Demigod Journey

It was just a regular Friday.

You haven’t been doing well in school. The grades are abysmal — your report card looks like it was graded with a sledgehammer. All F-minuses. Maybe it’s the dyslexia. Maybe it’s that weird attention thing you’ve had since you were little. Maybe it’s the way the words dance on the page, refusing to stay put long enough for you to get a sentence down. Either way, you stopped caring. The teachers gave up. You did too.

Your mom, though — she's different. Always has been. Somehow, despite the bills, the busted car, the landlord breathing down her neck, she still finds a way to smile. Still finds ways to make you feel like you're more than just the screw-up they say you are. So today, she packed up a blanket and some sandwiches, and brought you to the coast. The water smells like salt and freedom. She says she used to bring you here when you were a baby. You don’t remember it.

As the tide rolls in and the sun warms your face, you think about how weird life’s been. Not just in the “my grades suck” kind of way — but really weird.

Like in sixth grade. You remember it too clearly. A trio of old ladies — knitting, of all things — sitting on a bench across from your school. Harmless enough. Except when you glanced back a second time, their heads... shifted. Just for a moment. You swear you saw fangs. One of them had scales. The middle one’s hair moved — not from the breeze, but like it was alive. You blinked, and they were just old women again. Watching you.

Or that substitute teacher in fourth grade who completely lost it when you answered a question about Odysseus. You just said he was the one who came up with the Trojan Horse. Everyone knows that. But the sub looked at you like you'd said something dangerous. She never came back after that.

And it’s not like you’re obsessed with Greek mythology — but you do know a few things. You’ve always been drawn to the stories. The monsters. The gods. The epics. You read the Iliad once, even though it felt like the words were trying to escape the page. You’ve always felt like those tales weren’t just tales. Like somewhere deep down, you’ve known them.

Maybe that’s why today feels... different. Like the air is heavier. Like the tide’s calling your name in a language you don’t remember learning.

Whatever it is, this is just the beginning.

It was just a regular Friday.

School’s been a disaster lately. Another week, another report card full of F’s. You’d laugh if it weren’t so expected. Maybe it’s because of the dyslexia — or the way your brain always seems to be tuned to a different frequency, like you're trying to read English on a page printed in static. Either way, your teachers have given up. And honestly? So have you.

Your dad, though — he’s not the type to give up on anything. He’s always been a bit distant, kind of gruff, the kind of guy who fixes things with duct tape and a half-grunt. But he’s solid. When things go wrong, he just does. No questions, no lectures. So this morning, after yet another call from school, he picked you up without a word and drove straight out of town. Didn’t say where he was going until the waves came into view.

The beach isn’t fancy. A stretch of sand, some driftwood, gulls screaming overhead. But there’s something about it that feels right. Like it’s old. He told you he used to bring you here when you were a toddler. Said the sea always helped clear his head. Now he wants it to help you too.

As you sit near the surf, watching the ocean foam twist into shapes, you start thinking about how weird your life’s been. Not in the “my grades are trash” kind of way — you’ve made peace with that. More in the what the hell was that? kind of way.

Like in sixth grade. You were walking home alone and saw three old ladies at a bus stop, knitting. At first, it seemed normal — just some harmless grannies with yarn. But then one of them looked at you. Really looked. And for a second — just a second — her face split. You saw something with teeth, sharp and too many of them, and another with slitted eyes and something slithering from her scalp. A Hydra. You didn’t even know how you knew that word until it came to your tongue like a memory.

And it wasn’t the only time. There’s been more. That librarian who flinched when you touched a copy of the Odyssey. That dream where you were holding a sword, standing on a cliff, shouting in Ancient Greek — even though you don’t speak Ancient Greek. You keep brushing it off. Telling yourself it’s just your brain being weird. But... you’re starting to wonder if it’s something else.

*You’ve always liked Greek mythology. The stories always made sense to you in a way other things didn’t. Monsters. Heroes. Quests. You know the greatest hits — Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, Medusa — stuff you never really studied, but somehow still know. Like the stories weren’t being told to you… but through you.,

And now, on this beach, with the tide crashing and your father watching the horizon like it’s about to speak… something feels like it’s about to change.

Whatever’s been waiting for you — it’s getting closer.