I don't know what made me do it. I'd never tried alcohol before, though Vie is no stranger to it and has even offered a few times. I've seen what it does to people. To families. I regret it. Taking the bottle. It burned my throat, but I didn't care. It stopped the bad thoughts. I can see why people could easily get addicted to that stuff. The rest of the night was a blur, but I remember a face flashing through my mind. Leilani. The night before I left for winter break, we'd driven down to Central Park, and in tears, I tried to explain. How I wasn't sure if I loved her, I wasn't sure of anything. It wasn't fair to her. How I couldn't love her no matter how badly I wanted to. I still hate the way I hurt her and feel guilty every time I remember her. Then I remember shaking away the thought. I remember kissing him hard, hoping that if I tried hard enough it might feel like love. That's funny. I have no idea what love feels like. And I remember what happened next. I don't really remember the thing itself, just that it happened. I don't know why I told Will and Vie. Will was mad. I'm not sure how Vie felt about it. I don't know why I'm doing this, wrecking my own life this way. I've always been very... judgmental of myself. Of my body especially, much more than I'd like to admit. It's humiliating. I remember seventh grade when my dad found out I was starving myself. I couldn't explain why I did it. A few reasons, I think. Hating the way I looked, thinking maybe if I was pretty enough someone would love me. I know everyone tells me beauty comes from within or whatever but that's hard to believe these days. I'm always thinking about how I'm not really supposed to exist, how my dad absolutely did not need or want a kid, especially one like me. So I think maybe I thought the less of an inconvenience I am the better. He says I'm the best thing that ever happened to me but I can't make myself believe that. It's not my fault, I know. But I wish I could be normal. None of us asked to be half-bloods.
I remember the day vividly. I was nine years old when my dad sat me down at the kitchen table and explained that the "mother" who'd left right after I was born didn't exist and my other father was the Greek god of the sun. And music. And archery. And about 70 billion other things. My nine-year-old brain had trouble comprehending but I understood one thing: home wasn't safe anymore and he was sending me to a special camp in New York. In the United States. Hundreds of kilometers. That to me sounded like worlds away.
New York was weird. A thousand times busier than Ontario. It overwhelmed me. The people talked slightly different too. Fast-forward six years and here we are. I guess I talk kind of weird. A mixture of the two accents. I don't notice it unless I'm paying attention.
