Subconscious

I was a rite of passage for an 8 year-old kid last night. His sisters and mother had been searching the jungle for those of us who didn't belong. Hiding in a thick brush, they reached me and grabbed at my thighs. One said, "How do I know if I have something?" The mother replied, "You'll know because it'll move." One of the little ones also grabbed hold of my flesh. "It's squishy, but it's not moving." Another added, "I like it. It feels soft."

They cleared away a part in the brush and exposed my legs, then up to my face. I was taken to a clearing and the boy whipped me with my own scarf. Then he moved me to my knees and began cutting the arches of my feet with a razor. They do it to prevent you from walking and to change you for life, no longer able to hunt or hide in the jungle again. With such wounds as well, crippled, you are forever recognizable as an other. Out of reflex I recoiled on the second cut, slicing through muscle and tendon, and jerked my leg from the pain. After the third cut, I awoke.