Daughter of Many

My Past

I'm one of Camp Half-Bloods longest staying campers. I was brought to the camp, made specially as a safe place for demigods to live and learn to survive as long as possible (which wasn't long considering the fact that each of us has about 100 baddies wanting to brutally murder us), when I was four. Actually, the day I turned four.

My mom never planned on telling me. She knew it would be dangerous. She was a great mom. She sang to me every night (despite the fact that she was tone deaf) and baked me a cake for every birthday. We were happy. We lived in a small apartment in Hawaii, just me and her.

Then something went wrong. Something always has to go wrong when life seems so perfect.

It was the day before my fourth birthday. I was in my room, playing with an early birthday present. My mom was in the kitchen baking my cake. Or so I thought. I could smell it. So sweet. But then, the smell of a baking vanilla cake was gone, replaced by the scent of something burning. The fire alarm went off. I ran into the kitchen. I screamed. My mom was on the floor, holding the knife that she had plunged into her own stomach. Her wrists were slit. On the counter was a note that said two simple words. I'm sorry. I hate those words. Everyone always wants to hear them, but they never know if they were truly meant. The neighbor from the apartment next door came in. He saw my mom and picked me up, running me to the front door. I was kicking and screaming. To busy to notice that he now had the legs of a goat. The next day went by in a blur. Next thing I know, I'm at camp. I stayed in my moms old room in the Hecate cabin. I didn't want to stay in my fathers cabin. He could have helped her. But he didn't. I met my grandfather. He and Auntie were all that I had for a long time. Auntie taught me to survive. She taught me pressure points that only she knew. She didn't even teach them to her Huntresses. She taught me to use every weapon imaginable. By the time I was five, I had flawless aim. I never miss the bulls eye. My grandfather taught me to fly a plane when I was six. Then he disappeared when I was seven. I started cutting when I was eight. I committed suicide when I was ten. That's when Dad took action. He brought me back. I stayed in his cabin. I joined the hunt when I was 13. I guess that's where our story will begin.