AZAR (Age ten, thirteen years ago)
The sun shone brightly, beating hard against my skin. My wounds stung badly, wounds I had suffered from the baker at the bakery where I had stolen a loaf of bread. Or at least, tried to because the baker caught me and made me pay for it dearly. I was beaten with the turning stick and then a hot pan was placed against my back.
I had screamed and pleaded for help but no one heard me or bothered to look at my way twice, I was a thief after all. Eventually I was thrown out of the shop and onto the streets. Starved and dehydrated, I wandered the street, trying to look for who would show mercy or compassion for me, but no one did.
The burn wound on my back hurt and I refrained from whining like a baby but it was too much. People brushed past me as they went by, going on about their daily activities. I hugged myself as I tried to look for where I was going to lay my head for the day. But anywhere I looked, I was fixed with a death stare.
