I've never met my father. In fact, I don't even know who he is. My therapist thinks that this is the root of all my emotional problems. This, of course, is complete crap.
I clutched the bead fastened around my neck with leather string as she asked another question about my father that I don't know. Booooring. How I'd love to tell her that not knowing a parent is par for the course for a lot of my friends. That I was only there talking to her because it's the only way I'd be allowed to stay at this school a second year. Which would be my record since the first grade.
"Alright, if you won't talk about your father, then how about you tell me about camp? It was a huge surprise to me when your mom told me you were going. It must have been upsetting for you, that much of an upheaval." The therapist flicked her bangs from her eyes, and poised her pen to take notes.
"I like camp," I said defensively. It was true; I had loved camp for the summer I had been there. A thirteen-year-old girl showing up at camp followed by a pack of hellhounds on her heels had been a little unusual. By that, I mean that the thirteen-year-old girl surviving was unusual. I had been totally alone, after taking a bus and then a cab into Long Island. I had stopped the cabbie when I saw the hellhounds racing towards us.
"And why is that, Hyacinth?" my therapist asked. I shrugged, and stared at my toes, thinking of my arrival some more. I had been so close, but so, so far from safety. The camp my mother had told me about was at least another mile away, according to the signs that advertised the strawberry farms that were the Camp's cover. I told the cabbie to stop right there, in the middle of nowhere, tossed him forty bucks, and booked it. It's a really good thing that I've always been a fast runner, and that I hadn't had enough time to load my backpack up with much more than a few pairs of underwear and a change of shirt and socks, plus a toothbrush and picture of my mom and I. I wasn't weighed down by my backpack, and I was able to sprint nearly halfway to camp before the hellhounds caught up with me.
"There must be some reason. Did you make friends there?" Did I make friends? My friends are the only reason I got to camp at all. I thought I was a goner when the hellhounds were upon me, until a boy a few years older than me flew up on a Pegasus. He held a sword naked in his hand, and was decked in ancient Greek armor.
"Phalanx advance!" he shouted, and a band of kids with shields and varying weapons advanced, and began fighting the hellhounds. I ran. I couldn't help, I didn't know how. The warriors stuck close to my back, gladly retreating towards the top of the hill. I sprinted past a huge pine tree with a dragon standing at the ready next to it. My legs gave out, and I tumbled down a hill.
"Be at peace, you are safe here," a kindly looking middle-aged man in a wheelchair told me, as I burst into hysterics.
"Yes," I told my therapist. "I made friends there."