(PLEASE READ)AN: I first wrote this when I was only 14 years old (I am now no longer a teenager). I am aware it is not the best; my writing has greatly improved since however I will not be re-writing it since it reminds me of how far my writing has come.
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters (Lord Voldemort, Death Eaters etc.) they all belong to JK Rowling.
He was withering, screaming – the pain was too much to bear. Hot, sharp pains shot up his left arm, curling around his toes, boiling up his blood. He wanted it to be over, he wanted to be back at home, curled up in his favourite armchair watching Desperate Housewives – god, he really loved that show – but instead he was laying on the dirty stone floor like some dirty muggle, while surrounded by black robed men and in front of a red-eyed snake-like man, who was more than happy to watch his newest recruit rolling around. In fact the ruby-eyed Dark Lord was laughing at his predicament. He was the only one however - the other Death Eaters remembered their own initiations very clearly.
After all, having a crazed Dark Lord stab and draw the dark mark into one's forearms' with a sharpie, isn't that hard to forget.