The Unwanted

I have been away to college for the past year which has left me unable to work a lot on my stories. I have decided to go back through the rewrite the Unwanted, not really change anything but do some much needed improvement to the grammar and some storyline flaws. I am a creative writing major and wish to try out what I have learned in classes. Hope you all enjoy the improvements!

Beaten

How much does a life cost?

A surge of pain rattles my spine.

What did we do to deserve this?

The stone chills my fingertips; I can feel beads of blood seep from the wound in my forehead

Why us?

Steel toed boots smash my ribs driving me into a pool of gathering blood and sweat. The creases of stone once clean now stained with bloodied tears. My arms ache and throb as I left myself off the ground the tattered rag that hanging loosely off brittle bone rips exposing more of my skeleton form. The masked man thumps his fists together gearing up for the next round of abuse to my body.

I used to cower when the masked man swung open the glossy door; back when I could still feel the nerves in my fingertips and before the bones healed crooked. I used to huddle in the furthest corner and wait; hour after hour and listen for the faintest of clicks, the jar of the bars and the flood of light made from flickering torches outside. Now, my head is heavy with questions.

Every day since as long as I could remember the masked man has come into my cell, every day he  beats me, whips me and from the open door where freedom is just out of reach I hear the screams and cries of my fellows, the other boys and girls that were born into this horrible life.

Clohe…her name always brought me comfort. She, like the rest of us was taken down here and beaten every day. However, she was not born in the cells, not brought up to cower; she lived five long years in the world above. Many of the others hate her because of this, but not me. How can I? She was the only link we have. The only friend I have.

His fist strikes again but after years of abuse the pain is dulled, muted to a body that has seen much worse. I risk a glance over my shoulder and see the masked man clearly; mouth and nose guarded by a black mask tying back a mop of thick black hair. Golden skin glows beside the piercing green eyes that haunt my nightmares. His hands are gloved and his are boots polished. I image that the people living above our cells look the same, golden skin, bright eyes and are unafraid of the dark; unlike us, the unwanted, with chilled white skin, faded expressions and who live in shadows.

He cracks his knuckles and his enormous hand grabs my gnarled hair and drags me to my feet. The masked men tell us we are not fit to live that we are a disgraced. We were taken from the families we can only dream about. For fourteen years I have had to face the masked man alone; wondering why we were chosen, why were must suffer.

Is our blood is cursed?  Will we really only bring harm to the families that don’t even know we existence? As long as we suffer our families will live peacefully in the world above rock and stone.

The masked man grabs me and jerks me out of my thoughts. He throws me towards the wall and holds me still. From his belt he unwinds a whip and cracks it across my back. The floor is stained with dried blood but now the cresses of stone ran red once more. His hand wraps tightly around my mouth to muffle my screams. The underground hell that cages us inside blocks out the light, save the torches which brings little comfort. Yet just above the low hanging rocks and bars of my cell are the people who could stop this, who could put a stop our suffering. Yet they choose against it. Is it better to have a few unimportant children suffer the burden of life so the rest don’t have to? I don't think so.

Over the years I have counted almost forty-eight other children who share the same title; Third Born. Forty-eight children who didn’t asked to be born but had no choice in the matter. Are we different in some way? Is it our looks? Or is it in the blood that now stains the floor?