Note: Something (months) old I found rotting on my computer.
It's about Magnus Bane's childhood.
Not the best thing I've written, but it is something. I'll probably go back and switch it up later.
Disclaimer: I don't own the mortal instruments. Cassandra Clare does.
"Every blessing ignored becomes a curse." -- Paulo Coelho
A little sin.
He was considered one of the cool kids.
It wasn't because of his personality; his quiet, cool demeanor—it was because those other children had no choice. Of course, they didn't want the demonic child to touch them, let alone look at them with his evil, soul smoldering eyes.
Their parents would stare at him; stabbing him like daggers, burning him like torches. Tearing his essence down like the thin paper his elders would use to teach him words. Words he didn't even need to know.
To this boy, words were naught. Useless little tools. They did nothing for him—nothing. They were just little points of ink; curved and threshed along the thick, browning parchment they called paper.
Like every other child, this boy wanted to play. But his impairment only allowed him to watch—watch from the distance.
He longed to feel the breeze flow by him, run through his thick dark hair. He wanted to feel the ball's leather, kick it under the rough soles of his feet. He wanted to talk to those boys that walked by. Some... more than others. But boys indeed.
He knew that to them, that object might have only been a ball. To this boy, it was everything of sudden existence. And he longed for it.
The more he wanted to go, the more it hurt. The more stone collected deep in his throat, making it hard to swallow. The even more annoying water would start tickling at his damned eyes, making it hard to blink. Making it hard to hide.
As far as the boy was concerned, his eyes were the curse. They were the ones of a cat—slit stones of green and yellow.
Now that he had thought of it, he didn't really know what he looked like. Did he have a lot of teethe? He guessed they were long, sharp like things. Did he have too much hair? He bet it stuck up in wild, worn angles.
And he knew.
Because of this, he couldn't play with the other children. The innocent ones, at least. They'd run. Run the fastest their little legs could muster. "It's going to curse us!" They'd yell, almost in unison. "Don't come any closer!" Another would shout between unjust gulfs of air. The rest would echo through his head, never stopping. Never ending.
"Demon!"
"Anti-Christ!"
"DEVIL!"
Every time a name was called, it felt like a blow. It would make his heart slug, his breathing hasten. His blood run cold, his eyes dry painlessly. Every inch of his skin prickle and harden, covering him in a shell of authority.
At times, strange blue sparks would tickle at his fingers, making him smile; both devious and curtly.
He had begun to feel indifferent; because those words and actions reminded him of whom he was. They saved him the guilt of not knowing sin. Not knowing the slick tar of his own fate—his own destiny.
Yes—after several, pain stricken years, it had grown apparent to him: he bore the curse of god.
'They're jealous,' the boy would always think. Jealous of his raw, awesome, power. He knew his power was the best. The finest gift he could ever have.
And because of this, the powerful beings hated him.
Loathed him.
Despised him.
Could god do what he can? Could god kill a mother? Could god burn a father? Leave him in nice, warm, crisps?
No, he couldn't. Not like Magnus Bane could.