Prologue

I've always known that I am different - there's no point in denying that to the world, or, anybody who knows me that is. It all started from when I was just a baby.

I was born in Kingston-Upon-Thames, London. My parents were the happiest couple in the world. As a baby, I was born with an extraordinary mark on the inside of my left wrist. Mum was confused by all this - it certainly was no birth mark. I've always had to wear the long-sleeved school shirts in order to keep it covered up, which is incredibly annoying when you're sat in a stuffy old classroom and everyone's fanning themselves with their books or whatever to try to keep cool.

Mum was confused by this mark, until dad explained it all to her. She remained a little shocked at what they had procreated together, but came to accept it an didn't love me any less. We lived in a three-bedroom house in our first home, and I still remember that old musky smell, as the house was quite old. I remember my mum tucking me in bed every night with her warm, musky scent. She would tell me a short-lived bedtime story, then kiss me goodnight. The smell of her sweet, chocolaty-like perfume still clings to me this day, even though she (obviously) no longer does that. My first memory was of us going to the park together - along with my sister Libby, who was (physically) a toddler at the time. I played on the apparatus, whilst mum pushed Libby on the baby swing. I was around (physically) six at the time. Not long after that, it all went wrong. Something happened, although I can't remember what. Something terrible, something which has haunted mum and dad to this day. I don't know why Libby and I can't remember it, but maybe it was because we were so young at the time, I don't know. Or maybe we've just blocked it out with all the other painful memories we just so desperately want to forget. But whatever it was, we had to move on as a result of it. We moved to the South-West of England, in a place called Oreston in Plymstock, a suburb in the city of Plymouth. I was so young when we left it, but we had to. We had no other choice - which was such a shame as I loved London (and still do) a lot.

Next, my development. I was behind most babies my age. I never started talking till I was around four, and always grew at a far slower rate than most babies. When I was only two years old, I was still the size of a newborn baby. Mum became even more incredibly worried. That was when I actually started growing. I started to walk when I was around the same age as I started talking, but even then I was only the equivalent of a two-year-old. I never actually started school till I was six, nearly seven. But I looked and acted like a four-year-old child.

Then comes the ultimate curses of my being. My ability to heal with a touch - which also sacrifices some of health - and my precognition that has its limits. I can only see people that I'm close to, meaning I can't anticipate my enemies' moves.

Right now, I'm actually fifteen years old, but physically, mentally and emotionally, I'm only thirteen. Because of this, I should be in year ten when I'm actually in year eight. It's not because I'm behind or anything (well, technically I am.) This is part of the curse, part of who I am - or rather, what I am. Don't ask me why; it just is.

Although I never, ever, ever thought that the truth to what I am would be something as bizarre and terrifying as this. Seriously, this is barely the start of a long, gruesome yet wicked Hellride.