Being a magician wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Oh, yes. It was marvelous to have such powers over mind and matter.
There were drawbacks.
Each spell left its indelible marks on my skin. And no. It wasn’t like a tattoo. Oh, no. Of course not. It was like paint stains. Paint stains with no pattern. No rhythm.
The first time it happened, it freaked me out. I ran to the bathroom and tried to scrub it off.
It didn’t scrub off. It didn’t smear. It didn’t lessen. It just stayed the same.
But as long as it stayed on my hands it wasn’t all that bad. It looked like I was an ecstatic painter.
But the stains didn’t stay on my hands. With each spell I cast, a new stain appeared. On y wrist. On my forearm. Which was still a tolerable thing. I could…
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