At the age of puberty I had been in war. I had killed past the number my small insignificant mortal mind could count.

   Note the sarcasm.

   The gods treated the war like chess, uncaring for the millions dying every day.

    I had the unfortunate luck to be the son of William Waters, the son of Poseidon. Because of being my father's flesh and blood, I couldn't exactly hide my entire being. And after my father was struck off his high horse, quite literally, the oh-mighty lord of the seas small foot solider threw a fifty pound sword and the armor still stained with my father's blood at me.

   I was ten.

Three hours later I'd found myself surrounded by angry soldiers blaming me for being related to one of the crazy lunatics forcing us to fight.

  Good ol' Pops.

   The only good thing about my blood was it allowed me to train. For a solid three days. The most knowledge I'd gotten out of my trainer was how to make an authentic burrito, why, the dead, Clint Eastwood should win Sexiest Man Alive, and how to say I hate my life in Spanish.

   It's odio mi vida by the way.

   The first time I was on the battle field all I could focus on were the screams from the front lines. They were nothing like the movies, there were no battle cries, and no heroes came. It was a helpless, worthless war.

   My first kill was the second in command of Zeus' army. The bastard was flirting with himself in an enemy shield and I happened to trip and stab him.

   Strangely, many of my kills went like that.

   What really sucked was the enemy shield belonged to Grandpa Po's second in command, and because the Fates sucked squid balls my fuck up of a grandfather pointed a crooked finger at me, covered in dirt and grim cowering on bloody grass, and said "come, young padawan."

   Okay that's a lie. But I was ten, and he was wearing a dress the color of Yoda.

   Or toga, not that I actually care.

   Also he was ripped as fuck.

   It was a traumatic experience for me.

   Being second in command sucked major dick, mostly because Poseidon was one.

   I tried to throw myself out my bedroom window more than once, but his wife had a grudge against me and always used her voodoo magic to catch me at the bottom, she'd punish me by spending "quality time" with the family. I cried myself to sleep for months.

   Triton was worse than his grudge-filled mother. The guy I had killed was his target so he made me pay my debt with broken bones and insanity. He was a damn good teacher for somebody who beat me bloody with a stick every day. Fun fact: pain makes you learn faster.

   Usually my day went like this:

   Get beat half to death by Triton. Suffer through family breakfast of horse radish. Spend 8 hours listening to Apollo and Poseidon argue who's prettier. Eat dinner alone on the floor of the bathroom crying. More crying. Crying myself to sleep. Repeat.

   Odio mi vida!

     But however bad it was there it never compared to the battle field. The only thing worse than seeing someone die is being the cause of it. When I was fifteen I was considered the best mortal fighter in all the armies. My name was scorned by thousands, and praised by just as many.

   April 13, sixty-two years of bloody war ended, and the day I turned seventeen, I watched as twelve merciless gods signed in the gold of their immortality to end a war they couldn't remember why they started. I watched with tears in my eyes as the king of all raised his hand, called me a hero, and granted me an unwanted gift.

   I watched with tears in my eyes as the blood seeping out of the spear pining me on cold marble turned gold.

   And I sobbed.