So, I've gotten two reviews so far - (though the count will only say one, as the other needed to be taken down and fixed. I must say I'm quite pleased with the results, as I have at least covered some holes, though I recognize the need for improvement still) - and I'm very excited! Thank you two for the help in improving my skills, and I hope I live up to your expectations!
This is a shorter chapter than the first, but it gets the ball rolling. For that not being done in the prologue, I apologize.
By the way, the diseases I'm using are legitimate plagues, according to NewsRX. I don't want to say more than that, to keep the surprises coming, but know that I've exaggerated them and accelerated them for the sake of the fact that this is fiction.
"Cassandra, daughter of King Priam of Troy.
Apollo fell in love with her
And gave her the Gift of Prophecy to win her favor."
~Myth Encyclopedia, (.)
She was screaming something. My mom. But I couldn't hear her anymore. The thought was echoing was louder. She was crying, screaming, begging for me to stop, but I couldn't hear her. The echoing was louder. She was screaming at me because my father's streak was showing through, hitting me back, grabbing a pan, but I didn't notice even as my gloves came off and I struck. The echoing was louder. And louder. Louder. Too loud.
I woke the next morning, and heard coughing in the next room, where my mother usually slept. I staggered to my feet, feeling dizzy, as though I had stood too quickly. A pang told me that the skillet lying next to me had probably been the cause of my unsteadiness and slight confusion. I put a hand to the hurt place on my head, but felt no blood. Only a sensitive spot that was probably a bruise. I was not angry anymore. I understood. My mom had protected herself from me and my devilish nature, from my father coming through me. I was intensely embarrassed and ashamed. I had succumbed to the evil of Satan, the evil of my father. How would I ever face her again?
The coughing continued, and I slowly began to worry for her. Was she alright? Had I used my gift on her? I couldn't remember. It had all gone by so fast, had all gone in such a blur. What was I going to do? Should I check on her?
Making my decision, and noticing my gloves on the floor, I sent up a quick prayer.
"Good Lord, please forgive me for what I've done, and please give me the strength to atone for it." I whispered, taking a deep breath and knocking on the door, walking in without waiting for an answer and bracing for the worst of it.
I think the worst thing of it is that nothing happened. My mom's coughing stopped for a bit, and when I could bring myself to look at her, I felt my face flush at the bruises on her sickly-pale face and arms. She was sweating, and blankets were piled on top of her. The hair on her arms stood on end, and her eyes were screwed shut as if in pain, one hand resting on her chest. She was sick. And it was my fault.
"God forgive me…" I found myself saying under my breath. The words just came out, and I felt tears prick my eyes in my typical over-reaction. She heard me, and opened her pained blue eyes, gazing at me warily. I walked over to her bedside, and knelt by her, hurt by the way she pulled away from me. "Mom, please forgive me…" I pleaded, trailing off as I saw the hopelessness in her eyes. "Mom, please. Please tell me what I can do. Please! I'll do anything! Just tell me…!" Her stony face revealed nothing. I looked away, wounded, and ran from her then, distressed and regretful of my actions. I flung myself down on my own bed, ignoring the responding ungrateful throbs of my head, and cried. And cried. And cried. And cried. And, at last, I slept.
"With two others you shall go East To make your home with the one you love least. To Half-Blood Hill you must traverse Despite most people to you being averse. Although you'll try, your quest will fail, But with your true friends, in the end, you'll prevail."
I woke again with a start, looking up at my mother in her night gown, who collapsed into my arms the moment I saw her. Her legs were bruised pretty badly, and I wondered how she had even managed to come in here. She was coughing again, and I felt a sticky something on my hand as it slid across her face. It was gross, and stuck for a while, and I felt the urge to retch, though my stomach was empty, anyway. I wiped the yellow-green substance off on my pants, and heaved my mom back to her room, covering her heated, feverish form with the blankets, as she had them before.
Only then did I think of what she had told me. "Go East." Well, that was clear enough. But why would my mom want me to go east? I knew we lived I Pennsylvania, but where east should I go? New York? Why would my mom want me to go to New York, where my father and she were from? That place, she said, was the center of all the evil pagans, especially the Empire State building, where my father lived.
"To Half-Blood Hill…" Whatever that was. I didn't know. But east was definitely a direction. I could start with that.
Then again, she had also mentioned at one point that my father had claimed he could heal. Perhaps she wanted him to atone. Maybe he would. Maybe he would listen to his daughter! Yes! That was it! She wanted me to go to him for help!
But wouldn't that be going against God? I was confused. My mom would never go against God, even if it killed her. I was scared for her. She was sick, and it was my fault. Maybe I didn't have to go east. Maybe I could stay by her side and help her through this sickness that I caused, and maybe she would get better.
The image of the Cyclops I'd killed so long ago bursting into dust pervaded my brain, and I was frightened by it. And as her coughing began to follow her even as she slept, I left to get the bag she had taken with her to the Road to get my books.
An hour later, the essentials were packed: clothes, Bible, underwear, and pads for monthly bleeding. I didn't expect to be gone long, but you never know where God will take you or how long He will take. I had also found a wad of green paper within the bag that I thought was probably important, so I kept it separate in its own little pocket. Then came the less important things: soaps, socks, another pair of shoes, and some smoked venison wrapped in towels to keep it separate. That's all that would fit directly into the bag, but I put my pocket knife in my pocket and grabbed some rocks for future arrow-heads, putting them in a compartment on the bag. Then, I shouldered the pack, and was about to head out the door before I remembered that I should probably write a note.
"Dear mom,
I've gone to find father. Don't worry. I'll be fine. I know he lives in New Yrok and I'll be going there under God's protetcion. Everythnig will be alrihgt. I'm going to find one of my brohters or sisters who got father's healnig powres, and I'm going to get them to help you if he himself, won't.
I'll be home soon,
Kyle"
It read. Satisfied that it could be understood, I put it by her bed and almost walked out the door before again I'd realized I'd forgotten something: I didn't know where New York was! I turned around, ransacked the cabinets for a map, and found one that showed where I was headed. Mom had marked our place on the map when she'd first come here, before I was born, because she had needed outside help to get by, then. So I knew where I was, and I marked New York city with a big blue marker, finding a path following the roads all the way there. It looked like it wouldn't be far, but I had a feeling it would be my longest journey of all the ones to come.
I walked to the front door, bow and quiver slung over one shoulder, pack slung over the other. The wood of the porch gleamed in the moonlight, and suddenly I was afraid. I looked at the skull of the Cyclops, finding comfort in it, and grabbed it from its place on the window sill. I rubbed its bulbous smooth surface, tracing the hole where its eye had once been. I wanted to take it with me, but there was no room in the bag, and so I set it next to the doorway, a warning to any monsters that came here after me. I prayed to God that wouldn't happen, but then something occurred to me: God wasn't controlling the monsters. My father was.
I gulped. I had already sinned against God with my very existence, had sinned against Him with my passion, and had sinned against Him by killing. Should I add to the growing list of sin? Praying to my father for help would be inexcusable. Unforgivable. But then, what was my existence, if not the same? And I couldn't just let my mom die.
"Um, father?" I said aloud, unsure of how praying to other gods worked, or if it was just the same. "Um, I kind of need your help. I don't know your name or who you are, but I made mom sick and she said you have the power to heal, so…" I shifted my weight, nervous and unsure of whether or not he was even listening; it felt awkward standing alone on the porch in the middle of the night. "I don't know what I can give you for helping her. I don't really know what you want. In fact, I don't know anything about you except that you're a pagan god and are blond-haired and green-eyed. I can't do anything but hunt and hurt people, and I think I need your help. Could you please, please help mom? Please? Uh, well, that's all I have to say, so, um, bye." I stopped talking there. Well, that had been...odd. It was strange, but I didn't feel bad about that prayer at all. I even felt a warm glow inside that I immediately stifled and felt bad for. I prayed to God for forgiveness even though I knew it wouldn't be given, and prayed my hardest that mom would get better, and started off into the night.