It's Us

15

One month and 15 days from home.

I dream of my parents and brothers. Of Oleander's smile and Samuel's playful tease. Both my parents smile proudly at them as their backs turned on me as I try to get their attention. To no avail I'm ignored. Other priorities hold their attention.

That's fine, I find myself thinking. My dreamstate self reaches out for the attention of my friends, my classmates, my peers, but I'm not a Grace, or a Zhang. I'm not a Roman. I'm a Greek. Still, I'm not a Jackson or a Valdez. I'm not a special legacy. I'm a Stoll. A side character. I'm ignored.

I'm a Greek, in a Roman camp. I don't belong, I belong in New York. In Camp Half-Blood.

My eyes open. The light from the windows shine through the restaurant and I sit up. I remember my dream. I remember the day it hit me that I needed to leave. I remember making my plan to leave. My stomach growls. I remember that, despite eating last night, I've been low on supplies.

I grab some food from the fridge and some water bottles before packing up and exiting through the back door. I walk out onto the street and get the attention of a taxi.

"Where to?" A man with deep chocolate eyes asks.

"However far you'll take me for..." I check my inventory of cash, "Fifty dollars." I inwardly wince, that's half my savings, but it's a good price.

He raises an eyebrow, "Which direction?"

"Whichever leads to New York."

• • •

We've been driving for an hour before I realize that I should be worried that this man could be a murderer. I really don't know where he's really taking me, and he could be kidnapping me... But I don't doubt my ability to defend myself.

I stare out the window until the man pulls into a gas station. "I didn't agree to pit-stops," I frown.

"Relax, I'm just low on gas," he says and gets out.

I sigh and watch him as he selects what kind of gas he wants. I notice that he can't be any more than 18 years old. I figure 18 year-olds would be in college or something, not a taxi driver, I frown again.

"How old are you?" I ask.

"Do I not look old enough to be a taxi driver?" He raises his eyebrows at me through the rear view mirror.

I dont respond.

"Seventeen." He clears his throat. "This is just a part time job that I was lucky to land. You have a name?"

"Amria." I offer before I could come up with a fake one. It rolled off so naturally, but doesn't fit just right anymore.

"Amira?" He asks, buffering it to sound like Ah-meer-rah.

"No. Am-ree-ah." I pronounce.

"Alright, Amria," He says correctly as he gets out of the car. "I'll be right back, just refilling the tank."

He closes the door and I turn away from the window check my total payment. My heart drops when I see its reads $72.19.

When he slides back into the driver seat and starts the engine up, "Hey! I said 50 dollars, not 70!"

"I know—"

"Are you running a scam? Because I'm not paying you anything anymore if you are, buddy."

"I'm sorry, look—"

"No, you look, you're not getting anything." I grab my bag and walk out of the car.

"I was a runaway too, it's tough out here, Amria—I just don't want that happening to you."

I pause. Either this guy is a sociopath and is lying through his teeth in order to kill me, or he's just impulsive liar. "Don't follow me," I warn him and turn on my heal.

"Look, I'm really sorry—"

"Don't follow me."

"I just want to help—"

"Go away."

"Please understand that I wouldn't hurt you."

I turn and face him. "Then leave me alone because you're stressing me out and last I checked that can be qualified as some sort of mental pain."

He opens his mouth to reply but I raise an eyebrow at him and he quickly shuts it.

I am about to walk away again when something catches my eye. Over the man's shoulder is a hell-hound. And it's not Mrs. O'Leary, it's mad, hungry, and sure as hell not in a mood to play fetch.

"Shit," I mutter.

"What the fu—" The boy's eyes widen as he turns. I lift an eyebrow. Clearsighted mortal, perhaps, I guess.

"Maia!" The wings in my shoes unfold.

His gaze focuses on the hell-hound as it charges. My dagger slides into the palm of my hand and I begin to fly towards it. The man screams and runs in the opposite direction, but he only catches it's attention. It races after him instead of me. I groan at his stupidity and chance after it.

"How can a dog be this big?" He shouts, narrowly dodging a paw.

"It's not a dog, you idiot," I mutter and throw my dagger. It skimmed it's ear and gets its attention. I slip a stiletto into my hand as it turns to face me, teeth barred and snarling. This time the man isn't so lucky as the hell-hound's tale collides with his body.

I hear the wind in his breath get knocked out of him as he flies backwards. His body impacts into the sign reading the gas prices and he crumples to the ground. He lies face down in the grass surrounding it. I don't see any movement.

june 7, 2019
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