They Were a Simple Puzzle
By Skadi
Puzzle pieces don't have eyes.
Within madness lies a certain amount of sanity.
It's thrilling, with the way it beats a steady drum within your fragile skull: the whistle and shriek of unjoined harmony.
Within insanity lies a certain amount of truth.
There's something agonizingly wonderful about tearing the veil off with a scream of pain that ripples up your vertebrae and laying bare what is underneath.
Within delirium lies a certain amount of perfection.
If you've never understood it, the blasting apart and the joining together and the howling yells of pain scattered like the shards of green glass bottles throughout, you'll die into a loving grasp.
Then of course, there's waking up and having a film over your eyes. And knowing.
Thalia Grace returned from lunacy with words branded into her mind, scored in lines across her eyeballs, and carved into the corridors of her veins—
What a fool she had been, trying to solve by sight when puzzle pieces don't have eyes.
They were a simple puzzle.