Happiness does not exist in my world, for other people it might though. It might be because they're more religious than me or it might just be my destiny to be unhappy. But sometimes it's like the entire world hates me and everything in the world hates me as well. Because when people look at me they scowl and gawk, like I'm some amusing creature only there for entertainment. It could be because my mom tarnished my family's reputation. She was once a cruel witch, the cruelest of them all. She'd hurt everyone with every chance she had. Luckily now, she doesn't have her powers because a warlock stole them from her. Which is good for me, because I can't imagine the cruel thing's she'd do to me. Maybe that's why people scowl at me.

When I go to get water from the lake, I have to pass through town. The people stand around, avoiding me. They all wear the same expressions, as if they're shocked to see me. Their olive skin, their dark hair and dark eyes mark them from our little town -- every single one of them. The town people don't hesitate to talk about me and their words sting like daggers stabbing into my skin, only their words hurt internally. I'm not who they say I am, I'm not a ruthless killer, I'm not even a killer. Only no one knows that and they never will, because they will never even attempt to know who I am.

The lake is full of water and nearly flooding. I dip the bucket into the water, careful not to get any fish, and where the bucket goes in it makes ripple effects around it. Once the bucket is full, I go back home to the shack I live in. My mom is asleep in bed and I boil the water over the fire until it bubbles and then I let it sit and cool.

I go out back of our shack to where the woods are and I bring a knife with me. I use the knife to catch a squirrel, it's not much or very tasty but it'll do. I go back home and peel the fur off and start cooking it over the fire. Day old bread sits on the table and I cut a few pieces to go with the squirrel, we'll eat squirrel and bread because we can't afford anything else. I cook the squirrel until it's nearly burnt and take it off and set it next to the bread on the table. I go check on my mom, to wake her up and she groans. "Mother, get up." I tug off her blanket and she rolls off the bed and onto the floor, her thick black hair hiding her face.

"Scar." She mumbles.

"Yes, mom. It's Scar. Dinner's ready." I fold up her blanket and set it on the chest.

My mom sits up and it takes her a minute, but she get's up and stands. Her leg's are wobbly from her illness, I suppose. And she's in her green night gown, that's stained with dirt everywhere now, so it'll need a wash later.

I follow my mom as she stumbles her way to the table and until she sits down, I'm at her beck and call. I take the squirrel and rip off a piece for me and her and we sit and eat our dinner in silence. Mainly because she's probably too exhausted to talk, so I don't push my luck.