Disclaimer: I don't anything. Tamora Pierce is the goddess of the world of Emelan!
Summary: everyone deals with being an outcast differently. Rated for self mutilation and suicidal thoughts.
A/N: I may turn this into a series of short stories that continue each other but do not all leave off at the same spots. This was written simply to express feelings, and was considered for the Seanfhocal Challenge, which is why it is a mere 500 (499 to be exact) words. Your opinions matter!
You failed.
You failed again, Polyam Idaram.
The Trader winced at the sting on her arm, and looked down. Blood welled from a thin, narrow line, a red streak above which hovered its creator, a metal blade. Crimson liquid marred its perfect surface, reflecting her dark face in a mix of glass and red.
How could you fail?
"I'm sorry," she whispered. The ivory hilt was cool against her hot, sweaty palms, a comforting presence. The metal bit into her flesh, once more, giving the first laceration a neighbour parallel to itself. The need to cut was overwhelming; the satisfaction of the sharp pain was soothing to her tormented soul.
Something snapped behind her; she whirled her head around, a sudden dizziness coming over her that she chose to ignore. All was silent; the air around her was dead. Nothing and no one but herself stirred in the valley. Tenth Caravan Idaram slept peacefully.
She brought up her arm into the small glow of the candle which dared not flicker, but cast shadows on her brown skin. A mess of scars. All her own doing.
Everything her fault.
Granted, some, the oldest, came from the accident. Some of those had reopened as shards of shale made their way to the surface of her skin.
But it hadn't been an accident. It was an incident. That was her fault, too.
Wasn't it?
Reality gripped her. Hastily she rolled down her sleeve, the cloth clinging to her fresh wounds, bonded by fresh blood.
Blood wasn't the matter in her culture. Blood meant nothing. Or everything. She didn't know anymore. She was forever bonded to her mother by blood, yet now that she had lost the ability to bring honour to the Idaram family, she might as well be one of the horses she used to lead.
Yet even horses bring in money.
You're useless.
No, she had not even the worth of a horse.
Perhaps it was honour that mattered.
Either way, blood or honour, it meant nothing to her. Didn't it?
Polyam closed her hand over the new cuts on her arm. Still warm, still soft, they would soon become hard and raised like the others. There were so many others…
"Polyam!" Chandrisa's cold voice broke into her mind, loud and harsh. She blinked and looked up. The sun peeked out over the tops of the woods of Goldridge Valley. When had she lost track of the time? What had she been doing? In her hands was a dagger. Smeared with blood…
"Polyam!" Hurriedly she slipped the dagger into its sheath on her hip, and hopped awkwardly down from her wagon step to the ground, stumbling in an attempt to balance on one leg and a length of wood. Hitching up her wagon, she said a silent farewell to the valley as they left. She'd be back.
A smile crept onto her face, thin, and misplaced, and she touched her arm.
Maybe.