You will most likely be murdered by someone you know, probably someone you know well. You are most likely killed because you have realized midway through your allotted three score and ten that you are little more than a caged beast, captive to a capricious and unknowable menagerie. The rules are never explained to you and change daily.
You will be killed trying to escape.
Should you survive, you will be forever hunted, forever branded. These scars vary in their size and location — if you are lucky they are easily hidden by a scarf or by regular clothing — but they are always there, a white fleur-de-lys burned into your skin. Ineradicable, you can only await their discovery. Then: expulsion, abuse, poverty.
No matter how weary you become, how footsore, they will be waiting in their indefatigable rage. Help will be always capricious, always a freak of time and circumstance. If you survive yet again — if you should beat the odds — only another brand awaits you. If your luck holds, it will obscure the old one.
You will probably be killed.