Cross

04 | Cruelty at it's Finest

"I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father's protection." - Sigmund Freud

               Chapter Four

When I was younger, my father often designated a small amount of time every night to come to each of his children and read us a bedtime story. Usually, the three of us would spend all day deciding which specific story we would like him to read to us, but there were some nights when my father, tired from his long day of work at the FBI, would pick something from his own reading collection and read to all three of us in one sitting. If was being honest with myself, those nights were the most special.

More often than not, those nights were filled with stories about Greek myths and legends. He was a die-hard fan of Greek mythology, after all. I didn't realize until after I found my father again; however, just how much influence those stories on me and my personality. While it was possible he, himself, didn't realize the consequences of his actions, it was easy to say that hearing of the difficulties the demi-god children of those great and powerful gods and goddesses faced did quite a number on the mind of a young girl.

While my uncle did try initially to send me to public school in the aftermath of the event, my flashbacks and general distrust of people eventually led him to home-school me – and I wasn't complaining. If anything, being home schooled gave me free reins on my education and as anyone would guess, I spent a majority of my time engrossed in Greek mythology.

Although as a child, with a hyperactive imagination, I did envision myself fighting alongside the Greek gods and their half-god, half-human children; it was until I was all alone, with only a distant uncle to fall back on for emotional support, that I came to associate myself with the heroes I heard and read about. If someone came up to me back then and asked me to pick one demi-god (or Greek hero) I saw my own image in, I would've undoubtedly chosen Heracles.

According to the versions I read – as mythologies usually have many variants – Heracles, after incurring the wrath of Hera, his father's goddess wife, and demonstrating extraordinary strength, struggled to gain acceptance. He stuck out like a sore thumb both in the human world and Mount Olympus. Thus, he had to prove himself worthy of being among the gods and calling himself the son of Zeus. To do so, he had to complete twelve labors, which were all increasingly difficult (downright impossible for an ordinary human) and cruel. He persevered, however, despite the odds stacked against him. No matter what was thrown in his path, he defeated it rightfully and won the right of immortality at the time of his death.

Of course, I hadn't, and still wasn't, looking for immortality – not in the least. If anything, during those tormenting adolescent years of mine, all I wished for, more than anything, was to be reunited with my family in heaven. This was not to say that I was suicidal. Although I did consider dying by suicide at one point or another, I never actually truly thought I would go through with that because of one reason and one reason only – I wanted to prove myself worthy to them.

All Heracles wanted was to prove himself worthy of his name and all I wanted was to be able to hold my head high when I was reunited with my family and know that I was worthy of being called my father's daughter. I wanted my parents, especially my father, to be proud of me when he finally met me and that was why I joined the FBI in the first place. In that sense, he was me and I was him.

Now that I had my father back, however, I no longer found myself identifying as Heracles. No, instead, I felt more and more like Atlas as the days passed.

It was quite a discovery to find myself empathizing with a supposed villain instead of a hero like Zeus, especially given my job and my mission in life to eradicate crime from this planet, but I supposed it was only natural. This wasn't the first time, after all, that I felt more like a villain myself.