Disclaimer: Anyone that you recognize in any of my stories, doesn't belong to me.
Terra is tired.
She is tired of the constant hunger that she has come to associate with being alive. That gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach that seems to dog her every step and throb with every breath she takes. She hates the fact that she has to eat, and despairs at the fact that while others simply buy whatever they want, and often toss that away, she has to scrounge from garbage bins behind restaurants, or steal from grocery stores just so she can be strong enough to make it through one more day of her hellish life.
She is tired of the cold air in the alleys where she sleeps. No matter where it is, or what time of the year, it always seems to be too cold for her; too cold to sleep, too cold to think, too cold to live. She huddles in garbage bins at night, her body lying on top of refuse from the city, just so that she can stay warm enough at night to survive until morning. She shivers, and grits her teeth against the cold that seems to soak into her very bones, doing her best to sleep, because, if she doesn't, she won't have the strength to leave whatever city she is in the next morning.
She is tired of waking up each morning to wonder, idly, if she is dead, if last night was the night where it was too cold for her, the night where her body finally gave up and if now, she will finally get some rest. She is tired of the relief/disappointment that always accompanies the realization that she is still alive, and that now it is time to get up, to gather her strength so that she can leave the city (whatever city) she is in.
She is tired of the exhaustion that numbs her mind, that makes her listless and lethargic. She is always exhausted, even though she sleeps (when she can), and she has begun to wonder if this is something more than physical, if in fact there is something deeply wrong with her. She stumbles through each day, coping and responding to her surroundings as best she can, when in reality, all she wants to do is find a warm place to lay down. She blinks, and smiles, and laughs, while in her mind she is wondering when the last time she actually felt something besides this terrible weariness was.
She is tired of the wariness that accompanies each action she takes, each word she utters. She watches each person she encounters carefully, wondering when each smiling facade will evaporate to reveal the disgusted sneers and malevolent leers that she knows is common with human nature. She studies each face carefully, waiting for the moment that she knows will always come, because that is when she will have to run away. She will run, and she will hide, because, even though she fears that this is the true face of human nature, she still doesn't want to hurt people.
Most of all, she is tired of that one thing that seems so much more terrible than the cold, or the hunger, or the exhaustion that have become her constant companions. She is tired of the hope that has remained with her, the hope that she is wrong, and that there is something better than this horrible place that she has found herself. She is tired of the hope that forces her to get up each morning, and survive each night, waiting, praying that the next day will be the day where she meets those compassionate, generous, kind people that she has been waiting for ever since that terrible incident that forced her into these pathetic straits.
She is tired (and afraid) because she knows that such people don't exist, and if she were to ever believe that she had found them, things would only get worse.