My name is Emery Tudnor and this is my story.

I never really knew my real parents. The moment I was given birth to, I was sold off.

I always wondered, why didn't my parents need me? Was I ugly? Did they just take a look at me and decide "Nay, we mustn't keep this unsightly, little child. Let us proffer it to someone else."

No, I amn't that ugly. My silver hair is rather eccentric, lovely for some, awful for others.

So why was I given up? Just why? Was I the cause of my own mother's death? Hopefully not...but even if I was, had I done it by intention? Never. So was I a product of the ignorant mistakes of one man and a woman? Most probably.

If I was a child birthed due to a mistake, did I even deserve to live? I found myself thinking about this many instances in my life. Should I just kill myself? What is the purpose of me being here, with no one to depend on and on whom no one could depend? It never felt that I had a purpose in this life, only to be sold off to others so they could do whatever they want with me.

Now then. For the first time, I was sold off to a broker named West Hughes when I was only 3 days old. I only know of his name because my mother had tucked a note into my small under-shirt, explaining the circumstances she was in. The note itself, I had lost from an early time on in my life and I barely remember it's contents, but the name West Hughes stuck with me forever.

As far as I remember being told, West Hughes kept me at his private nursing house for almost a year and a half, so he could restore my puny, premature body. There were apparently many more with me, suffering the same pains as me.

The moment I looked like I could attract some attention, I was put up for sail. Again, for the second time in my life when I was only 1 year old. My unique, silver hair is what put me apart from the rest of the babies, so I was bought rather quickly and at a very favorable rate for Hughes.

This time, I was bought by a performance group called 'The Gladiators'. These people believed that if they brought me up successfully and grew up pretty with such unusual hair, I would get their business a lot of fame and money. So I was brought up and trained by a woman who was also a part of the Gladiators. To me, she was like a mother, even though she kept refusing to be a replacement for my own. She fed me everyday, cleaned me up after and even taught me how to dance. Me, a total nobody.

When I was finally 10 years old, and my hair was down to my knees, the Gladiators introduced me as an official part of their performances. I was to be called, 'Magic Girl'. My hair attracted a lot of attention and soon we were performing for the crowd. I remember it being very tiresome, dancing for total strangers...perverted men, insulting women… The whole lot. It wasn't as if I wanted to do it. I was a slave to the circus. A nobody. If it weren't for my hair, I'd probably have ended up with some old geezer.

For 4 years I performed along with the Gladiators.

Then came another stage of my life.

When I turned 14, I suddenly broke my leg in a live performance. After that I wasn't able to perform with the Gladiators. It wasn't that I was let off because of my injury. It was because too many eyes had seen me break a bone that nobody took the risk to make me perform again, or else the Gladiators might get reported. Again, I was sold off. I wasn't even curious as to whom it was this time. I just wanted to hurry it up before I could be sold off again. But surprisingly, this time it wasn't some performance group or a broker...it was a couple. A normal, middle-aged couple.

"Why did we buy you?" the woman asked me when I moved in with them in their tiny house. "Baldwin, why did we buy this little girl?"

Her husband turned to her and smiled. "Because we lost our daughter, my love. We were lonely and miserable, and so was she. But not to worry...we will raise this poor lass as our own."

The woman looked at me and observed me for a long time. To me, it felt like an eternity. "Love, what's your name?"

With lifeless eyes, I looked up at her. "My name?" I mumbled. "Magic Girl."

"No, honey," the man said. "That may have been what those clowns called you, but it isn't your name. Emilda...would you like to choose a name for her?"

Emilda looked at me once again. She looked at my face, my hair, my arms, my casted leg...

"Emery," she said decisively. "That is your name."

And from that point, my new life as Emery began.