"It's the witch boy," a tall child yelled. "Who's that?" asked a small boy.

"He's the one who is always by himself. His mom was a witch from the East."

"Him?" The small boy pointed at the witch boy. "Is he evil?"

"Well, yeah, stupid." The tall boy smacked the small one. "His mom was evil, so that makes him evil, too." The tall kid crouched down, grabbing a rock. He rose to his feet and leaned to the other boy, "Hey, dare you throw this rock at him."

"But my mom says not to throw stuff at people."

"It'sokay.Mymomsayshe'snotaperson.Plus,theadults doitallthetime."

The boy pulled his arm back before flinging the rock at the witch boy, and warm, sticky blood gushed from behind the boy's black hair. He pressed his hand to the wound, and a fiery heat burned in his stomach. The wound stopped bleeding just as quickly as it started.

"See, his wound is healing too fast, and his eyes turned red. That makes him a witch. Let's get him before he uses his magic on us." The kids tossed rocks as the witch boy fled. The young witch boy ran towards the blacksmith, and the smith chased the children away.

A cold breeze ran up the witch boy's spine, carrying a sweet smell from the flower fields. The vibrant flowers swayed with the breeze. The witch boy longed for the days he lived with his mother, away from the villagers. The flowers faded from his view as the boy trudged down the streets until he came to a dank, dark alley.

The witch boy observed his reflection. His small hand was raised to his eyes, which were as black as could be. Power surged in him as he accidentally touched where the kids hit him with the rock. His eyes glowed bright red, and his pupils turned to slits.

As daylight fell from the sky, the witch boy's reflection faded, revealing a family huddled around a fire through the window. The mom and dad wrapped their children in warm blankets, and they all cuddled while watching some moving pictures. The witch boy huddled in the warm trash across from the family, watching the images until sleep overtook him.

"Hey," a gentle voice woke the boy. Who is it? "Mom?"

"Are you okay?" A girl with long brown hair and blue eyes knelt by the trash.

"That's a cool bruise you got there," dried blood coated a tender bruise on the witch boy's forehead. "Did your old man hit you or something?" A teen boy stepped into the moonlight. His pale skin reflected the light into the witch boy's eyes. His hair was white as snow, and his eyes were tinted red. The witch boy's heart skipped a beat.

The teen glanced up and down the alley as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. His eyebrows furrowed as he shifted from foot to foot.

"Y-you sure you want to be talking to me?" The witch boy questioned the two teenagers.

"Well, I don't see why not," the girl stood. She firmly placed her hands on her hips. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her head was shorter than the boy's. As she smiled, her cheeks puffed out.

"Marcia," the boy pulled her into the shadows. A drunkard walked past the alley, stumbling his way into his house. "Let's go."

"So," Marcia ignored the pale boy, "where is your mom?"

The witch boy flinched, "I don't have parents."

The pale boy's eyes softened, and his grimace turned into a frown.

Marcia patted the witch boy on the head and smiled at him. "Well then," Marcia spoke, "you're just like us." Dusting herself off, Marcia turned to the pale boy. "Hey Jonah, let's take him with us."

"Okay, but only because—" Jonah knelt in front of the witch boy. His smile stretched from one ear to the other. "I've always wanted a little brother."