"_hey."

"_hey back."

You have just come into our cabin, the one we share since my coming to the Camp. Although you are looking down, down at your hands and at the pale cream colour, I know you are not really seeing them. You are never really seeing them.

You are never really seeing me.

You look up, and there is the promise of a thousand loves in them, the fire burning in the dark obsidian. There is a spark, a spark of happiness and love and… and hope.

It hadn't been in so long.

I curve my own mouth into a smile –one of those smiles you'd recognize if you even bothered to look at me. It's one of those smiles. The ones screaming hate and loathing and pain. Utter and complete, helpless pain begging for sweet, sweet release.

I curve my own mouth into a smile, and as I wait for you to start spinning the tale of laughter and happiness and love, I silently curse the foolishness of my being.

I hate you.

Roughly as much as I love you.

.

I hate waking up in the same place as you.

I hate regaining consciousness and hearing your soft breathing, I hate opening my eyes and seeing your frame huddled under the blankets, I hate seeing you so frail and innocent and unsuspecting and knowing –knowing I look the same as I sleep. I hate waking up in the same place as you.

I hate waking up in the same room as you, because when the morning is too young and I feel this inexplicable pain in my heart that rivets me to my bed from the moment I open my eyes, I know I can't just curl up and cry; because you are here. I can't just shadow travel the heck out of there, because you are here. I can't just spend all day in bed, because you are here.

Of course it's not truly your fault (how could it be?). All you do, your only crime, is to be happy; and how could I take that away from you? But as I wake up to see you smiling, as I open my eyes to another day of your happiness, I cannot but feel the bitter pain again.

I am so glad you healed. I am so glad you are smiling again. I am so glad you are eating again. I am so glad you are talking again. I am so glad you are living again. I am so glad you are healed again.

I just wished you had waited for me.

.

Some people wake up from dreams, other wake up into dreams. They say that waking up into a dream is the sign your life is complete, your happiness is found and you are content with who you are.

They say that you have found true love, when your reality becomes better than your dreams.

My only question is; what does it mean when you wake up into a nightmare?

Some people wake up from nightmares.

Most people having a nightmare have restless, agitated sleeps. They toss and turn in their slumber, limbs flailing and heartbeats speeding. When all sound has been drowned from their mind's ears by the thrumming of their scared hearts, when their vision goes blind from the adrenalin –they wake up. It is a simple thing, as simple as saying hello. One second they are asleep, the other they are awake. Their body tenses in the nightmarish dark of their room, all their muscles freeze as alert eyes dart from right to left. Their heart is still frantically beating, and no matter how much they try to tell themselves it isn't real, the words just don't want to sink in. They close their eyes, calm the rapid thrumming of their fear and slowly, gently, ease themselves back into a dark oblivion.

People waking up into nightmares aren't so different. Minus the thrashing part.

Waking into a nightmare is surprisingly still. It is generally a dreamless sleep they are awakened from, a form of gentle respite they hypothesise upon and wish for. Slowly, ever so gently, their eyelashes flutter open as the light of the day caresses their face. So far, everything is normal. The world is blissful for a handful of second, as everything becomes alive once more.

And then they close their eyes under the weight of realisation.

The darkness creeps in from inside, inching from inside their chest and spreading some sort of thick, black, tarlike substance onto their hopes. Everything becomes sluggish as the pain, the ever so acute pain blossoms into their stomach –a sort of pain coming from inside. It spreads, making them achingly aware of the darkness taking over; first it reaches the heart, engulfing it in the abysmal despair as black tendrils wrap around their core.

The brain comes last, a silent torture allowing them to see –to realise all that is going on. The pain, the darkness, the helplessness.

You are all alone, when you wake up into a nightmare.

.

Mom and Dad often come to visit us, and you wonder why. You wonder why they are here now, after your breakdown, and never before. You think they are keeping an eye on you, looking after you like the parents they should have always been; but I know. I know they come here for me as well as for you. I know it, in the glances Dad throws my way, when they watch me watch you. I know it, in the way Mom holds me slightly tighter when she hugs us goodbye. I know it, in the furtive caress of Dad's hand on my hair.

Because Dad understand.

Dad doesn't say anything when he catches me declaring I am not hungry for the third time today. He doesn't say anything when I don't come out of my room for a whole day. He doesn't say anything when he finds me crying, hiding behind a statue in his throne hall.

Instead, he brings me chocolate in secret when Mom isn't looking. Instead, he walks into my room without knocking and lies on my bed with me. Instead, he sits with me on the floor and just waits.

Because Dad understands what it means to be in love with your brother.

.

I can feel you slipping inside my bed, snuggling up to me. Your feet were, as per usual, frozen. How many times have I told you to wear socks? You never listened.

I can feel you slipping inside my bed, your hands wrapping around my middle as you absentmindedly nuzzled my hair.

"_don' wanna get up…"

Your words were sluggish and slurred, and I was all to content to bask in your heat for just a tiny bit longer. The time for the pain to fade and the nightmare to truly settle in.

Slowly, you warmed up in the heat of my bed. Your hands snaked around me, as if it were normal for a brother and his sister to snuggle in bed all day. I guess it ought to be, really.

It would make hugging you back all right, it would make relishing in your smell alright –it would make everything alright.

But it isn't, and I just have to get on with it.

It was the knocks rasping against the door which forced you out of my bed, out of our bubble and pitted you against the world. You rolled away from me, snatching the covers with your warmth as you dragged yourself to the door.

I just curled under the cold assaulting me.

"_Annabeth!"

And the cold wrapped me in its chilling embrace.

What happened between you, Percy and Annabeth wasn't conventional –but since when was camp Half-Blood conventional? What happened between the three of you was… it was everything to me. It taught me, showed me, all the things I ever wanted to see, all the things I ever wanted to hear, all the things I ever wanted to realise.

Annabeth loved Percy. Percy loved Annabeth. Nico loved Percy, Percy loved Nico.

And so, for Percy's sake, Nico loved Annabeth and Annabeth loved Nico.

It was so twisted, so broken and yet so right. It was the truth I hadn't wanted to see for so long, and yet had always known. When you love someone, love that person like the sun loves the moon, like the darkness loves the light, like… like true love can only love –like you are ready to do anything for them. You are ready to move mountains, to force feelings, to accept others –because you love them and all that matters is the knowledge, the feeling, the certitude that they are happy.

And although I knew that if one loved so much, loved so dearly it could only be true love, one could also fall out of love.

I just hoped that when it happened, neither of you three would be hurt beyond compare.

.

I wondered why on earth you couldn't seem to find somewhere else to fuck than Cabin 13.

The first time, it had been a spur of the moment thing, and Percy and you just happened to be in the same Cabin as I when it clicked. The second time, all the three of you had been playing cards when it got out of hand. Okay. I get that.

After all. He is a son of Poseidon. He has the sex drive of a rabbit.

But… but that one time –that was on purpose.

You were sat at our table for lunch, happily digging into the food whilst I pushed mine around my plate. As I got up to toss the rest into the hearth, silently praying to Poseidon (I prayed to Athena yesterday) to take care of your high idiocy, I saw from the corner of my eyes Percy approaching you. There was that light in his eyes, the one of a predator nearing its prey as he prowled towards you. He bent over your shoulder, whispering something into your ear to which you smiled, that small coy smile of yours I had associated with the knowledge you were about to get laid. (how sad was it that I should know that face?) As I regained my seat, with a now empty plate in hand, I spotted Annabeth slipping away from the Athena table. Percy was already gone, and within seconds your own meal was wolfed down (how glad was I to see you eat) and you were briskly walking out of the lunch hall.

Without a word, without a glance, without acknowledging my existence.

How I hated you.

So, like the idiot I am, I followed you out of the lunch hall. Like the idiot I am, I watched you walk towards your home, my home –our home. Like the idiot I am, I allowed you to burn me again.

You entered without knocking, the knowledge of what was hidden inside making you boil with impatience. Hands hurried you in, grabbing you and pulling you in the darkness as I watched, mesmerised, the door shut in my face.

Never had I seen such happiness mar your features. Oh how I hated you.

This time I didn't shadow travel to the underworld. This time I didn't take a walk across the camp and try to find my peace. This time, I just looked at the door which had closed and wondered when I had lost you.

Was it the day I decided to let go of my love for you? Was it the day I allowed you to call me 'sister' again? Was it the day I arrived?

Was it the day she died?

Had I never had you in the first place?

Then the anger took over.

It wasn't a pretty sight, as I felt my blood boil at the intensity of my ire. I had never had you in the first place, because you have never loved me for who I am. I was always Bianca, always the motherly sister to you, when in fact I am Hel. I am Hel. Not Bianca. I am not an Italian beauty with a smile of gold and a gentle soul. I am not a self sacrificing hunter of Artemis, nor am I a sister loving enough to bear being reborn in order to give you a new chance. I am not Bianca, I am not your sister –and when will you finally acknowledge it?

I was tired of aching, tired of waiting, tired of being. I was tired of pretending, Nico.

So I stopped.

.

They say that in the world, there are no heroes. They argue that all there are, are bigger and smaller monsters. That the bigger monsters have the power to hide their flaws, whilst the smaller monsters have the freedom to assume their madness. They say that the monsters are all wicked.

They say that some men just want to watch the world burn.

I don't know about you, Di Angelo, but I think this bloody well damn fits me.

.

So I stopped. I stopped pretending, I stopped thinking I was going to pull through today, I stopped lying to myself. I stopped kidding myself.

I stopped.

.

I started by laughing.

It wasn't a happy laugh, and it made the people going by advert their eyes from me in fear. It was a mad laugh, the kind of laughs that you hear in a movie when the bad guy is about to do something terrible and he is looking forward to it.

I started by laughing.

Soon, the laughs turned into bitter tears, as I felt my heart constrict and burn and ache in the darkness of my skin. It was bleeding. I was bleeding.

I didn't even know I still had a heart.

When the laughs and the tears had dried, you still weren't done with your little shagging session. It made me want to burst in there and squeeze my hands around your neck. It made me want to see you writhe and squirm under me as I attempted to kill you, to hurt you and make you slither in agony.

And then the memories came.

(The day I decided to let you go, I thought it would be hard. but I thought I'd be able to do it. I thought I'd be strong enough to smile through the pain. All I let go of was my sanity.)

(That one time you beamed at me and called me sister was the first time I felt the tendril of madness. You looked so handsome, so childishly mature smiling at me with false innocence. Your eyes were closed in happiness as your voice held warmth and love –and everything would have been perfectly find had you not breathed her name when calling me. It was silly really, just a slip of the tongue which could have happened to anyone.)

(The night following the second time you called me Bianca, I almost killed you. I got up, silently, in the middle of the night. You were quietly asleep in your bed, and I was seething with madness at the thought of your mistakes. My hands were shaking as I neared your bed, so silent that the shadows did not shift as I calmly bent over your frame, your closed eyes looking up at me with innocence. My cold hands gently encircled your warm neck. You shuddered at the contact.
I went back to my bed without squeezing.)

.

Sometimes I wonder if you still feel the pain. If you still hate the days when you remember that it used to be Percy and Annabeth, that it never really was Percy and Nico (or heaven forbid Annabeth and Nico) and if you actually realise that you are just a replacement. Just a spare wheel. Just a band aid over a gaping wound.

And then I scoff. I scoff because of course you don't realise it.

You are in love, and love makes people stupid.

.

As Percy and Annabeth leave the Cabin, I am sitting on the steps. My back is turned to them, but they immediately recognize me by my white hair (my fucking white hair which you use as an excuse to call me Bianca). I can see them freeze on the spot, their attitude closing off and becoming… fearful. As if they were scared of me, of my judgement.

Maybe they were just scared of the emptiness inside my eyes, the hollow in my voice as I spoke.

"_you done now?"

They nod mutely, a crimson blush taking over Wise Girl's cheeks as I walk past them. (do you also have a pet name?)

You are under the shower when I come in, the whole Cabin reeking of sweat and sex. I bang against the shower door as I walk past, feeling all the anger bubbling up and spilling over in acid waves. The lights begin to flicker as my indignation grows, the quiet lure of betrayal calling to me as I needlessly hit whatever I can.

I am seeing red. Everywhere, the walls are tainted red as I lose myself in an ocean of resentment.

I hate you.

I hate you. I hate you so much it shouldn't be legal. I hate you so much I wish you would die. I hate you so much I wish Tartarus upon you again (and Hades knows I was the one to hold you through the nights).

I hate you, and the realisation lifts a weight off my chest.

"_Hel?"

Your voice is worried as you open the bathroom door. There is but a towel wrapped around your hips, hanging low on your body and revealing dark purple marks on your neck. The anger spikes again, as the voices luring hate in my brain whisper to my ear.

"_I hate you."

Three little words, whispered through the room. They hit you with the violence of a hurricane, barrelling into you with the strength of a thousand hits as I see you pale and take a step back.

"_I hate you."

This time it was a little louder, slightly more angry as the darkness pulls at me and screams to me to hurt you. To mar you. To brand you.

"_what? But…" you stutter and stumble over your own feet, tripping on words and losing footage as I watch you drown.

You hadn't expected this, had you?

And as I turn on my heels, heading towards my bed and opening the wardrobe, I hear the bathroom door close. I don't turn back, not even when I hear the muffled noises coming from inside. Not even when I hear the hushed tears and the quiet conversations. Not even when Bianca roars inside of me and begs me to help you.

I don't turn back, because the voices were right.

I hate you.

When you come out of the bathroom, you don't even glance my way as you make a bee line for the door and rush outside –to cabin three without a doubt. To have a shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold.

I scoff at you, and the knowledge of my hate helps me.

I am Hel and not Bianca. I am a sixteen years old white haired girl, not a nineteen years old Italian sister. I am Hel.

And Hel hates you.

.

Sometimes I wonder why I hate you. Why there is this acrid pit in the bottom of my stomach which drags me under with every hope that it'll somehow be better one day. Sometimes I wonder why I hate you. But I know the reason.

I hate you because you made me Bianca when I wanted to be Hel. I hate you because you bent and broke me, you watched me shatter on the ground and you stepped over me. I hate you because if you hadn't been there, then I wouldn't have become this white haired freak.

I hate you, because in the end I do love you.

.

People are watching.

They are judging me, as I drag out of Cabin Thirteen the bed I sleep on. They are curious as to why I am piling the empty wardrobe onto of the bed frame. They are questioning as to why the mattress is torn and lashed at, springs jutting out of it. They are wondering why the bed sheets are rolled at the bottom of the pile, why my towel proudly stands at the top of the pile.

The children of Athena know why the mount is so aerial, why it looks like a pyre.

Because it is one.

And people gasp, as they see me drag a duffle bag out of the Cabin. They shout, as I set it down away from the fire and near it. They recoil when I rise my hands high to the sky and suddenly, out of nowhere, cold green flames rise from the underworld.

They shout, when the sheets catch fire instantly and the wooden frames soon groan under the heat.

They shout, they gasp, they recoil –and I stand there, watching the fire lick at the vestiges of Bianca. I hear people calling for water, Percy hurrying out of his Cabin with you and Annabeth at his heels. I see your eyes widen –because you know all that stuff belongs to me, and you know that if it is burning it means I am not coming back.

And yes, Nico Di Angelo. I am not coming back.

So I turn on my heels.

I turn my back to the fire, silently catching your eyes (yours are full of uncertainty, anger and confusion. Why? Why am I doing this? Mine are cold, mad and determined. I am not coming back.) Your eyes as still as black as mine, but I don't care anymore. I grab my duffle bag and simply allow myself to fall back into the shadows.

I am done being Bianca.