They made them burn on purpose.

To make you suffer and cringe as the needle beat your skin over and over like an excited wasp. This time my shoulder was being marked. I glared at the artist as he painted the symbol onto my shoulder. I hated anyone that worked for the Ministry. Their restricting rules and their punishments for breaking them was something everyone dreaded. 

The artist glanced at my face for only a second. I could see her green eyes, the mask covered the rest of her face. Good thing too. I may be marked from head to toe but that didn’t stop me from rebelling. I will find her later and kill her. Just like the rest of the compliant and conforming scum here, she did not deserve to live.

Masked "officers" of the law tattooed us convicts to not only remind us of what we had done, but to be a beacon of delinquency, rebellion and broken minds. Don't get me wrong. If a man rapes a girl, he deserves to be castrated but instead his forehead is tattooed. 

My left shoulder represented a minor crime. The Circular pattern with the reference number "AB.51" suggested that I had assaulted a police officer. Nothing major. I just punched him in the face for trying to steal from a homeless person.

I know. Now, why would a man of the law care about robbing someone who is believed to have nothing, I hear you ask? Because he is literal dog excrement, abusing his power like they all do. I don't see them getting tattooed. But why would they? They were protected and their crimes meant nothing. 

So, here we are. Lost and labelled rebellious but I am only one of those things. I know exactly who I am and my purpose on this planet and in this life; to unleash hell on the corrupted and so far I've managed alright. Especially with my good friend and muscle, Tyke who just so happened to be seated in a booth next to mine getting tattooed in the same fashion as myself. I could hear him hiss and growl as the aggressive buzzing continued throughout the room like a hive of busy little bees.

We all shared the same struggles. Crooks of all sorts sat on worn leather stools, soaking in the dull light and heavy odour of disinfectant. But even so, we were all very different people. Different people. Same struggles.

I stared into my tattooist's face. I wanted her to know exactly how I felt and what I wanted to do to her and anyone else who supported such a broken regime. I wanted her to know exactly who I was, but she wouldn't care. I was just one thing to her. The same as all the rest of the miscreants in here.

I was Marked.