HALFLING

I should be long dead.

One can’t help but wonder how I even lasted this long. I would like to boast that it’s because of the tenacity I possess, but even that is not enough to keep me alive.

I should be long dead. But I am not. Because I, a human, have Olven blood.

I am a halfling. The lowest of the low. A disgusting, horrid being not worth the sight of humans nor Olvs. My life is not worth the ants that scurry along the floor, or the rodents that make their home in the gutter. An abomination, formed from the joining of two beings whose races have sworn themselves to eternal damnation; I am neither accepted here nor there.

It doesn’t help matters that I was born with a weak heart, the organ sending sharp racks of pain the moment I do anything overly exerting.

On this day, I am carrying out my usual pitiful rounds of scrounging the slums, hoping that the universe will spare me and provide me with barely decayed food. To find bread that has just started to decay, the moulds growing on a small part of it instead of half, is a sign of heaven’s blessings to me. It is a sign that foretells a good day. And I have had good days, though now, they are nothing but a distant memory. I pass by some humans who lie wasted by the side; their clothes tattered, their pallor grey and their eyes rolled to the back of their heads, deep in slumber with the stench of alcohol surrounding them heavy in the air. Though they are as poor as me, they always seem to have money for a drink, just enough to knock them out cold. It is funny how I am considered worse than these people, whose lives are even more horrible than mine. Keeping my toes light, I head towards the waste pile that is just ahead. It is morning, so surely the waste of the previous day has been dumped by now.

I arrive at the pile, and truly, there are new goods. Made up of things the rich and middle-class citizens of this kingdom consider rubbish; unfinished breakfast, snacks for pet dogs, and unwanted dinner, it is a gold-mine to us beggars who are poorer than an average poor person. Making quick use of my hands, I bend down and get to work, picking and putting the food I can scrounge into the hay sack I always carry around. For the ones that can’t enter, I quickly put in my mouth and forcefully swallow, the food catching in my throat. I smack my chest several times and cough, trying to dislodge the lump. I might suffer from stomach congestion later, but at least I will be full.

‘Stupid rat!’

Before I can tell what is happening, I am kicked harshly, the blow landing me several feet away from the pile of garbage. I hold on tightly to my hay sack, sighing when I feel around it and notice that nothing is missing. Then I look up to find two men, human men, who are also beggars, approaching slowly.

‘Who gave you the right to come here?’ One of them says.

I am familiar with him as this isn’t the first time we have exchanged pleasantries. His red curly hair peeks out of the worn-out woollen cap he always has on. He wears dark grey trousers that are faded and torn in so many places. His shirt is no exception—a dark brown to what was once a white shirt. He smirks at me, bold and daring. Slowly, I stand to my feet, trying my best not to wince.

‘No one has the monopoly of this place.’

‘Of course, no one does,’ he exclaims, ‘But only if you are a full being.’ He and his partner snicker, patting themselves on the back like they have told the best joke in the world. There they go again, insulting my half-blood. I knew they would do it; in fact, I expected them to. It would be strange if they don’t make mention of it. Yet despite how many times I have been insulted, a wave of fresh, searing anger runs through my veins at the mention of my half-blood. One would wonder how I am not already used to it. My skin, the combination of the brown human tone with the familiar dark Olven hue, is my own personal identification tag, and my own punishment. It is what has caused the rest of the kingdom to consider me an abomination, and why my life is shit. Though it is all I have ever known, I can’t help but get angry at the constant reminder of a fact I can’t change.

But you can’t blame me. You shouldn’t blame me. I never asked to be born. Whoever was pregnant with me should have killed me while I was still in the womb, instead of bringing me out here and abandoning me in this forsaken world. For twenty-one years, I fended for myself. Every single day, I wished for death. And when it never came, I forced it to. Yet every time, without fail, death refused to accept my soul into the world of the dead.

I am so useless that even death rejects me.

‘If that is all you have left to say, move. I need to go back to work.’

‘Which work? Scrounging the slums?’

‘You say that as if you don’t do the same,’ I retort.

‘Look at you, talking back,’ they prowl closer to me, and I move a step back.

‘You are nothing,’ I say, feigning strength. ‘Just a street beggar who wishes he could have power, no matter how small. Let me tell you something. No matter how much you try to attack me, you will always be a poor, hopeless beggar.’

They attack, and I dodge right on time, running through the path I had taken earlier that was littered with drunken men. This also isn’t the first time we have done this. I would like to boast that I have strength enough to fight them, but with this cursed heart of mine, it is nothing but an imagination. The shouts of my attackers carry my feet farther away, their voices becoming distant the harder I push my legs.

I rush out of the slum and into a dark alley, and just as I reach the end, I am dragged unexpectedly into a hidden part. A hand covers my mouth, preventing me from screaming, and then my captor leans down a bit, facing me with bored eyes. I relax upon realizing who it is, and she releases her hand. My attackers arrive at the dark alley, and they both run past where I hide. After some time had passed, I let out a sigh.

‘Thank you,’ I say.