"Useless!" comes a scream from above me, and I try to scramble out of the way.
The cane leaves a stripe of fire across my back.
I try to muffle my cries and curl up as tight as I can. Still the cane comes down three more times, "Worthless little freak!" he screams drunkenly. "You're not worth the money it takes to keep you, you little-"
The cane comes down again, and my world flashes with pure pain.
"He has to stop soon" I think desperately "he usually stops about this time."
That was just wishful thinking though. Tonight had been a slow night. Fewer customers meant less money, less money meant more stripes. And it was all somehow my fault. Everything was always my fault.
He finally stopped after a few more curses and I stood up gingerly.
I wore a pair of filthy old shorts and nothing else.
"Come here, you" the man grunts and I turn, trembling. I take a couple of hesitant steps forward. What he held in his hand made me shiver even more than the cane.
It's a jar.
The man yanks me forward, opens the jar, and slaps some sort of oil onto my back, sending fresh waves of agony through my raw skin. He rubs it in roughly, and it's all I could do to keep from crying out in pain.
Whatever that stuff was, it worked, and it would heal the wounds or at least make them less obvious. He didn't do it for my sake; the healing cream was just so that some do gooder wouldn't go reporting him to the police. And if there were any marks left over by the next time he put me on display, he could just say I made the marks myself.
When he finishes, he pushes me away roughly and I stumble back. I'm blinded by tears and make my way miserably to my sleeping place.
I stumble over to the water pale, and look down at my reflection. Strange slanted yellow eyes stare back at me. My face is not covered in skin but in scales, and my hair is an odd yellow green color. It's grimy from a long time without washing.
I take a couple of gulps from the tepid water and curl up in my area. I have one tattered blanket. The material is rough and prickly and the fibers rub against the tender flesh of my bruised and battered back. I bury my face in the rough material and hope, as I've hoped for a long time, for a happy crumb of a dream to have with me whenever the nightmares come.