Oh wow… I feel like this is all new to me. Even though I have posted so many stories already. But I deleted them. It's time for me to start new. And I guess this is what I've been working on. It's a new story… Kind of. I hope I finish it.

Pairing- That will be determined… I'm still working on that. But its SLASH :P

Warnings- Kayla Edited this chapter. Its Kinds dark… Kinda Creepy. It's a prologue. Nothing big.

Don't judge a book by its cover. That's what people always say. But in the real world, where you don't get a chance to sit and talk to everyone you meet, that doesn't happen a lot. I know, because I get that look. You know the one? When people look at you with disdain and pity, as if you were some abused puppy?

I get that look a lot.

I hate it.

I gazed into the mirror in front of me. I could be honest and say that I did not like the image that looked back. The wide somber eyes that peered at me were a creamy chocolate brown, but hidden behind the confines of thick framed glasses. It seemed as though no matter what emotion I felt they always held the same look: the loneliness of a small child who had experienced something much too shocking for someone of their age. Waves and curls of gleaming ebony locks framed my round face and fell just passed my chin. Every morning I spent at least an hour trying to tame the mass of knots and cow licks that formed an almost indescribable wilderness upon my head. The clashing colors of my dark hair and pale, almost white, skin made me seem unnatural, inhuman even.

Reaching just up to a height of about five feet, I was short. I feared I'd always be short. And I knew it was inevitable for someone like me. Not only that, but I was skinny, and not in a skinny, but lean way. I was misshapen and almost boney, like I had died several days before and had begun to deteriorate from this Earth. Maybe that's what I should do, just disappear. It wouldn't take much. I barely take up any space on this Earth anyhow.

A gruesome ugly scar ran from my ear lobe across to my opposite collar bone. Even with a regular t-shirt on, the ragged scar could be seen peeping out over my collar. No matter how hard I tried to hide it, it would always be there, lurking. The stretched out look had come from the fact that I had been given the scar when I was only a month old. A result of some idiotic surgeons mistake trying to clear the clot in my throat that threatened to end my life. I'm not saying the surgeons an idiot because he gave me the scar. Oh, no. I'm saying it because he didn't finish the job right there.

Black and blue blemishes contrasted against the pale of my skin along my exposed arms, legs, and upper torso. Someone who had witnessed the scene might have said I was recovering from a fall down a flight of stairs. Two even. But I haven't. Each and every bruise was my fault, from trying to be normal too often. If you could call leaning on my elbow or sleeping on my stomach normal actions.

Oh, the joy of having hemophilia.

A loud sigh escaped my lips and I glared at the medications on my sink. They seemed to be laughing at me, mocking me. Clear liquid fills the small vial, anemia medicine. Bottle upon bottle of pills and pain killers that don't make any difference. Some other more flamboyant potions provided for dreamless nights, to keep the nightmares away, and blood replenishers to the real catastrophes of the day from happening. The iron supplements clink together, clashing glasses of brown liquid that seemed as though it would do more harm to my weak body than good. Beside them, syringes of every volume are fastened together with a tight rubber band just waiting to be filled and injected into my skin.

My eyes stray from the many medicines and take in my ghastly reflection again. Weakness. That's all I see. A weak body, which people can only conclude to harbor a weak mind. I admit that I look weak at times. No… scratch that...no matter what time it is I look weak. Frail and small, like a small animals that could only submit to the tortures of the predators larger than it. The sickening comments of others ring in my ears. No matter where I go I hear it, "That poor boy, I wonder what happened..." or "Isn't he the Mathynson family heir? I wonder what they're doing keeping him around...Worthless thing he is...they ought to disown him." Sickening. Disgusting. Annoying. I guess the difference between me and a small animals is that a small animal would shrink away from their loud comments, but not me. It makes me want to prove them utterly and irrevocably wrong. Which I do.

I always do.

I'm strong. And I don't mean in the I'll-live-happily-no-matter-what type of strong. In spite of the weak body I was handed by God or whomever higher being there is out there, my magic is powerful. In the years of my childhood, the outside world was an unexplored place. I was forbidden to venture out of the confines of my house, for the fear I would split my face open and bleed to death right then and there. So, most of the days would pass by quietly without any adventure. Except for the adventure stories I would read. I always imagined that one day -one day soon hopefully- I too could explore the mysteries of the rainforest or raid an old tomb looking for gold. I guess you could say my adventure started when I found the old wand in the attic. It was ancient looking with cracks and bends in its base, but it still worked. Training was practically a necessity to me after that. I practiced and practiced and practiced some more until my hands had blisters and my voice left me. And the result was almost too much of an impossibility to think of. I got strong. Using the magic within myself and the magic all around me to cast as many spells as my heart desired. Sometimes I don't mind, when they judge me. Because then I get to prove them wrong. I get to prove to them that I'm stronger than I seem.

Looks can be deceiving you know.

I know mine are.