Hurt. That was all I had ever known. Pain. The product of being hurt. I became immune to it. When they burned me I did not scream. When they kicked me, I did not yell. I knew it would do nothing, so I stopped feeling. It was hard though. My parents, hated me.

That wasn’t the hard part. Knowing I could do nothing about it was hard. I had to suffer through their beatings. And as much as I tried, I could not prevent myself from not feeling. True I did not scream, but can one not cry in silence. So I did. Not out of pity or some other silly emotion. But out of pain. Pain because I was so weak. Too weak. But I could not change that.

They named me Malum. My parents that is. They were angels. Beautiful red hair and a bright, shiny halo gleaming over each of their heads. As beautiful as they were, they were also angry. They were angry at everything. Both of them. They were upset they had no magic. No wings. People looked down on them. At least they believed that. And it only made them more angry when I was born.

White hair. Stark white hair similar to that of an old man’s. Nothing like my parents deep auburn hair, the only signifying fact of their fire angel heritage. Black eyes that gleamed with mischief. That was what they saw when the looked at my coal black eyes dark enough you could not differentiate pupil from iris. Not only was I different looking, but physically I was as well.

A cripple. That was what the other children called me. I had no left foot. I had to walk on crutches all of the time. I was the cause that would set off a significant thing that would affect my life. My parents would hit me. Burn me. Kick me. Spit on me. Cut me. And they knew I wouldn't run away. Rather it was that I couldn’t run away. So they hit me. They took their anger out on me. I eventually found out that if I cried they would not stop, they would only hit me harder.

I went to school with bruises and cuts and burn marks all over my body. And as I hobbled down the halls, I could feel each one aching and hurting. But I couldn’t stop walking. They would know something was up. The teachers. Not that I wanted to protect my parents. Ut rather they gave me food, water, and a shelter. Something they could not promise if they took me away.

Like all children, I learned about magic. I thought about what I could do if I had it, but I could not even enter my mind to observe. Normal children could enter their minds until they were twelve to see if they could understand what was there and then they would awaken into being a magician, but I couldn’t even enter my mind.

The teachers said that I was probably an abnormality that was rare and had no chance that I could use magic.So I was resigned to a rate as a magicless cripple. Luckily i performed well in school. Not that anything they taught was hard. It was very easy for any student to get straight A’s if they just put in the effort.

But no matter what I did, nothing changed. When I realized that like my parents, I would probably never be remembered. Nothing I will ever do will make somebody want to know more. I will be ordinary. To me being told, “that’s normal,” is like insulting me. I hate being average, normal, just like everybody else. I want to be different. Whether good or bad I will change.

As I held this thought throughout the years, i began to care for others less and less. If someone cried or was upset, I felt nothing. It was though a void had taken over the spot of my emotions, except for one that is. Pain. I could still feel the burns on my skin. The places the knife had cut. My bones ached from fractures that didn't heal correctly and the nub of where my left foot should have been was completely mutilated. My parents scratched it and burned it as though they were trying to erase its very presence. So I suffered greatly. But no matter what I knew I couldn't cry out. If I did, it would be admitting defeat to them and their cruel ways. To give them the pleasure of knowing I was in pain scared me enough.

If they heard me cry or scream or beg for mercy. They would stop for a moment, look at me, and say with a voice of ice, “to stop us you must kill us,” then they would smile their mocking smile and continue even harsher than before.

One day, when I was 8 years old, it was especially bad. Something happened that they didn’t tell me and they were angry. Not the red face screaming and yelling angry. The cold, calm face angry that showed they were even angrier than usual. They asked me to come over. I knew I had no choice in the matter so I hobbled to their sides.

This was the event that started it all. It was horrible what they did to me.They tortured me for 3 days straight. 3 days. Not the starve and beat abuse, but the beating. They beat me all over. It hurt so much. I was scared. Scared I would die. Even the void inside me couldn't absorb all of that fear. The pain only made it worse. And for the first time in 5 years, I screamed.

Even with my eyes closed, I could feel their smiles beating down on my skin. The smiles that had no remorse only relief and happiness. Then the rain of attacks started. I could feel them beating down on my bare back already laced with scars of previous occasions. The searing pain jolted through my body along with every cut and kick plastered on to my body.

The pain was nauseating. My head felt ready to explode. The world was disoriented and shapes were being twisted. I thought that it was the end. But it wasn’t.

There was a searing pain that wracked my body with jolts of fear started from my shoulder blades. It felt like my body was pushing out something. The pain intensified several times over in the stump of my left leg. It to felt as if my body was growing, pushing something unnatural out. Then as I opened my eyes I realized that flurry of attacks at stopped and I was greeted by a blinding light that forced me to close my eyes as quickly as I had opened them. I slowly blinked my eyes, hoping to adjust my eyes, and luckily, within a few seconds I could see the world around me.

After my eyes became adjusted I realized that the light was not coming from my surroundings, but from my body. I was radiating this silver light blinding all of those in its presence. Slowly the light began to fade and I saw my parents within a few feet of my own. I tried to get up but it felt like something was weighing down my leg and my back. I could hardly move. And as the light completely disappeared, I saw my parents for what they were, corpses. My mother had only half of her skull and was bleeding profusely from the side still intact. Upon closer observation, it looked like my mother’s skull had been eroded by acid. The blotchy, rough edges of what was left told me so.

My father was not in a much better position. The entire right side of his body had been eroded away by the acid that affected mother. I also realized that most of the house had been blown away by what ever happened. My guess was that whatever happened to me cased this, but I wasn’t positive. I soon realized that a storm of people were headed this direction with a look of horror on their faces and the authorities followed close behind.

One of them saw me and rushed over to check on me. The concern on her face told me she too, had no idea what happened.

“Boy, what is your name?” Said she with the frantic voice one would expect.

And as I was about to tell her my name was Malum, I realized my parents were no longer here and I was no longer theirs. It was my time to take control of myself, therefore I picked a name that made me feel different, one that made me feel as if was my name and my name alone. “Lucifer.”

Then I blacked out.

Hello guys, author's note. In Latin malum mean trouble, bad, or evil. Basically his parents named him trouble. if you guys have any suggestions or constructive criticism, please leave it in the suggestions.