Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.

This idea just popped into my head today, and since I've been wanting to attempt first person for a while now, I thought I'd give it a go. The bulk of the story will take place at Shiz, so this chapter is just an introduction. Let me know what you guys think!

I was twelve years old when it happened. A girl. A child. But the scars from that night lasted into adulthood, fresh and vivid as though they'd never been given a chance to heal—which, I suppose, they had not. For eight long years I lived in fear, isolation, plagued by memories too terrible to speak of. But I will speak of them, once, before I bury them forever. For those who care to listen, I will tell the story of my life, starting with the very first day of it. That was when my problems began.

Birth. It's a funny thing, if you think about it—so painful and yet, for most, brings such joy. That's the normal way of things. Or so I'm told.

I know little of normal. You see, some babies, like my sister, are born with milky, peaches-and-cream complexions. A few are olive-toned, some a rich brown or even black. Most are born mottled red.

I was born green. I don't mean sallow, sea-sick green—skin green. I mean green, green as grass, green as moss, green as an apple…..green as sin. And my father….well, he could never let that go.

My mother loved me; that much I know. She loved my father also, and that is why, when he demanded that she chew milkflowers throughout her second pregnancy to avoid another child like me, she complied without protest.

Those milkflowers killed my mother. And they made my life a living hell.

From that day forward, I was no longer simply the embarrassing mistake of a daughter who could never be taken in public, never be seen by anyone important. I was a demon, a demon who, in Father's eyes, had murdered his beloved wife, murdered her simply by existing.

Young as I was, I knew this. I knew it, and yet….and yet I didn't. I didn't know the strength of it, didn't know the full force of my father's hatred.

Not until that night.

I was reading in my small attic bedroom, by the light of a candle stub I had managed to steal from the pantry. My door was locked, as it always was. Not that I expected unwanted visitors; no one cared to join me in my prison. But I imagined that the hatred, the indifference, the neglect could be kept out to some degree. When I locked that door, I left it all behind me.

So I was shocked to hear footsteps—heavy, thundering footsteps—on the stairs that led to my little haven. My first instinct was fear, and I huddled on my raggedy mattress, wishing with all of my might to disappear inside it.

And then something strange happened. I felt myself sinking, becoming one with the frayed, moldy fabric. I didn't understand it at the time, but this was my first use of magic. It was thrilling, confusing, wonderful, and for a moment I forgot the footsteps that were quickly approaching my door.

But, invisible as I was, I could still hear. I could still see the door tremble on its hinges as someone pounded and roared to be let in. In my terror, my spell was broken.

And at that horrible, terrifying moment, so was the lock on my door. Wood splintered and flew, and in stormed my father. In my panic, I grasped deep in my consciousness for whatever had happened before, willing it to save me now. But though the magic was still there, I couldn't reach it.

My body and mind felt separated, distant from one another, and I watched as if from the sidelines as my father beat me, as my small body twisted and crumpled like a rag doll.

That was the first time I feared for my life.

The first of many.

I know I've been gone for a while, but if you guys can forgive me….please review?