Chapter Text
My name is Sally Jackson. Look, I didn’t want to fall in love with a god. And I know what you may be thinking. You fell in love with God, like Jesus? But no, I fell in love with a god - the stories of the Greek gods and heroes and giants and titans are all true. Your next question is probably how the hell did you get yourself into this situation? Trust me, I ask myself that question multiple times a day.
Let me take you back to the winter of my 21st year.
-o-o-o-
It was perfect. My hair brushed softly across my face as the ocean waves rolled in the distance. This little cottage was all mine. Speckled rocks weaved a path that led up to the run-down, one-bedroom home. Ever since my uncle passed away, I knew I just needed to escape. And here it was. My escape. I had a lease signed on for a tiny apartment starting in February and a job lined up at the candy store down the street, but I wanted to get out of my uncle’s place as soon as possible. That’s when I saw it: a help wanted ad - some older couple needed a landlady to take care of their tiny cottage on the beach as they went south to visit their grandchildren for the next month. In exchange, I received a tiny stipend for food and free housing. I completed the interview a week ago, and here I was. The cottage sat closer to the septic tank than I would’ve preferred, and it looked like it was maybe falling apart, but it didn’t matter. Finally .
I longed for so long to have the perfect place to sit down and get a damn book draft started. My life’s purpose. A novel. It didn’t matter what hell was thrown my way: the plane crash that killed my parents, the uncle who couldn’t care less about me, or the endless hours spent working three jobs throughout high school just to have enough to go to college. Those dreams came crashing down when my uncle died. No money, no family, and no diploma. But it didn’t matter anymore, I was here. My journey was beginning. My novel was going to be written. It was so close I could almost grasp it.
My dream had always been to write. The way the thoughts flowed across my mind and down onto the page was nothing short of the most basic form of art - words. And what are words without love? Without the rise and fall? Without a tragedy? How I wished for the damn adventure in my own life. I craved the story. My writer soul ached and longed for the type of love that could transcend mortal life itself - one that could be remembered for the ages. One that left you longing at the end of the book - knowing that you would never be the same after you experienced it.
I guess I wished a little too hard.