You Don't Own Me

[Deleted]

Dear pain, oh, it's been a long time.
Remember when you were holding me tight.
I would stay awake with you all night.

He first realized something wasn’t right when he was five. Before that, it had just been so common, he didn’t think about it. Or maybe he simply wanted to believe his mom did love him. But at one point, it became clear that that wasn’t happening. He sat stretched on his toes and looked in the mirror over the sink in the overly decorated bathroom. His face, neck, and hands were perfectly fine. Of course they would be. They were visible to the world and would have raised questions. And heaven forbid that.

He looked over the newest, brightest marking. There were a lot of smaller areas on his bare chest and he knew there were even more on his back, but the newest one put the healing bruises to shame. He twisted a little so that he could see his back a bit better if he craned his neck and looked over his shoulder. Dress shirt forgotten on the counter and sporting a dirt spot on the knee of his pants that was the cause of this new mark. A long, thick red welt was already showing signs of what would no doubt be a nasty bruise.

And it was as he was doing his best to see over his shoulder that something clicked. He couldn’t say just what, but as he stared at that long welt and prodded it carefully, he came to the realization that there was nothing normal about this. This was not okay.

Dear shame, I was safe in your arms.
You were there when it all fell apart.
I would get so lost in your beautiful lies.

The six-year-old had only been curious. And who could fault him, given his at least paternal side. He sat in a chair, expected to just be another ornament in the party, occasionally getting paraded around by the woman who called herself his mother, but not for his own enjoyment. And he’d been sitting there so long. And the small quartet nearby was taking a break and he simply had to go see. So he checked that his mom wasn’t looking before getting down off his chair and heading over to the four people and their instruments.

Before he knew it, the man with the violin was helping August learn how to hold it properly and hold the bow. With carefully-honed skill, he held onto both of August’s hands, one on the neck of the violin and the other on the bow, and carefully guided the bow across the strings to produce a warbled, but not terrible note. August beamed, something highly out of the ordinary for him.

And then his mother saw, and in an instant she was at their side. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said in her falsely sweet voice. “Is he bothering you? He can be so inquisitive sometimes.” Which wasn’t true at all, as asking questions usually earned him a stern look in public and a smack in private.

“Not at all,” the violinist smiled reassuringly. “I’d say he has something of a knack for music. Have you considered lessons? Can never start too early.”

His mother lost a beat for a moment, when she realized that she might look bad if she didn’t seem to be interested in furthering her child’s education. But soon the smile was back. “Does he now? Well then, best not to let it go to waste.”

And while August was too busy fretting the trouble he would get into for this, he found he’d been signed up to learn the violin from the very man who’d just been showing him on his own violin. His mother led him away with a grip on his arm that was gaining on cutting off his circulation.

I let you go, but you're still chasing.

From that day forward, things would never be the same.

Go ahead, you're never gonna take me.
You can bend, but you're never gonna break me.
I was yours, I'm not yours anymore.
You don't own me.

Now seven years old, August stood in the same bathroom he’d been to a million times, looking in the same mirror that told the story of his pain. Except now the bathroom, like all of the house, smelled of smoke and alcohol. Air fresheners could only cover so much, and there was no reason for his mother to want to now as there wasn’t any company here. He glared at his reflection. He glared at the snowy white marks here and there where her wrath had left marks. Still, even when she was drunk or high, she knew better than to cause any markings that could be caught on camera. Because heaven forbid her reputation be harmed.

Only this time, he wasn’t giving into her any longer. It was time he took charge and made her realize that maybe her boy wasn’t the weak little thing she seemed so convinced he was. The gears in his head started turning. Yes, she would realize it soon.

Dear hate, I know you're not far.
You would wait at the door of my heart.
I was amazed at the passion in your cries.

He sat in his room and listened to his mother loudly talking on the phone about the party last night with her friend. It was early afternoon and she’d only just gotten up from a hangover. Oh, how he’d wanted to crash cymbals over her head while she was still hung over. But he hadn’t. No, he was forming a much better payback plan.

He glanced at the clock. It had officially been his eighth birthday for fourteen hours now and he’d yet to be acknowledged by his mother. Not that that was surprising. She likely forgot for the time being that he even existed. That happened a lot more than it should have. “Happy birthday, August,” he muttered, then got up. Not too long before he could put his plans into action and he wanted to be ready.

Dear anger, you made me so high.
You were faithful to show up on time.
Such a flame that was burning in your eyes.

He sat in the shadows. There was where he belonged. Where he grew up, and where he lived. He was not the important one; his mother was. Which was why she was in the fancy outfit out on the set and he was sitting back in the shadows out of everyone’s way. The only things he had with him were the clothes he was wearing and his violin, carefully tucked into its case. Well, that and a piece of paper he’d written a careful note on tucked in against the side of the violin. A letter he planned on dropping off somewhere on his way away from this place, a letter that would bring to light just who his mother was.

That was all August needed though. Clothes, his violin, which he felt he like better than about anyone or anything in the world, and revenge at last. Though his mom was wealthy, he was more used to nothing. No friends, no toys, no typical kid stuff. Even the fashion magazines of his mother’s that he’d tried to read hadn’t lasted long as the letters always went all floaty on him and it took a lot of concentration. The only thing he could read easily was music.

He clutched his violin case to him as he waited and watched. His time would come. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes. And there, there it was. Every eye was on the action in front of the cameras. No one was looking back into the shadows.

I let you go, but you're still chasing.

He ran.

Go ahead, you're never gonna take me.
You can bend, but you're never gonna break me.
I was yours, I'm not yours anymore.
You don't own me.

Being on his own was harder than he’d imagined. Especially with people looking for him. Random newspapers he’d find here and there kept him updated. Apparently his case had evolved from his mom pretending to miss him and want him back for the cameras, to the finding of the paper he’d slipped into a one of the drop boxes at the post office. He saw a magazine cover at a street side stand with his mom looking very much not as composed and happy as she usually acted. Good. Give her back the torment she gave to him. She needed it. She deserved it. And it was all the better that he was out of harm’s reach. Well, except that he had that sinking feeling that something was following him.

And the last time he'd had that feeling, it had been a guy who was way too tall to be normal and carried what looked like a stripped tree for a weapon. He'd learned to trust his instincts pretty well.

Go ahead, put a target on my forehead.
You can fire, but you've got no bullet.
I was yours, I'm not yours anymore.
You don't own me.

Training was hard. But he was up for it. Living with the wolves that had found him was a hundred times better than it had been with that fool of a creature he once called mother. He claimed no relation to her now. These wolves, Lupa and her pack, they were his family. They trained him hard, built his endurance and strength. And even some evenings he played for them on his violin that had thankfully survived the trip. All of this with the promise that sometime soon he would get to venture out on his own to find a camp that was full of kids like him. A new home. Though he still wasn’t sure how well he could fit in anywhere.

You tempted me to look back.
But everything that we had together was a lie.

There were those few times he thought about his old life. When things got rough, he'd remember the few times his mom would look to him with what could almost be considered caring. Then he remembered the hundred bad times for each one of those good ones.

Go ahead, you're never gonna take me.
You can bend, but you're never gonna break me.
I was yours, I'm not yours anymore.
You don't own me.

The trip to Camp Jupiter was hard. There was no doubting that. How many times he thought he wasn't going to make it. How many times he was caught in battle and his poor short-range skills nearly cost him his life. If he could get far enough away, he was usually fine. That wasn't always the case, and he showed up at Camp Jupiter's door scratched and bleeding for his efforts.

Go ahead, put a target on my forehead.
You can fire, but you've got no bullet.
I was yours, I'm not yours anymore.
You don't own me.

Lupa had said this place would become his home. It wasn't feeling like it. He'd only been here two years and already he wanted to leave. He didn't get along with people well. How could he? He'd never had a meaningful relationship with anyone, even just an acquaintance. His violin teach had been the closest he had. Ever. This place seemed chock full of high expectations and harsh judgements. But he was slowly learning the skills he needed to survive. He was slowly becoming a hardened, harsh Roman.

Go ahead, put a target on my forehead.
You can fire, but you've got no bullet.
I was yours, I'm not yours anymore.

August sat on Temple Hill, just outside of the temple of Jupiter where he spent so much of his time now that he was augur. Lupa had said this place would be his new home. He’d been here nine years and this still was no home to him. He hated nearly everyone, and nearly everyone hated him. As was exemplified so nicely by the fact that even the annoying little cursed brat, Felicity, had sent a quintet of unhappy ghosts after him just earlier that day. Even the girl who was generally disliked by everyone hated him. Then again, he hated her right back. There were few people who would even consider calling friends here.

But it wasn’t like he fit in any better anywhere else. And at least here, he had a purpose. Whether they liked it or not, he was an important part of this camp’s functioning. He was important. But he was also himself. No more people telling him how to act and beating him if he didn’t live up to expectations. No more. Now he was free to figure out who he was and be that person. Now he was free.

You don't own me.

Song credit to "Dear X (You Don't Own Me)" by Disciple.