I think...this is it for me.
Even through the haze in her mind, the girl saw the truth. Her leg was swollen and festering—a gruesome scene painted in shades of black and red. There were people all around her, but as she groaned in pain, not one of them spared her even a glance.
She had been born into slavery. Her parents had died with outstanding debt, which the law had forced her to inherit. Still, she was grateful to them for the sturdy body they had passed on to her—for the strength to work tirelessly for her master.
Only now, she was too injured to be useful.
It had started as merely an irritant. As best the girl could figure, she must have stepped on a rusty nail while carrying a stack of cargo. Her master had dismissed the puncture, not wanting to pay for medical treatment, and she had questioned it no further.
Several days later, her entire leg had swollen and begun to fester. Even standing became a strenuous task. Her master promptly returned her to the trading house he had purchased her from, thanked her for her good work, and departed with another slave. She recalled him mentioning something about a “warranty period,” though she didn’t quite understand what that meant.
Despite having been returned, the girl hadn’t been led back to her old lodgings. Instead, she was taken somewhere entirely new—to a place with stagnant air and a thick, unpleasant odor. There were no windows for light, and the only occupants were the frail, the sick, and the dying. Some had wasted away from illness; others were missing limbs and the light from their eyes; and still others muttered to themselves, spouting words no one else could understand.
No sooner had the girl entered the room than her instincts screamed at her. The cruel fate she witnessed would soon be her own.
The girl recognized her surroundings. She had heard rumors of such dark places—places from which no one ever returned. Immersed in the thick stench of death, knowing that she would never leave, she clung to her swollen leg and tried to stifle her groans. It was all she could do.
Beside her, an old man sat muttering. Whether his words were of sympathy or resignation, she couldn’t say—he was speaking too quietly to tell.
“Leaving an infected wound unattended, hmm? It would have been so easy to drain. Too late now, though. Poor thing. But that’s the way it goes.”
Though breathless from the pain, the girl still found the strength to agree. Such was the way of the world. Because she had lacked one crucial piece of knowledge, she was now facing her demise.
The strong thrived, while the weak simply faded away. Even at her young age, the girl understood that inexorable truth. She was feeble and uneducated—and that was why she suffered.
A shiver ran through her as she began to accept her fate. She wanted to sob, terrified of the end she knew was coming, but she was so dehydrated that a few tears were all she could manage.
Then, somewhere in the blur of pain and fear, the girl noticed someone standing in the doorway—a man who hadn’t been there before.
“This place is awful. And still not a window in sight?”
The man entered with a young woman whom the girl suspected was a year or two her senior. Upon spotting the girl on the ground, curled up in pain, he made his way toward her.
“Don’t worry—a little injury like this can be treated in no time,” he said. “[Low Heal].”