The Meaning of Hope

I remember the day my Master ripped me from my mother’s bosom. I was only 6 years old but even at such a young age I was a beauty, with emerald eyes and curly blonde hair.
Now, not only was I Master’s prettiest toy, I was also his favorite.
Everyday he would lead me to the whipping field where I would watch him beat the slaves while they worked. Those who fell received the worst of his malice.
Always when he was done, he would turn to the bloodied and wounded mass of bodies and tell them that soon they would be freed and he wouldn’t be able to treat them like the scum they were.
A glimmer of hope would flash in their eyes.
This continued for many days, the beatings, the promise of freedom, the hope.
One night I bravely asked him if the slaves were really to be freed soon.
He smirked as he unfastened his belt.
“No, pet, of course not.”
“Then why tell them, Master?” I meekly asked as I lay down on the bed.
A wicked smile spread across his face.
“Because without hope, their disappointment would be meaningless.”

This story has no comments.