This is me
тнє ℓιѕт ѕαуѕ:
Ethan Grant Lovegreen
ι ρяєƒєя:
Ethan
ηυмвєя σƒ ¢αη∂ℓєѕ
15
υммм ωєℓℓ...
male/bi-sexual
ℓєт'ѕ ѕєє...:
The life that I've lived has really affected how I act. Had my mother and grandfather not died, I would have doubtless been different. As it is, I don't really like people, I try to keep to myself as much as possible. Anti-social I guess you could call it. I'm mistrustful of others, but that's what abuse does to you. As such, I'm also withdrawn, I don't like opening myself up to others and as such will hide my emotions behind a mask of indifference most of the time.
I'm also independent, and tough, I'm not afraid to stand my ground. As it is, I can be confrontational, especially if I feel as though I, or something I care about are in danger. Living on the streets has taught me to be quick-witted, and street smart, as well as stubborn. Rarely am I ever likely to give up on something I care strongly about.
ѕтσяу σƒ му ℓιƒє:
Right from the beginning my life's been a piece of sh*t.
Okay. Maybe that's a lie. Perhaps when I was a baby my life was pretty normal and possibly even happy, but I doubt it. You see, my mother worked as a waitress at the bar to pay the bills and get by when she met my father: some no good loser who got her pregnant and then left. Douche. She was never well-off to begin with, and had to start working right out of high school to support her father, who had been injured on the job a couple years back. Before she started working they were living off unemployment assistance alone. She wanted to start working beforehand, but her father had insisted on her getting her high school degree. Not that it did her much good, she still ended up working two, three jobs that probably paied little more than minimum wage. Of course, my mother never told me this, I learned this all from her journals.
I got off topic. Back to the man who calls himself my father. He met my mother when she was working. I have no idea what he claimed to be, or really anything about him because several pages after her writing that she met a young man at the bar had been ripped out. It literally says: “I met the young man when I was working at the bar, he was really sweet” and then there's several pages ripped out, and then the next entry starts with: “I found out today that I'm pregnant. There's no doubt in my mind who's it is. If only I could contact him. The number he gave me doesn't work.” Her journals go on to say that several people urged her to get an abortion – including one of her bosses, who fired her when she refused – but despite the fact that she sometimes felt like agreeing with them, she decided to hang on, and carry the child to term.
And I was born.
Her journals make it out to be some magical event or something: “It was wonderful. HE was wonderful. I had had my doubts during my pregnancy, but now I was sure. Just holding my new baby boy in my arms did it for me. It was like one of my co-workers said: 'you fall in love with them and you just know: That child is yours and you will allow no-one to take them away from you.' I just knew my boy was going to be special.”
Her journals describe me as a pleasant, if somewhat moody child, but one who loved to explore and get into things. Of course, I was too young to remember any of this. The only memory I have of this time was the feeling of my mother's embrace, or a vague memory of being bounced on my grandfather's knee. My first real memory is much much worse. It still haunts me at night in my dreams nightmares.
It was a pretty exciting night to begin with, the night before I started school for the first time. I was pretty excited, but nervous as well, so my mother sent me off to bed early. My nerves wouldn't let me sleep however, so I instead stayed curled up in bed, wide awake. Eventually my mother and grandfather went to bed and the entire house went quiet. I decided that I wanted to go explore the house in the pitch black, because everything seemed so different in the dark, when nobody else was up. I was in the main room of our small apartment when I heard the door open and the alarm go off. I hid behind the couch, wondering who it could possibly be. Moments later, the light flashed on, and my mother came into the room, my grandfather following her slowly a moment later. I heard a startled exclamation and looked out from behind the couch to see what was going on, just in time to see a man I didn't recognize pull out something small and black (of course, I know now that it was a gun) and point it at my mother. There was a loud noise and the next thing I knew, my mother's blood was all over the floor and wall. A moment later my grandfather's blood (and some of his brain) joined it. It almost seemed redder than normal. I bit my tongue and stayed as quiet as possible while the man rifled around the house, taking anything of value (of which there was very little), before leaving. I stayed behind the couch until I was absolutely sure he was gone, and then ran over to my family. When they didn't respond to me, I ran over to the apartment across the hall to ask for help. The police never found the man responsible for my mother and grandfather's murder.
After that I was sent to a 'group home' although I just call it an orphanage, because, let's face it, that's what it was. The people running it were nice enough, but all the kids were jerks. You'd think that a bunch of kids who had lost their family would stick up for each other and be sympathetic. Not so here. Despite the fact that I was young, and had just seen my parents murdered, the kids were jerks. Especially the older ones. The adults weren't much help in stopping it, as they really couldn't do any more than use stern words.
I was placed in a foster home when I was eight, and at first I thought that it would be better. I soon found out that it wasn't. 'Out of the frying pan and into the fire' as they say. Now, I don't know how the couple that fostered me ended up as foster parents, or even how they managed to continue to be, but they were. At first they were nice and all, but it wasn't long until the abuse started. And while they may have been abusive, they weren't stupid. My foster father avoided bruising my face and neck, as bruises there were harder to hide. They bought me long sleeved shirts and made me wear them, even in the hot weather, and beat it into me that if anyone saw the bruises and asked, I was to tell them something along the lines of “I was climbing a tree and I fell.”
This went on until grade eight, when I could no longer stand it. Right after grade eight graduation, I packed a change of clothes, my mother's journals, and a whole wad of my foster parent's money. I acquired a fake I.D. for myself and used it to buy myself two star tattoos on my right arm (to remember my mother and grandfather) as well as to buy myself a switchblade.
I never even bothered going to high school. I didn't see the point. I mean, sure I was a bright student (usually high 70s to 80s without even trying) but I didn't trust schools anymore. I mean, they had totally bought what my foster parents had told them any time they they noticed my bruises, and I didn't trust the government either, so I tried to avoid shelters and such as much as possible. Too easy for the police/child services to find me there.
So I learned to steal and sleep in public washrooms and such to get by. At one point I “found” a cool trench-spike made from some weird metal – I found out later that it was celestial bronze – to also use to protect myself. It's a good thing too, because as time passed, more and more stuff started happening. I would notice suspicious people hanging around my spots and I would eventually move to somewhere else.
And then there was that fateful day when I ran into that guy, Brannon. Talk about one forceful person satyr. He pretty much ambled on up to me and said: “Hey kid, you reek of demi-god, come with me.” Of course, my first reaction was: 'He's an undercover cop, run for it!' I got a pretty good head start, and I had thought that I lost him, only to have him corner me in a dead-end alley way. After he was sure that I wasn't about to run off on him (not that I could) he proceeded to tell me that I was the child of a Greek god and that I had to come with him to a safe haven. Needless to say, I didn't exactly believe him. Eventually though, after being pursued by an acquaintance of my old foster parents, I agreed to go with him to this 'camp half-blood' of his, but only because he assured me that no one from my old life would be able to find me there.
Of course, we had to move all the way from Ohio to Long Island, which, when your only source of travel is your own two feet (and a train when you can sneak onto one. Brannon wouldn't let us hitchhike our way there), it takes quite awhile. Unfortunately, that also means that monsters have a lot of chances to attack you. Thankfully, living on the streets for about a year and a half meant that I could hold my own in a fight, so if the monsters weren't too hard I could at least fend them off, if not defeat them. It was during this time that I learned that my trench spike, which I had thought was pretty weird, given the fact that it only seemed to hurt different people, was made of celestial bronze, and unlike my switchblade, was actually useful on the monsters.
Our luck had to run out eventually though. We were nearing camp (or at least according to Brannon we were) when we were attacked by a giant scorpion. Now while living on the streets meant that I had to learn how to defend myself – and quickly – it had only taught me how to fight humans, and sometimes rabid animals. And while with the other monsters I had been able to fend them off until we could get away, that wasn't an option, the scorpion had managed to corner us. I tried to fight it off, but during the fight, it stung me. Unbearable, burning pain filled my body and I passed out.
That was the last pain I felt.
When I woke up I was in the infirmary at camp. I guess Brannon had somehow been able to get us away from the scorpion, or we had been close enough to camp that some of the demi-gods had come to help. At first I didn't notice anything strange; sure I didn't notice the texture of stuff as much anymore, but I wasn't really worried about it. It wasn't until I injured myself that I noticed something was wrong.
Okay, I didn't really injure myself, some jerk stabbed me in the leg (and stole my mother's journals). At first I thought he had missed, because I didn't feel anything, where as normally being stabbed is painful. And then I noticed the blood running down my leg. Brannon found me, and explained that although they had been able to save my life, the scorpion poison had been in my body too long, and had destroyed my nerve endings.
нσω ρяєтту؟
I'm 5' 10'' and I weigh 140 lbs. I have dark, reddish-brown hair that hangs down to just below my ears. I have a pretty pale complexion, and of course I have the two star tattoos on my right arm. My eyes are sort of a blue-green hazel color, although in the right light they can almost look brown. I normally wear whatever I can find that at least vaguely fits me, usually a ragged t-shirt and jeans.
уσυя ∂єαтн:
A switchblade and a trenchspike. made of celestial bronze.
My Family
тнє αℓιмιgнту ρσωєяƒυℓ σηє:
Ares
тнє σтнєя σηє
Angela Felicity Lovegreen (deceased)
αηуσηє єℓѕє؟
None still living. You can't count my “foster parents” as family
My Things
му ραѕтιмєѕ:
I don't think I have time for anything other than 'surviving.' I've found that I'm pretty good at lying, but it's not as though it's a hobby or anything.
♥ѕ н ι η у:
having food and a warm, comfortable place to sleep; egg salad sandwiches; hot showers; the few friends I have; The color of the sunset.
gяσѕѕ:
The government; my father; rich jerks
∂ση'т ℓєт ιт ηєαя мє:
guns; my foster parents
