Chapter Text
Billie Joe slumped against the wood post he was tied to, the damp cedar cold against his bare back. It had been raining on and off all day and with no roof over his confines he was finding himself in a miserable, wet and constantly chilled state.
The market was quite dead, probably because of the poor weather. After six hours of standing in icy mud Billie’s body had begun to droop and his dead weight pulled at the plastic restraints on his wrists.
He was beginning to think it pretty foolish that somebody would buy him.
“Stand up straight, boy.” The slave merchant poked at his chest and Billie obeyed even as his sore feet and back flared in pain.
He stared out at the marketplace. A grey mist was hanging in the air and deep banks of wet mud had formed along the stony walk way. He could spot maybe three or four people off to the left where the park gates were. It was nicer over there, trees and grass and none of this slushy mud to walk through. Billie wracked his brain for a moment, trying to remember what he saw customers walk away with when they were over there. He thought that’s where the fruits and Danishes were sold.
Slowly, his vision swung back over to their far corner of the market, his section; the slaves. There were only three of them left today. It was Friday and that meant the market was closing over the weekend with the new shipment coming in early Monday morning.
They were the runts of the litter, Billie thought as his eyes strayed over to the other two slaves. An older woman with graying, tangled hair and another girl about his age, face scarred and deformed. Billie shuddered when he thought about how that may have happened. Odds are, her previous master. Someone sick and twisted who liked to torment his helpless, obedient little slave. A real power junkie.
Billie dropped his head onto his chest, his eyes roamed over his own scars. White and stark against his tanned stomach, jolting upwards like lightning. He followed them from his ribs up to his chest until he couldn’t see them anymore, knowing they only continued up his neck and face.
It didn’t seem fair. To ruin him like this. Too small to be a labor slave, now too ugly to be a bed slave. Who would ever want him?
Billie’s forehead began to feel itchy where his damp bangs clung and he shook his head a few times to free them. The market began to turn a sad purple-blue color and he knew it wouldn’t be too long until they packed him back up in the truck with the remaining slaves.