A fire burns on her hearth, for all that it is worth. Not as much to keep out cold, but to distract from her body growing old. But it cannot break her chill, as she sits next to the windowsill.

A wrathful storm rages in outside in the wood, yet she lingers by the window, longer than she should. No ponies would pass her door today, and if they ever would come, she couldn't say. Zecora didn't mind being alone. That's why she struck out on her own...

On the sill sits a bottle, blue and small. Inside is the poppy based potion she uses when this mood comes to call. She looks at it, but does not touch. Someday, she knows, she will use too much.

But when she has never had anything to lose, she knows what she will choose.

She picks it up and takes a dose. Not too much to handle, but close.

She looks out the window once more, but it's as empty as before.

There is nothing left to do but reheat her mushroom stew. She hangs her pot above the heat. For the whole week, it's all she'll ever eat. It is very plain, but its warmth will fight the damp rain. And why should she care, if there's nopony here to share?

Her mind wanders to a distant land, beyond the dark forest, beyond the shifting sand. She was such a fool, to think she could thwart those who rule. She was an outcaste at home, and she would be an outcaste anywhere she might roam. She would never have a foal or mate. That was her preordained fate. She would never have a hug from a friend. She would have no one, in the end.

She takes a bowl from the wall and shakes her head at the futility of it all. She should appreciate her warm stew. For one like her, comforts are far and few.

In Zebrica, her place was chosen when she was born. From that, she could never be torn. An outcaste, not fit to even be seen, to scavenge the slums of Buckswana, for whatever she could glean. To have family and love was not her place. Others would not even look her in the face.

So when she saw a way, she acted without delay. She stole the golden rings, and set forth in search of better things.

She found them in the pony life... she found a pony husband, child, and wife. The way they hugged and kissed told her soul what she missed. But she found no love in the pony town. Everypony greeted her with a frown. They ran and hid, no matter what she did. Still, she knew what she wanted was here, if she could only overcome their fear.

She hates her little hut. The path is always silent, and the door is always shut. After living in this place more than a year, still no ponies have ever ventured near.

She knows she's not the same. They don't know from what lands she came. And why would they come to show a zebra love, when they have too many of their own kind to ever get tired of? She hung the mask that said 'welcome friends'. Nopony ever comes, but still, she pretends.

Sip by sip, she finishes her stew. The liquid dwindles in her bowl, and her hopes are few.

The window still waits, but why should she expect a visit, when she's the zebra everyone hates? Beside the window, though, there are shelves full of bottles, row after row. Most are filled with brews to heal, though a few are there to help with her meal. She'd put up the sign of her trade: four feathers tied to an orange braid. But no one comes to buy her wares. She has become convinced: no one cares. She's not needed for her brews. She's not an apothecary anyone would choose. She cannot change the past. She was once, and will always be the outcaste.

She slowly walks along the edge of her shelf, muttering quietly to herself. Potions for teeth and gout and pain, potions for hooves and breath and brain. Still, there's no brew that will give her love or a friend, no matter how many ailments she could mend.

Finally, though, at the end of the rack, there's one potion in a white bottle, hidden in the back. There is no potion that can give her a life; there is no potion that can make her a wife. There is no potion that can make her a friend... but there is a potion that can make her suffering end. Such a potion hides in that glass so white and pure. That bottle draws her with an irresistible allure.

Would it be such a crime, to say that she's tired, after all this time? If only she can block–

From the door, there comes a knock.

She turns around to look and blink. Who that could be, she cannot think.

Again the knock comes from the door. No matter how many surprises she's seen, there's always more.

After overcoming her shock, she rushes up and opens it, before her visitor can waste another knock.

Outside, nothing stirs. There is nothing but trees, rain, and blurs. No one is here. No one is anywhere near.

She stands in the doorway for a long time. Rain pours through, splattering in slime. Still, she waits and looks, fearing another night alone with her books. But there is no one to find. The knock was only in her mind.

She pushes the door shut and returns to the warmth and safety of her hut. Her hooves are wet. Her mind is full of regret. Fantasies of hers can be excused. She longs to be happy, loved... or even used.

Her whole life, she had never been known. Her whole life will be alone. So what does it matter when it ends, if she is never to have any friends?

She looks back to her shelf, brooding into her deepest self. A white bottle is the only thing she can see – the only choice that can ever set her free.

Author's Notes:

If you now desperately want to cuddle Zecora and make her feel better, I'll consider this a job well done.
Thank you for reading, and please give me lots of feedback!