more than dust in the wind in that moment. “Never don’t last always,” like ole’ folks used to say. He was still wearing the ball gag so all he could do was nod his consent. The ink was barely dry on the forms before he was whisked off to a barn-like building where he was to be “seasoned.”

Seasoning was the process that slaves endured in which they were broken in spirit in order to become good slaves. They were inflicted with extreme psychological and physical torture in order to ensure that they wouldn’t try to run or rebel. A group of women dressed in tight fitting riding pants that hugged their every curve and crisp white cotton shirts with single-tail whips attached to their dark leather belts surrounded him. Their knee-high, black riding boots caressed their strong calves and shined so highly that the sun cast a glare off them. They all spoke in Gullah and Charles felt disoriented by the strange language. They put thick wrist cuffs on his arms and secured him to a hook in the ceiling. He could feel the heat from a fire behind him and he saw them walking towards it with a branding iron. The ball gag muffled his screams and one of the women whispered something in his ear as he felt his flesh being seared with the hot metal. The pain was more intense than anything he’d ever felt and his body contorted and twisted in a natural reflex to escape the scorching hot metal. Tears would have flowed but he was too dehydrated to cry. He felt like an idiot; he had had the opportunity to leave and here he was, being marked like a piece of beef of his own volition.

He awoke, on the floor, and he could barely move his limbs. His ass had been permanently marked and he was sure it was something that indicated that he was the property of the Domina Emmanuelle. One of the women towered over him and kicked him in the side. He thought for a minute she was just abusing him but he soon realized that he was being directed to move. He crawled on his hands and knees to the corner of the room where there were two metal bowls on the floor like dog dishes. The food was covered with flies and the water was brown. He lapped at the water like a dog, dismissing the thoughts of what sort of bacteria and germs flourished in it. The food was rancid and greasy and he could only stomach a few mouthfuls before he started to vomit again.

There were three women in total and while he was still bringing up what little food he had been able to stomach, he felt a leash being applied to his throat and being pulled across the room. There was a pot of water being heated on the fire and full enema equipment prepared. Charles looked around and pleaded with his eyes. Boiling water would kill him, burn his intestines. Tears stained his cheeks but his body was too weak to fight. Someone removed his ball gag but he didn’t have the strength to fight, he simply prepared himself for the pain that was to come.

The water was actually heated to 112 degrees, not hot enough to kill him but more than hot enough