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The Plight of Praying to Greek Gods

Dedicated to Sidney Gish, Sharon Olds, horses, and the Argonauts

For years, I had trouble making certain sounds. The "th" sound, like in three or mother. And similarly, the "sh" sound comes out very warbled, almost hissing, like a leaking steam pipe or a mamba underfoot. See this: Hydra. Is it a serpent or a dragon? Or is it its own thing?

I was able to lose myself in books easily as a child. Probably because books didn't need to be talked to, and books didn't make fun of you for not being able to say words like thruppence or thoroughway. I was interested in snakes. I found their mouths intriguing. I had many dreams about being consumed. Now that I'm older, I do the consuming, just like I consumed books, but now I consume flesh upon flesh.

What I liked most was books on mythology. Greek mythology, specifically. This never really poured over into anything more--not like I sat and watched Hercules over and over, there was another movie that took that pedestal--but I guess it struck up my interests in creating creatures with multiple features, which I guess led into dragons, which I guess led into who I am now.

Which I guess led into me finding an attachment to Winged Nike of Samothrace in high school, which I guess led to the inscription on my class ring: Dance until the sun sets on the Parthenon.

Which I guess leads me to now, when I met him. In that dark lair, escaping, just like we tried out of that lock-hole Satan had sealed up with his waxy tongue. Curse you, curse you, curse you. This is the quickest it's ever been getting attached, I thought I had moved on from that. I thought I had found someone already. I guess not.

I keep making it to the end with him, and I find myself more and more enraged with the father standing between him and the door. And I wonder why exactly I feel that way. Is it something specific? Is it because I felt the same way? But my father never mistreated me, like Hades does to his son, Zagreus. It's strange. But I guess I do have one memory of my father blocking the door--I remember it, clear as day.

So maybe that boiling feeling in my chest, as I close my eyes, see myself standing between the warring gods, maybe it's because I'd wished someone had done that for me. But there was no-one rallying in my corner. Just an impudent child. Just going through the throes of being a teenager, the child will get over this quick. Maybe even be subservient again, if you're lucky.

But I refuse to look back on that life. There is no fondness, there is no warmth or light, and my father gave me nothing. A necklace made of his lying teeth would rot away within a day, I surely know it. And a cowl made from the horns of the Lord of the Underworld would shatter even the most brave of people who tried to stand in my way, I just know it.

After all, who deserves to protect me, when they've gone through so much more? Is my plight suddenly lesser when it comes to someone who looks like they'd been battered? Or are they not on levels? Am I trying to justify not being helped, because I feel it'd be a waste to leave it on me? I guess I'll never be able to say.

Now I've remade my name, it comes from the Greek name, Ἰάσων, Jason, which comes from ἰάομαι, to heal. I heal. I repair. I cure. I'm on the Argo from Iolcos to Colchis, one way trip, to get the golden fleece. They'll leave me there and I'll be alright with it, because soon I'll dry up and die, and then I can be with him again. That God of Blood. That prince. That unnameable. That man.

There is a name I know. But I can't say it. I can't think it.