The Daughter of the Sky // Wattys 2016

Chapter 8

    When I finally opened my eyes I had no idea who I was, let alone where I was. Everything was unfamiliar.

I was lying in some sort of cot, with two pillows propping up my back and head against a wall. I began to scan my surroundings for a friendly, and hopefully, familiar face - but there was no such luck.

The place was kind of like an old fashioned, and I mean ancient, battlefield infirmary. There were wooden podiums all around me, some covered with cloth and animal hides, to keep the sun out.

I tilted my aching head slowly to get a better look at campers in orange t-shirts rushing to other campers' aids; there were unfamiliar coughs and groans of sick and wounded kids all around me. When I say wounded, I don't mean paper cuts or bruises - I mean bloody gashes and broken limbs. Multiple broken limbs.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the camper in the cot next to me with an arrow stuck straight through his calf. He was covered in dirt, and sweat. I watched him bite down on a damp towel while two girls, who couldn't have been older than twelve, tried to pull out the arrow.

Nope. That was it, I was out of here.

I tried to sit up straight and get on my feet, but my head began to throb even worse than before. The room around me started to spin like the California State Fair tilt-a-whirl going full speed. My mouth felt like someone had stepped on my tongue and used it to wipe their shoe, and my stomach was churning like an old laundry machine working overtime.

"Woah, woah, woah. Slow down," an unfamiliar voice caught me off guard. I felt a figure quickly rush to my side.

I immediately assumed it was some happy-go-lucky volunteer camper who came to my aid, but when I finally turned to the voice I realized the boy wasn't at all some happy-go-lucky camper; he looked more freaked out than I was.

He couldn't have been older than eighteen. The boy had deep sea green eyes that changed color in the light. He had pitch black, unruly surfer hair that looked like it hadn't been washed, like ever, and a permanent smirk that told me he was nothing but trouble. The boy had an aura to him that screamed troublemaker but I couldn't help but feel lured in by his powerful presence. 

He took me into his arms and began to set me back onto the cot, clearly avoiding my face in case I hurled, which would be just my luck. I tried not to think about the tightness in my stomach and focused on the boy's nice smelling shirt; he smelt just like the ocean. Tied around his neck was a beaded necklace with six clay beads that hung over the same orange t-shirt the other campers were wearing. My eyes caught the bold black writing. It almost took me forever to make the words out as Camp Half-Blood.

"Who are you?" I held my throbbing head in my hand as I studied the boy in front of me further.

"You're new here, right?" The mystery camper ignored my question and handed me an ice pack.

"I asked you first," I groaned.

"Percy Jackson," the boy extended his hand to me.

"New girl," I took his hand with the one that wasn't holding the ice pack to my head.

"You have a name new girl? Do you even know who your parent is?"

"I'm not sure and I have no idea," I assumed he was talking about my real godly dad and not the one thousands of miles away from me.

"So you have a concussion and you're undetermined."

I scoffed. This guy was already trying to analyze me. "What are you, a shrink?"