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 wear long sleeved shirts and hide them well.
They appeared on my neck, my throat, my chin, the right side of my nose, my left eyelids. Across my forehead.
I tried to stop using magic. But people needed me. They needed my help. I couldn’t turn them down. I was their only hope.
More and more spaces on my skin lost its skin tone. More and more spaces turned red and blue and green and turquoise and purple and black and mauve and pink.
It eventually reached a point where I couldn’t remember my real skin color.
And that’s when I realized that it didn’t really matter. I had no regrets. Those people needed my help and help is what I gave them.
What else was I supposed to do?