I do not own PJO
"What is your name?"
Nervous tapping of pen on thigh.
"Dylan Rae Jackson."
Scrawl of pen on paper.
Unintentionally hard swallow.
More pen scratching.
"Now, Mrs. Jackson, please read the essay you have prepared for us."
Whisper of hair on shirt.
"My family is damaged. We're bent and bruised and slightly off kilter. We are two people; a teen mom, and the wedlock bastard child of a teen mother and another wedlock bastard child. Only, that one's dead, so we are only a family of two. A damaged, sad family of two.
"I was born eight and a half months after my father was killed. My mom was seventeen, living in New York and planning to go to Brown on a full academic scholarship. She was already half way to destruction when I came along, and I was a shield from the other half. I spent what time I could with her as an infant, otherwise being passed along between family friends and grandparents.
"When she graduated I was six, and from then on we lived in a small apartment somewhat near Times Square so she could be closer to work. She designed heaven, and part of the New York skyline, leaving her mark on an insomniatic city. I went to school, learned my ABC's and generally got the majority of my useful education in elementary school. Middle school gave me the Pythagorean Theorem, and that's when I decided I was done learning math and science. English was a pain because words are adventurous and have better things to do than sit and let me read, so they float away to have the experience I couldn't know.
"The whole time I was okay. I was never happy, never sad. No manic, no depression. I existed, sitting in desks where numbers were too jittery for my eyes and my mind was too jittery for learning anyway. Rooms were too small to accommodate me, and all I ever wanted to do was run. Get up and run to hard and so fast I was untouchable, unstoppable. Not even Arion could catch up. Maybe if I run fast enough I could run straight off the surface of the planet and keep going into an oblivion where parents don't matter and whether or not I have a father doesn't affect how people see me.
"I'm a fast runner, but I could never go fast enough to escape. There are too many eyes watching me, too many people concerned with my wellbeing. They would notice if I floated off into the universe, never to be seen again. And they would be sad, and I couldn't do that to them.
"So, I stay. I stay because in my damaged family I have an uncle who is a brother and a makeshift father too. He isn't quite death, but he's hell's son and he likes to take me out when I'm a little under okay. Ice cream's evolved into coffee, and he's enough of a caffeine addict that a permanent IV drip of straight black would barely keep him satisfied. He knows all the best places in the city, state, country, world; and he shares them with me. We never go to the same place twice, except for one little place on 5th which has the best caramel macchiato and is just small enough to keep a secret.
"But we aren't three, because my mom's been too damaged to accept anyone new. My uncle doesn't love her like that, and I feel fine because I know she doesn't either. She's only ever lived for two people, and anyone less than that cannot be invited in. And truth be told I've never met him, but I'll be damned before I find someone who could ever replace my father. He has eyes like me, and hair like me, and he's smiling in nearly every picture my mom refuses to take down.
"So we stay, a damaged, hurting, unaccepting little family of one. My mom can't turn back because behind her is too terrible, but in front we're awkwardly depending on 'okay' and forgetting what it's like to feel anything else. Of course we love each other, and we cling to that. We dig in our nails and plant our feet and thrive off of that one stubborn emotion because without it we'd completely fall apart. And if we fell apart, there is no cliff edge to land on. We're falling all the way.
"I think someday we'll be able to fix it. We're not broken, just damaged. Someday we'll find enough duct tape and glue to patch ourselves up, maybe sew the pieces tighter together so we can never break. We can't fall apart if we reinforce ourselves enough.
"Not broken. Just bent."
Scratch of pen on paper.
"Ms. Jackson, why do you deserve to be here?"
"My dad went here."
"And your dad he, passed on?"
"He died, yeah."
"And you should go here because he did?"
"No. I don't deserve to go here. My grades are shot and I can't learn. But I want to see how he did, yeah."
"You aren't selling yourself very well."
Tap of pen on thigh.
"There isn't much to sell."
Cluck of tongue.
"You just said plenty in your essay."
"I told you about my bent little family. You want a sell? I drink at least two cups of coffee a day."
"That's quite a talent."
"I like to think so."
"You should get an answer in the next month or so."
"We've always been fond of legacies."
(A/N) I don't know. I really don't.
Dylan has been manifesting in my head for quite some time, so I decided to let her live here. She did not turn out how I had been thinking, but this version is okay. I don't mind it.
This whole situation is pretty unrealistic, but whatever. I'm over it. It's here now, and you're still reading so I did my job.
Yes, I killed Percy. Yes, I regret it. There's my murder confession and apology, feel free to arrest me. I deserve it.
Thanks for reading!