The Wandless
The weight of the hot, humid air laid heavily on me as I found myself succumbing to the overwhelming heat of the summer's day. A thick layer of sweat covered my entire body and made my clothes stick to my skin.
I have never felt so filthy.
Various insects that had been attracted by the burning sun and the smell that it naturally brought with it were silently resting on my motionless body. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. The streets were almost empty, the few passengers only hastily skipping by, not even acknowledging my existence.
I didn't care.
These kind of days were good. I liked the days where I could just sit there in peace without being scowled at, without being bothered; where nobody was kicking after me, laughing, pointing, as if I was one of them, as if this was where I belonged.
I was not one of them.
I was not one of those people who lingered on the streets, the poor, the restless, the ones who had landed here due to their own failure or maybe even due to a strike of fate or in any other lawful way. But I, I was not supposed to be here, and neither were my fellows. But of course none of them could know this, they only looked down on us, nothing more. They saw me, sitting amongst the others, silently rotting in our own filth and the endings of the road.
The Wandless, they called us.
As if it was our own fault that we were lying here in the open without a defense, as if they hadn't snapped our wands right in front of our eyes, as if we were nothing without them now. Worthless. Filth. Like these words couldn't just be thrown right back at them.
But one day, that I knew, one day they would pay for this.
One day, they will see.