outsider

And here I am, blind in the soul of magic; struggling desperately for some kind of hold on the mystic arts they claimed everyone could use. Everyone but me.

My sister at the age of two could cast fire from her fingers. I would die to produce one spark.

Mother prattles over me, saying it will be okay, some just blossom later than others. I am not some stupid flower.

Father is ashamed even to look at me. I tend to avoid him now.

In school girls giggle as I pass, the boys torture me with the same three pranks; they can't even think of something original, and I'm the one who can't cast.

I have one friend, my pet frog, Charlie.

When I fall to sleep weeping, as I do often, I curse the name of the Magus.