Okay. This is my first foray into the world of PJO, so be nice.
Disclaimer: I'm not Rick. Rick owns PJO. I don't.
Child of the sun
Who am I?
I'm probably not the best one to ask. I don't fit a profile, or a stereotype. Some claim that this makes me an 'Indy' but that's just another stereotype, totally defeating the object in my opinion.
But I digress. I'm Artie Callin, the boy with the suckiest life in history. I'm a thirteen year old with some decent martial arts skills, impossible to manage brown hair and a pair of eyes that refuse to show any emotion whatsoever, regardless of what the rest of me is doing. I know what your thinking, doesn't sound so bad right? Wrong. Because I grew up being raised by my mother, who is now dead. And I know that I should have been able to save her.
I suppose I had better begin with the big one. The Greek Gods are real, all of those myths are real, sometimes metaphysically but often literally, and the gods like nothing better then to fall in love with humans and have kids by them.
Some things never change, huh?
When I was growing up, I realized pretty early that something was wrong with me. When I looked at a book, I could see the letters blurring, swimming in front of my eyes. I knew that it wasn't normal, so I resolved to make sure that no-one would ever find out. So I practiced reading. Obsessively. It wasn't easy, 'because I also discovered pretty quickly that I had all the attention of a hyperactive spaniel. So I worked on that too. I would spend hours forcing myself too sit still, working desperately to conquer my problems. Because my Mum had always said that with the right attitude, I could succeed. I could change the world.
It was only after four years at school that I learned about dyslexia, and ADHD. But because of my secret studying, which had often kept me up well beyond the point where my body could function properly; my grades were all within the top quarter of the class.
So I couldn't tell anyone about my problems. I had to keep working.
I had thought that as I grew up, it would get easier. It didn't. Every passing year brought new issues to be dealt with, new methods to devise, and hour after hour of obsessive training.
It was my teacher who caught me, in my sixth year. It was obvious that I was going to be diagnosed with a disorder. She told me to wait in her office, while she spoke to my Mum.
She didn't seem shocked to be getting this talk. She looked like she had been expecting it all of her life.
"Arthur," she said, in a tone that she only used when she was worried, "This is nothing to be ashamed of. It's just something that you need to work on. You see, it turns out you have a disorder" She paused for breath, as if she was reluctant to tell me what I already knew, that I was dyslexic, that I was a freak, that I was useless.
"You have OCD" she said softly. My jaw hit the flaw. I had heard about OCD, often enough, but I had figured it was all about washing your hands obsessively and repositioning salt pots.
"But…no that's not right. I'm normal. I don't have any problems. Honestly…it's that teacher, she hates me, she wants me expelled…" I was babbling now, desperately trying to convince my mum that I was fine, but she knew me too well, and I was never any good at lying.
"Arthur, this is nothing to be ashamed of. It doesn't reflect badly on you at all. Honestly."
"But, what does it mean? I am I going to have to be medicated? Or am I going to have to go live in an asylum? Don't let them take me Mummy!" I was close to tears now.
"Don't worry. I'd never let them take you. It just means that you need to be careful, and make sure that you don't do anything dangerous okay?"
"I promise mum. I promise"
I broke that promise years later, but I never forgot it.
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A few years later, I was in a dusty store, looking for something I could use as a birthday present for my mum when I found it. A wooden staff, maybe two foot long, with a word in a language I couldn't recognize engraved along the side. I picked it up, and found that it seemed to fit my hand perfectly. I turned around to find a man in a wheelchair smiling at me.
"Taken a shine to that staff, haven't you, my boy." He said, delightedly.
"Umm…yeah. But I don't suppose I could afford it. It looks like it's probably valuable. An antique, maybe." I replied, halfheartedly.
"You're right there, my boy, but I think it belongs to you now. It's chosen you." He laughed, and then shooed me out the door, holding the staff, while chuckling good naturedly.
It wasn't long before my OCD led me to become obsessed with the staff. I would spend any free time I had besides my studying training with it, learning what strikes seemed comfortable, how best to shift my hands to change direction in my strikes, how to use the staff as a defensive weapon. I taught myself Eskrima, the traditional art of stick fighting, and studied fencing, kendo and a dozen others.
I wouldn't realize until much, much later, how much this would come in handy.
All the while, my grades continued to stay steady, due to more and more excessive study sessions. I began losing my battle with ADHD, finding it harder then ever to pay attention in the classroom. The few friends I had became distant, as I spent less and less time with them. But I didn't seem to care, because I had my training, and my studying to occupy my time. Life wasn't exactly good, but it was…comfortable. Everything seemed to work out in my mind.
I should have known then that it wouldn't last.
So what did you all think? Go on, review. You know you want to. Just look at that enormous green button. You know you wanna click it! The next Chapter will be up reasonably soon.
