t let that happen.

Victor’s heart felt as though it were about to burst. So much, in so little a time frame---it was almost too much to handle. And being referred to as an assistant, rather than a slave, something lower than an animal, was the icing on the cake. “I’ll never go against you, sir.” Victor promised, bowing low. “I’ll do as you ask me, I won’t leave unless I’m allowed. I’d love to learn everything you know, if you’re willing to teach me...” He breathed carefully, steading his emotions so he wouldn’t foolishly cry again.

“And... I promise, I won’t leave you alone... unless you want me to.” The pressure behind his eyes was back, and there was a slight stinging in his nose that indicated another breakdown was nearing. “... But... I hope you never want me to.” He turned away, hiding his face. “I... I’m sorry I cry so much. I... can’t help it. M-my mother used to tell me I was so sensitive... not cut out to be a slave.” He gritted his teeth, crossing his arms in defiance to the upended emotions that wanted to show themselves.

Victor nodded, looking down as Des left. He didn’t feel bad crying in public. His mother had told him not to. ”Showing others you’re willing to cry in front of them is a strength most don’t have...” Her soft voice resounded in his head, and he moved about the room, getting used to these new clothes. He’d have much preferred to be left with only his sweater, but didn’t want to press his luck too far. There was a mirror on the wall, across from the bed. He went to it, studying himself.

Under the rather baggy clothes, Victor looked like he’d been slightly deflated. He’d always been small for a male, and had a slender build. His sharp face and high cheekbones made him seem a bit feminine, and he’d learned early on that many a filthy man and woman both wouldn’t be above using that to their advantage. But now his reflection surprised him---he hadn’t seen himself in ages. His skin was so much paler than anyone else’s. His face was still somewhat pink, from a combination of embarrassment, happiness, and a bit of crying. It was fading quickly, though, and he focused on his watery blue eyes. They were large and expressive, and hid beneath his hair, which was so much cleaner. It moved when he moved, and hung, damp, around his head.

Going to the window, Victor looked down. It was a beautiful sight below him, a massive, extensive garden that didn’t even seem to have an end. Victor smiled, a slight reflection in the window panes revealing how happy he could appear. Feeling quite refreshed, Victor left the room and carefully moved a door down, knocking slightly. “Uhm, Mas---I mean, Des... you are here...?” He carefully pushed the door to.

Victor tilted his head a bit at Des’s words. He played games? Victor had never been able to play a game... Slaves were kept uneducated and pinned in small places, so games were out of the question for them. It was up to the discretion of the master whether their slaves learned, and they never allowed it. But when his sweater was returned to him, warm and clean, white once again, Victor’s eyes widened and his arms curled around it tightly. It smelled so much better, having been taken care of the way it was meant to.

“Thank you...” He muttered, rubbing the sleeve along his cheek. “I... had only one kind master in my life... He... he just wanted a companion, and someone to... someone to take care of the house... because he’d gotten too old. And he made this for me out of appreciation. He died two weeks after I...” Victor fell silent and breathed in quickly. “You... ahem, if you don’t mind me saying... you remind me of him.” Studying the fabric that made up the shirt, Victor smiled at it. There were a few kind masters in the world. Maybe Victor’s luck had finally peaked.

Victor followed along as Des led the way. He made it a point to keep his sweater with him, twisting the body a couple times and tying the arms around his waist. Oftentimes all he ever had to wear was the sweater itself, and being without it on him in some way was just strange. As they approached the dining room, Victor instinctively readied himself to be set on the floor, in a corner or sent to the kitchen. When a seat at the actual table was offered, Victor curled his hands under his chin and stepped forward tentatively, carefully taking the seat and studying the tabletop. Situated above the warm wood, Victor could smell a mixture of different foods drifting in from a door nearby, which as Des approached, he watched. After a moment’s staring, Victor shook his head and fiddled with the edge of the table. Had someone else caught him staring anywhere else, Victor would have had a backhand waiting for him.

As a silver trolley was brought out, however, he began staring again. He couldn’t even begin to count what was presented---but he couldn’t count anyway. When Des turned to him, Victor quickly looked down. “I... I don’t know... I mean, I never... I was never given a choice before...” The food he was ever given was placed before him in scraps mixed together. At the warehouses slaves were given a high-protein and high-calcium stew that had a salty, bitter taste. “I-I guess... whatever you think is best.” Victor said at last. It was hard to get used to this kind of treatment. Perhaps he never would.

A mixture of caution and curiousness overtook Victor as the smell of various sweet and savory foods drifted up to meet him. Without appearing too eager, though he wished to use his hands as he always had to do before, he tried using the fork, finding it simpler than he anticipated. Carefully stabbing the prongs through a bit of the meat he had been given. Its taste was specific, warm and savory, unlike the crude mixtures from the warehouses or tasteless rinds and scraps put in a bowl on the floor. One of the soft fruits he picked up with his hand, smiling at the sweet burst of juice it gave. The dramatic changes in texture and taste was almost indescribable.

When Des poured the tea into his cup, Victor did as requested and lifted it carefully, sipping the dark, floral liquid slowly. "It's... all so amazing." He said at last, unable to convey his full thoughts. He'd always had to sit by and smell how everything was, each layer coming to him separately, from sweet to bitter to strong and delicate, but he'd never been able to taste what the scents belonged to.