This slave: Wretched Freedom

I couldn't bare to write in here for the longest time.

It stayed in the little bag at my waist with my quill and my ink while I enjoyed a brief stay with the couple Mistress Wendiharan sold me to.

That was so very long ago. I'm so very removed from the time when two consecutive Masters died and my Mistresses did not want me. I sold my dress, my collar, my leash to survive. I did not know what else to do. I do not know what else to do. I have scraped by, barely, and I have learned not to be seen. I am small, and when I am dirty as I often am, they barely notice me. I am afraid to go into the Square, near the baths. I am afraid of the men in the baths, their leers and the women's glares. The few times I have tried, the idle remarks and the general unfriendliness has caused me tears, which...is very embarrassing. I do not do it often.

It is difficult to get things to eat, but I mend things, and I can cook a little bit. The people in the alleyways are grateful for someone who can read them things and mend their tents, but most of them are very unkind. I tried for a little while to be a whore, but I was so ashamed after the first week that I just gave up. Besides, some were questioning the brand on my thigh.

I have decided: Freedom is ridiculous. Once a slave, always a slave. The Tyeni have it right, and I was not made for this scraping, grasping wretched life outside of bonds. I will turn myself in, and they will deal the cards accordingly.