Never Leave You

Once a year, during the dead of winter, the black market arrives in New York City. The greasy old slave traders with their frightened, malnourished slaves in tow crowd in the heart of Times Square to get as much money as possible for handing over their slaves to the highest bidder. This practice is recognized under the law and the buying of personal slaves at the legal age of eighteen has now become a right of passage of sorts for many. Although for some it isn't that simple.

Most slave owners were not as innocent and well meaning as the law depicted them to be, nor did they recognize the fact that slaves were still human beings that needed care and affection to survive. As well as the fact that although the selling of slaves is typically for those who have just become of age, that does not mean that everyone felt the need to follow such a rule.

There were many slave traders that re sold used or partially damaged slaves to middle aged men and women who had no intentions other than to treat their slaves poorly until they died or keep them until they became bored of them and re sell them to someone even more cruel.

The value of slaves decreased over time and according to how many times they had been owned as according to their legal papers. Children who are bred as slaves must be separated from their families at the age of ten to enter a home for young slaves until they are groomed to be sold. Virgin slaves are top priority and sell for the highest price, only available to those who have just turned 18. The slaves who have been owned more than once or have contracted any kind of sexually transmitted disease are of lower to no value at all and are sold to anyone, in secret, behind the large extravagant new slaves' display platform.

Slaves also had an expiry date over their heads. If a slave is not owned at the time of their eighteenth birthday, they are rendered useless and if they are not able to be sold at the next, nearest black market they will be put down.

For every slave owner with pure intentions there were hundreds more with malicious intent, making the life of a slave a dark, difficult and despairing one.

This all rings true for one eighteen year old Blaine Anderson, who is currently on his way to his final attempt at being sold before being put down, at the New York City slave trade, after being cast aside by yet another ruthless master.

Blaine stared out the grimy window as the tall buildings flew by and the rain tapped against the glass. He silently cried, the tears leaving clean tracks along his filthy skin. He shook with silent sobs, his body convulsing painfully, but he dare not make a single sound, for he knew the consequences of such an act, the red welts on his back seeming to flare up painfully in reminder of his last punishment for disobedience. He wondered where he would be this time tomorrow, or if he would even be here tomorrow. His tears continued to fall to the floor and the rain continued to tap lightly against the tiny window.

Drip Drip Drip

Tap Tap Tap

And for the first time, Blaine truly believed there may be a God, because who else could have sentenced him to this Hell?

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the morning of Kurt Hummel's eighteenth birthday, he was woken up by the shrill sound of his cell phone ringing off the hook with calls from his family and friends to congratulate him. Kurt groaned and reached out blindly for his phone to quiet the insistent ringing.

Kurt lived in his own small two bedroom apartment, with the kitchen, living room, dining room and entryway all in one room. This was not uncommon of those who were nearing or at the age of eighteen to already be living alone.

Kurt was just settling into his new apartment and preparing to begin his first year of University at Parsons for fashion and design and he couldn't be more satisfied with his life- other than the fact that he was desperately, achingly lonely.

“Hello?” Kurt sighed sharply into his phone.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY KURT!” Yelled an overly excited female voice from the other line.

“Rachel?” Kurt asked warily.

“Who else would it be?”

“I should have expected as much.”

“Kurt you are eighteen now, and you do know what is coming up this winter, correct?”

“Yes Rachel, I know, and as I have said many times before I am not interested.”

“But Kuuuurt, you are my best friend in this city and I just couldn't go alone, what if something was to happen to me? Besides, you need a slave; it's a right of passage. What you do with it is up to you and you know that, and you also know how I get when I really want something.”

Kurt sighed.

This conversation happened quite frequently during the following months leading up to the winter of that same year. Rachel pleading relentlessly and Kurt vehemently arguing against her.

You see, Kurt did not believe in the ownership of slaves and he fought against the entire practice whenever the subject was broached. Although Kurt's father and mother had owned slaves, they had treated them with the utmost respect and had released them in secret after meeting each other and getting married, no longer wanting to own slaves for their personal pleasure after meeting each other. Kurt wanted equality for all, whether they be slave, person, straight, gay, lesbian or bisexual. And Kurt stuck strongly to his beliefs.

That is, until he found himself in the bitter cold of the heart of New York, with ten thousand dollars sent to him as his birthday gift from Burt weighing in his pocket, being forcibly pulled forward by his very best and most infuriating friend, as he was led into this year's annual Slave Trade.