Here it is, at last. I've been trying to post this for the last three days, but my life's gotten busy suddenly. What can you do.
So, explanations: except for the first two parts (being a part the text between two linebreaks), normal letters are for when the narrator is telling the story of the character to you, my dearest readers; and italics are for when the narrator speaks to the character. Confusing, perhaps, but I hope you'll understand it whenyou read it.
For the first two parts, italics are a character's thoughts.
WARNING: harsh language, I guess? Like there aren't many 'bad words' (I think), but it's kind of aggresive? I don't know anymore. Also, maybe mentions of dark themes.
DISCLAIMER: I still don't own anything. Fucking plot twist.
I hope you enjoy this. Hopefully, it'll be better than the first version. (Fingers crossed.)
The air is chilly against his skin, the sound of heavy footsteps chasing them, runrunrundon'tlookback, and the doors are so close.
Just ten feet. Dad, if you are listening, just ten feet.
He can feel the monsters' breath hot on his neck.
Can't stop now, not when Annabeth is already half passed out.
The Doors are close, the Doors are close, he chants in his head.
(But they aren't close enough.)
/Nine feet./
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, please dad, just this one.
/Eight feet./
"Percy…" Annabeth's voice is weak, blood dripping from her mouth. (It seems oddly fitting, to bleed in a place of damnation and death.)
/Seven feet./
Don't stop.
/Six feet./
"My little hero. I'm so proud of you, honey." And perhaps he's hallucinating, because that Sally's voice and face right there, smiling at him like he hadn't almost destroyed the world countless times.
/Five feet./
A scream of pain is punched out of his lips when he feels a set of claws ripping the already tormented skin of his back.
"Run, Annabeth!" He'll handle all the monsters single-handedly if it means that Annabeth will be safe.
Stumbling thanks to the shove Percy gave to her, Annabeth tries to make her way to the Doors.
/Four feet for Annabeth, five feet for Percy./
Teeth dig into the flesh of his arm and suddenly, breathing hurts too much and all he can see is red and fuckfuckfuck I really hope Annabeth makes it.
/Three feet for Annabeth, five feet for Percy./
She limps and tries to maintain her balance, which is not easy considering that the amount of blood she's loosing can be seen from where Percy's standing.
/Two feet for Annabeth, five feet for Percy./
Leo's face appears at the other side of the door, and it's soon followed by all of the other seven's faces. They are yelling incomprehensible thing to Percy, who is way busier with the monster about to tear him up.
/One feet for Annabeth, five feet for Percy./
Annabeth shakes her head as realising the situation, and glances between him —bloodied, battered and with teeth and claws buried in his flesh— and their friends —who, although tired, they look like something safe, like everything would be okay if she just ran to them.
"C'mon, Annabeth, for me," Percy grits through clenched teeth, trying to distract himself from the pain.
(There goes his right leg. The creature took a bite and now suddenly Percy's legless. He just hopes Annabeth isn't watching this.)
"PERCY!" The sound echoes through Tartarus, and the creature lifts its head to stare at the mess of dirty blonde locks that stumbles its way.
(The rest of his friends seem to be screaming, but not passing away when he just got his leg ripped off seems enough effort to Percy as it is.)
A golden explosion, and something akin to dust rests on his skin. He is vaguely aware of Annabeth standing right next to him, holding a blade; and in his hazed state, he tries to wonder how she got there so fast.
(It's not like he succeeds— his vision is black around the edges, and he's pretty sure he's started to see blood in there somewhere.)
"Close the door, Piper!"
And that's all it takes. A few more shouts, Annabeth still bloodied and limping and crying and broken, and Percy loosing his vision and all his other senses by the minute; and the Doors are closed.
Percy didn't even have the time —or the energy— to tell Annabeth to save herself.
/Five feet (and an eternity in hell) for the both of them now./
"They aren't dead," Nico stubbornly affirms.
The rest of the room seems to sigh in unison, even though most of them haven't moved for hours, their blank gazes fixated on a point that doesn't really exist.
The world looks like it came from an old movie; all black and white and silent.
"But they can't be alive," Jason replies, his eyes as empty as how the rest of them feels inside. Even Chiron is sitting with his head lowered, his lips moving in what seems either a prayer or a never-ending curse to the Fates.
"I'm the son of the god of the Dead. I'm pretty sure I'd know if they were."
It's been three weeks —Gaea defeated and long forgotten—, and the world has been spinning a little slower since it happened. Sad violin melodies fill the air, and everything feels so tired and tiring (or maybe it's all in Nico's head).
He just lost the guy he loved. He supposes he has the right to mourn.
"Nico, we saw the monster rip off Percy's leg. I think it's safe to say they are no longer in the world of the living." Piper's voice is raspy and low, like all she has done for the past weeks is cry and not say a word (and she has, they all have.)
Nico thinks he hears someone sobbing, but the cheeks of all those present here are dry —they ran out of tears weeks ago— and maybe he's going a little mad.
Or maybe he already was. (Does it really matter?)
"I'll find them. And I swear I won't rest until I do."
He storms out of the room, a shapeless figure made of no colours at all left behind, as if trying to remind the rest of them that he's gone (and that he probably won't return).
"They just can't be alive," someone mutters again, and that seems to be the end of it —of everything— and no one ever speaks again. At some point, one of them stands up, followed by the rest, and they leave the room, only to never come back in.
They all know he's wasting a life he doesn't really have.
Emma Campbell is twenty one, her blonde hair shining bright under the sun as she jogs across the park, her favourite song loud in her ears and her heart beating fast and hard against her chest.
They call her a princess when she walks down the street (but little do they know that she's a queen whose tower is falling down), and don't you see? She trips every time she walks in front of a mirror, every time she pretends to be someone she's really not.
Chicago watched her birth —and it'll probably watch her death— even though she'll have travelled all over the globe (she's just glamorous like that), but home always calls.
Don't you think, honey?
Her parents divorced when she was fifteen, and that's where it all started going downhill. (Surely you must know, a girl that young cannot rule her kingdom without help).
There are nights when she just cries for a throne she lost before she could own it.
Free spirit, she calls herself. She runs away from her problems because that's the only way she knows how to deal with them, and she has lost count of all the cities and towns she has visited and left because she screwed up and had to go.
(The Runaway Princess, she musses to herself.)
China doll, her skin is smooth and delicate, and her eyes are as empty as crystal and as pure as air —but as the air of New York—.
She's tainted.
Sinner.
She's somewhere in Kansas right now (maybe Lawrence?) and she still doesn't know a soul. What do you expect; she's been here for two days.
She jogs across the park, leaves fall around her, and she is reminded of something —she doesn't know what—, perhaps of another autumn that belongs in a previous life.
(Sometimes she wishes she could just forget. Others, she wants to remember.)
Her name is NICE LEGS as she passes a bench with two middle aged men sitting on it, and the yell all the nasty, dirty things they will do to her.
She feels a little scared.
(But have you forgotten, darling, that you used to fight monsters and stop the apocalypse and defy gods and be a living legend?
No. Apparently, you do not remember.)
Oh, Annabeth, they miss you. The friends that you left behind just to follow your boyfriend into the dark.
She tries to be a leader, but she's just another follower.
Oops, sorry, I forgot.
Your name is Emma now.
Philip Rogers sits on a stool at the right corner of his favourite bar, three friends by his side and his fifth beer in his right hand. (And maybe he likes alcohol a little bit too much.)
But shh. Nobody must know.
Twenty one, he's young and free and completely legal, let him live his life! Who are you to say what he can and cannot do?
(Ah, a rebel, I see. Some things never change, do they?)
He's sick and tired of his distant dad and frivolous siblings (Lily-Rose and Raphael, the flower and the angel) and his dead mother.
So what if he breaks some rules? He's an adult now, he can do whatever the fuck he pleases!
(In reality, he's just a scared child who doesn't know what he wants.)
Miami is the only city he's ever lived in, and he despises it —too much water and sea and heat, he says—; and honey, isn't that the cruellest irony?
You once were the son of the ocean, currents and waves and maritime creatures bowed at your feet.
You once were a prince.
(And what are you now? Nothing. An orphan, an alcoholic, a fuck up.)
He drowns in vodka and amphetamines every night, and nightmares chase him from time to time.
But usually, his razor is there to shield him against them.
His brother is getting married —another problem— in two weeks, and he'll have to dress up and meet with his whole family and pretend he's not dying inside.
That's nice, honey. Tell me more.
(I'll pretend I care.)
Three is the magic number, his mother used to say —and maybe that's why she died when he was three—, three brothers ruled the Olympus, three fates ruled the destiny, three children were meant to save the world.
(But only one of them succeeded.)
Three kids—the angel, the flower and the disappointment.
Try to guess which one you are, Percy.
Or are you Philip? I don't see a difference.
You both let down those you love.
"Thalia," Emma calls, and her neighbour —Amber, the redhead with Asian ancestors— stops for a second.
"Excuse me?"
A heartbeat. Two. Even three.
Emma shakes her head. "Nothing. An old friend."
Or so she says.
(But baby girl, you don't know how right you are.)
Try to stand up, only to fall to the floor again.
Gosh, when was the last time you ate?
Amber rushes to her side —and didn't she rush to someone's side at some point too?—, all worried face and gentle hands.
"Are you okay?"
If only she knew.
(Once again, she wonders if she should jump into that pretty motorcycle of hers and get the hell out of here.)
But darling, you've only been here a week.
"Emma, do you want something to eat? I haven't seen you eat anything since we meet. Are you ill, or something?"
No.
She doesn't know Emma tries to achieve perfection, and perfection doesn't come with food. It comes with being graceful and pale and translucent, to the point where people wonder if she's a real person or a dream, a fairytale.
Doesn't she know that the most beautiful corpses are of those who die young?
She wants to scream "Why do you care? What is it to you?"; but she doesn't know how to yell, so she remains quiet instead.
Grey eyes that have seen too many sleepless nights stare through the petite body of a girl that has nothing to do with the mess that is her life.
Hands that have touched to skin of too many lovers try to find their way to the table, try to lift their owner form the floor.
Lips that have sighed too many times tremble slightly— what do you have to share with the class, Emma?
China doll, you cry yourself to sleep.
Dying queen, your tower is crumbling down.
Fallen angel, you lost your wings ages ago.
(What do you have left?)
The colours dance behind his eyelids as he drinks another glass of tequila, the burning sensation of the alcoholic beverage burning his throat and his skin.
Perhaps he doesn't mind it as much as he should.
A hand grabs his wrist.
"I think that's enough, Philip." Lily-Rose, as cold as harsh as ever.
Because even if she was named after two flowers, she was only made of thorns.
Sweet, innocent, pure Lily-Rose, whose mother died when she was seven, who had to take care of her two little brothers because their father decided that he didn't like it enough inside his house, so he left every night.
(He understands her, sometimes, when he's high and the stars are dancing in the midnight sky.)
But most of the time, he just glares at her and asks for more tequila, and drinks it with a dangerous smirk in those cherry lips that have kissed oh so many bottles of beer late at night.
And so he does now.
He dances away from his sister, the purpose of finding a calmer place to drink in peace —away form annoying sisters whose names didn't match their personalities at all—, a place away from all the noise.
And speaking of mismatched names, here comes the groom (Raphael, an angel, an archangel even, the one that heals all wounds.)
Raphael, his brother, his role model, the one that never cared enough.
It's funny, you think, how everyone in this fucking family was given the wrong name.
Lily-Rose, all thorns and no petals.
Raphael, more demon than archangel.
And Philip —friend of horses— is the most ridiculous of them. The first (and last) time you came near a horse was in Third Grade, and you decided you didn't like them after you fell of its back and your whole spine ached for weeks.
The funniest thing, though, is that he truly doesn't know that he once was the son of the god of horses.
(What a stupid title.)
"You've been drinking too much, if you ask me."
Steel, ice, tornado, death—that's how he would describe Raphael's voice.
Let me tell you a dirty little secret: they used to be best friends.
"The thing is, nobody did."
A snarl, a sneer, a glare is shot, teeth are shown. (Honey, where's your drink?)
The groom leaves —fucking finally—, and he wonders if someone will notice if he sneaks out and doesn't come back.
(Someday he'll be brave enough to do it. Someday, he'll leave his life back.
For now, he just dreams and drinks.)
His father approaches him, and in his mind, Philip named him November rain —cold, unwavering, unforgiving, distant and an stranger— because he never really knew this tall man who always dresses in black and liked drinking wine in front of his children more than what was appropriate.
Darling, darling, don't you know? His life was destroyed years ago.
"Enjoying yourself?"
He almost laughs, because that's the understatement of the century. 'Asshole, you left your kids alone', he chants in his head.
"Not really." There's no point in lying, not anymore. He comes from a dysfunctional family with a deadbeat dad, an uncaring soldier, a harsh companion and a junkie with scars on his wrists. Lying is not really their thing.
His father offers him a half-drank bottle of red wine, and maybe this is the only moment his father is really what he was supposed to be.
(A smile is offered, a bottle is taken, wine is drunk and lips turn red.)
You feel on the top of the world, high on the feeling of solitude, and you feel as if you could be the hero that avoids the end of everything.
(But honey, you were never meant to save the world.)
One of your scars, how did you get it?
Honey, we all know you have scars —little cracks in the porcelain that your body is made of—, just like everybody else.
(But maybe yours run deeper than most.)
Staring at the ceiling, you wonder if the air has always looked this blue. Is the lack of food driving you crazy?
No. It cannot be.
Darling, you live in a city of stars, surrounded by solitude —the only thing that can't hurt you—, and your throne is made of glass, sitting at the top of the highest mountain, right in the centre of everybody's soul.
You own them.
Diamond. She is made of diamond, more pure and more beautiful than glass, but also delicate and breakable. Still, she is the only thing in the world that can scratch and cut every material on earth. Admit it. She is the ruler.
The only thing that could affect a diamond is another one. And, let's face it, there aren't many like her.
(But throw her to the floor and she'll shatter into pieces like everybody else.)
Everybody she's ever met knows that she'll fall at some point, and break (that's what happens when glass crashes against the ground).
And she's empty, a glass figure with nothing inside, and maybe you want everyone to feel as miserable as you.
So when she finally falls —all shiny pieces with sharp edges—she'll cut the skin of those who try to piece her back together.
My, my, you just destroy everything in your path, don't you? You are a monster.
As the song said: "Everything you touch, oh, it dies."
(For a queen whose tower is crumbling down, you try to act unreachable.)
She's nice when they first meet her, sweet and funny like no other, and of course everybody likes her. She's Emma Marie Campbell. She holds the whole word in her right palm.
(Let's just hope she won't ball up her fists.)
Music and colours, three weeks later, and that's all people see. Gone is the sweet, funny, nice child whose eyes were always open too wide and her pretty mouth was slightly open in awe at all times. Now it's when the fun starts.
She plays games with those close to her, drives them mad, makes them beg. (It's usually around this time when they fall together in bed and never stand up again.) Now she's red and black and lipstick and hands that touch every millimetre of skin.
They call her a slut sometimes—they are just jealous that everyone wants her.
And then—
Nothing.
Because then she leaves again.
Her dreams are made of butterflies and affection —she's woken up too many times trying to find love in the stranger's body that slept next to her— and goddesses should envy her.
Powerful, beautiful, smart, invincible.
Yeah. They definitely should.
She sleeps with them, perhaps in hopes of finding the love that she's missing, and she's gone the next morning —but not before she kills them—, that's what she does.
Once, she dreamed about being an architect, her dream as big as the skyscrapers that watched her grow. Now, she kills people because they don't give her what she needs.
Cherry red lips, won't you sing for me?
Most people long for their stories not to be pointless; but you just want to be a goddess, immortal, divine, unreachable, never forgotten.
You could tell me the entire story of the world, sweetie, from start to finish —aren't you a smart girl—, but you won't. You could write books about how the world was created and about how it will end, but you don't want to share your knowledge. You could create sonnets about the way the stars shine tonight, but you think it's stupid. You could come up with verses to recite the greatness of the universe, but you believe they would be lying.
Or so you say. What do you have to hide, little pale girl?
Perhaps you want to keep a secret the beauty of your creation, isn't that right?
Get on your motorcycle and run like hell. They might chase you here.
(Poor bastard, she thinks she rules the world.)
Philip stares at his smoke-stained ceiling, and wonders where he went wrong. You used to be such a sweet child, what happened? He wishes he knew.
They say goodbye isn't forever, but maybe it is. (Tell that to the dead mother you don't remember, and try not to cry.)
One day, though, he will give up. He tries and tries and tries again, but there's always someone better, bigger, greater; even though he does his best at everything.
Sweetheart, you need to learn that, no matter what you do, there will always be someone above you.
Unfair, I know. But what did you expect? Justice? Don't make me laugh.
You are made of two things and two things only: lies, and drugs.
His eyes aren't full of galaxies, like most—his eyes are black holes, sucking everything they see because he's just so empty.
(Don't worry, hon, you're not the only one that's broken inside.)
But hasn't he waited enough? This is his life, he decides what to do! Stop trying to rule him, he's got a mind of his own! Darling, who turned you into this awful creature? You were once so sweet…
(God, he's sick of them.)
So yes, have your life, do what you want, create your own destiny—but make it memorable.
You wouldn't want to disappoint daddy.
Blank canvas, that's what he is, empty of all meaning and purpose, just sitting on a corner, waiting for someone to look at him and believe he has potential, instead of criticising him for the lack of colour.
He goes to parties (black) and drinks (golden) and smokes (grey) and cuts (red) and hopes that maybe some of the colours will stick to his skin, maybe they'll make him a masterpiece.
(He's but a white piece of fabric that seeks a higher purpose.)
Baby, this is not a fairytale—if you use glass slippers, your feet will get cut.
But who says you wanted to be the princess?
No, no, no, darling, you cannot be the knight, the sword is too heavy for your fragile hands.
He raises his head and dares ask: "Is this because of my cuts?"
Oh, treasure. If only he knew.
Philip Rogers isn't lifeproof.
I'm just trying to protect you, sugar.
"From what?" A question thrown bravely at the heavens, an answer that will probably never come.
Why, from you, silly.
Raise your head, darling, we're gonna set the world on fire. Pray to your god tonight, and hope we won't die.
Her face feels like it's being peeled off —but that's what happens when you ride into the night without a helmet— and the stars watch her as she runs away (once again) from her past.
Ah, Miami, the Golden City. This will have to do.
(Hang your gown, little princess, you're a warrior queen with blood red lips tonight.)
Such a lovely wedding, such a young pretty couple, such welcoming people that don't even glance twice in your direction —they are all so drunk and beautiful, night dresses sparkling under the light of a thousand candles— and God, maybe you finally your place.
(After all, you always liked expensive things.)
She lifts her chin, her most charming smile making an appearance, and waits. Someone will fall into her trap, she's sure.
Deadliest animal, your beauty drags them in and your greed is the reason why they never wake up the next morning.
She's perfect, all gentle eyes and soft lips that run up and down her victim's neck —at least until she opens her mouth and her fangs join the show—. Blood, blood, blood, she lives in a fantasy of red.
Are you trying to prove me wrong?
China doll, lost princess, dying queen, fallen angel—those are the names they gave to you. But the most important of all, your true name, is the one nobody seems to grasp.
Lethal temptation.
(In other words: Emma Campbell.)
That's what your tombstone will say.
Writing stories of passion and murder with the blood on your hands.
You should know, love. You lost a bet, and you're dying at twenty-two ,only to remain forever young and beautiful.
Grey eyes wonder across them room and then— ah. There he is.
Tousled black hair, dull green eyes and a smile that speaks of many nights with the only company of alcohol.
One week, maybe one and a half, and he will be all hers.
(And he won't wake up.)
Because this isn't a fairytale, darling —you learnt that long ago—, and people who fall asleep next to you, well, they don't really watch another day, do they?
Your lovely collection of your very own Sleeping Beauties.
Head held high, she doesn't people know. (Know what? That she's trouble?)
No. That she isn't shatterproof.
Because you are just that, aren't you, pretty lady? A mirror, a piece of glass that changes to fit the needs of the person in front of you, a shapeless soul that only looks to please others (so they can please you in return).
A mirror. Not a china doll, not a piece of glass, not a diamond. A bloody mirror.
Ain't that ironic? You, who swore to live by your own wishes and never let other's expectations rule your existence. Ain't that ironic?
But shh. Let's not interrupt the mistress as she hunts. It is a very delicate process, after all.
"Hey there, handsome."
A smirk full of teasing, lust and blood. Two shy eyes that smile in return.
Oh, yes. This is going to work out just fine.
She walks towards him, all winged eyeliner and red lipstick (and shattered pieces of a broken soul).
But what do you know, sugar? Didn't your mother taught you to never judge a book by its cover?
Oh, that's right. She left and never came back.
(Well, that's what usually happens with dead people, darling.)
Ruby high heels, she looks just like she steps on the blood of her enemies from the moment she wakes up.
More or less, baby. It's the blood of her victims.
"Hey there, handsome."
Her voice is like a punch to his guts, because that silky voice is a sin itself, and you know what the best part is? That he doesn't mind going to hell one bit.
(After all, he has already visited it.)
"Hi."
Kneel, fool, you are in the presence of a queen.
Champagne sparkles softly under the bright light, but it cannot be compared to the goddess before him. He has died and gone to Heaven, perhaps?
No. He doesn't believe in that.
Red stripes of silk and black lace—that's all he remembers from that night.
(Well, and also the pain in his wrists. Being chained against a wall isn't comfortable, you know.)
And would you look at that, Prince Charming broke the spell. One week? Please, Philip was more than willing to accept her terms and conditions within the first ten seconds of meeting her.
But the curse it's also broken—he did wake up after all.
Hum. Maybe he's not another Sleeping Beauty, but a Rapunzel (trapped in a place you don't really belong to).
Wait. Wasn't Philip Sleeping Beauty's prince?
Darling, you two aren't a fairytale.
He used to yell every night "Don't trust anybody!"; but honey, you should preach with the example.
A night of silky crimson sheets, and he's gone. How quickly does he fall in love?
(Hint: faster that he would like.)
He wakes up the next morning to an empty bed and a yellow note that reads: "I like you. Lucky boy." And hell yeah he's lucky after a night like that. But why does she have to leave a note just to say so?
Pretty boy, you're so busy drowning yourself in alcohol that you don't notice—you just escaped the lethal trap of the world's deadliest Black Widow.
(And you cry blood every time you wake up, honey, don't you think it's getting tiring?)
He doesn't see her again. One week, two weeks, three.
The princess of golden hair doesn't come back. (Maybe she's trapped in her tower again?)
No, wait, he knows— she's Cinderella, and she only went of for the dance. It is his turn to find her? She never left a shoe, after all. Does the note work?
Honey, for the last time— she's not a damsel and you're not a hero; she's the mistress of lies and you're her next victim.
I suggest running.
You left him alive? Honey, that's not one of your best ideas.
Maybe my little demon is losing her touch?
She shakes her head, like that can magically make everything right. (But gorgeous, you still let your prey go away.)
The crown on your head has never been this heavy.
You're the devil's daughter and an angel's lover and, somehow, you managed to kill them both. Darling, you were born to rule the world.
So why did you let a petty little boy escape?
(Perhaps you aren't as tough as they seem to believe.)
You are grass, feathers, soft breeze of a hot day; not steel, not a blade, and definitely not a crown made for the world.
She crashes her fist against her mirror, shiny little pieces falling all around. If the situation was different, it would look like confetti and she would be celebrating that she's one death closer to the top of the universe.
Now, tough, it seems like the small fractals of glass remind her of her defeat —failurefailurefailure—, and she can see her pale reflection between the cracks of an old broken mirror.
She once was surrounded by champagne and pearls; being now stuck with shattered glass and the sense of defeat isn't definitely what she planned.
Oh, well. The goddess raises her head again. She won't fail next time.
After all, she's got some big plans.
Leave your wings at home, darling, we're going hunting tonight.
Four weeks and they are together in bed again, soft breaths rhythmically singing against her neck.
The boy with the broken smile sleeps peacefully, calloused hands that rest on her belly, almost as if trying to protect her from the world —it's all so ironic that she has to stifle a laugh so as not to wake the man beside her—, when she's the one he should look out for.
For now, Emma rests, porcelain fingers carding through black hair, ignoring that she will have to kill this man at some point of another.
But why, though? Why did you have to set such high goals to yourself?
Angel, don't lie, we all know that you feel as if he drags you in.
(Maybe the tables have turned. Maybe you're the trapped one now.)
Eyes that are just a shade too green —tsk, tsk, we don't think about past lovers, love— open and perhaps she's drowning in a smile that chants about solitude and loss and pain and desperation, and the worst part is that she feels identified with it.
No, bad girl. That is a dangerous path to follow.
"Morning," he says casually, like he hasn't been sleeping with the deadliest creature of the world, like he hasn't already escaped from her trap once, like she isn't thinking about letting him go away again.
What about your plans, your Majesty? Are you going to throw them away for a stupid hook-up?
No, she decides. She will postpone them. The world is going to be hers.
She'll just kill him last.
"Good morning."
God.
How many times do I have to say this? Don't fucking fall in love with him. He's nothing but an obstacle to your happiness, honey. Do I have to repeat myself again?
Besides, we both know it wouldn't work.
Girls like you weren't made for men, and boys like him weren't made for love.
(Such a perfect couple, don't you think?)
I bet that Romeo and Juliet had more chances with their loves than you have.
Sometimes you think about the Beauty and the Beast, and about how their story fits yours. But baby, now the tables are turned— you're the sadistic monster that kills everything in its path, and he's the pretty princess that wants a life of adventure away form here.
Funny, how nothing ever is what it seems.
A living legend reduced to the curve of her hips and the beating of her heart. (What did they do to you?)
Now, ladies and gentlemen, we would like to show you how love —if it can be called that— makes the best of us fall and crash against the ground.
(Psst, do you want to know a secret? She'll have to pick up her own broken pieces, because there aren't heroes in this world that patch you up.)
The motel room is dimly lit, dark curtains covered in stain of unknown origin, not-so-soft sheets rough against her skin. When did you trade palaces and castles for this?
Oh, darling, darling. Bubbles and sparkles. Isn't that what you want?
(Well, brace yourself, 'cause you're in for a ride.)
You will rule the world, baby girl. Just stick to the plan and take as many lives as you can.
They meet seven more times, and she finally stops denying to herself that she'll kill him when he sleeps.
It goes something like this—
He wakes up next to the beautiful girl that's been living in his mind for the past few weeks, ad he smiles. He doesn't know why. Maybe because life is short and we have to appreciate the beauty of it and he doesn't want to die.
One day, you will be able to touch something without having it steer away from your touch. One day.
But that day is not today, and your angel gets dressed and walks away minutes after you wake up with a mysterious smile and a promise of seeing each other again.
(What you don't know, treasure, is that you beg for peace and she fights for redemption. Your story is damned from the start.)
Somewhere up beyond the clouds, twelve blissfully ignorant gods shake their heads at young, tragic love (at the love of those who once where their kids— apparently, the gods don't remember eighter). Their story will be written in the stars too, you know, amongst all those heroes that they once were part of.
A shattered mirror and a blank canvas. Huh. Funny how they both live to please others. This isn't going to work out.
But then again, none of you expected it to, am I right?
You both were heroes once, and you saved the world when there was no other hope. And have you turned into? A murderer with a lace kink and a junkie who wants to go as soon as possible.
You call her your angel, but you remain ignorant to the fact that she's the devil incarnated.
She's fire and you are paper and why won't you fucking run away? Do you want to die? Fine, then. We'll see each other in hell.
They are both going down, throwing themselves to the pit. Question is, who will fall first?
(The answer is none, for they have both already fallen.)
Is this love?, he asks himself late at night when golden hairs are soft against his cheek and his heart is beating hard and fast inside his ribs. Is this love, or is it something else?
They once were soul mates. Perhaps it is love after all.
There's a song that says 'Everybody wants to rule the world'; but darling, no one wants it more than you.
Galaxies stretch and twist and twirl above her, but her mind is too busy planning the next move in her plan to notice it.
And you keep on singing 'Sugar we're going down' late at night when you have run out of champagne and the stars shine just a shade too red (warm hands roaming across your skin.) He laughs and kisses your temple, and you two sing together until your voices are rasp and your eyelids close and the stars have stopped twinkling up there in the big blue sky.
He rests at your side, eyes closed and smile shining just like the first time —even though it's far from the beginning— and maybe you just fell a little bit in love with his smile, because why would let him live if you weren't?
Maybe your heart is full of remorse and death and murder and hate, but perhaps there are remains of the love you once felt for him too.
Still, she wakes up everyday and rushes out of the room, and tries to convince herself that this was the last time she spared him, that their next meeting won't be so pleasant.
(Even though she always breaks her promises.)
They say that not everyone you lose is a loss, but princess, every loss is one less person to give you love, one less person between you and the top of the crown. So you decide, little angel— is Philip's death a loss? Or is it a victory?
(None, darling. Because we both know you won't kill him.)
Yet we are all aware that there will come a day when a knife will be buried deep in his neck.
After all, we know you have your priorities. (And aren't they the most important thing?)
There's a man, and a woman, both lying in a bed that doesn't belong to any of them. There's a man, and the liquid inside his veins is more vodka than dark red blood. There's a woman, whose knifes accompany her everywhere, whose pretty face doesn't show any emotion as she gets rid of yet another victim.
There's a man and a woman, and their tragic destinies are already written.
Sadness has slept in your ribcage since the moment you turned sixteen, and there's something tragic about the way you sigh— defeated, like you are too tired to keep breathing, like there's something you miss but cannot remember.
(That's because most of his memories are erased and from a lifetime ago.)
He remembers falling —or at least he thinks so—, falling into a darkness that wrapped itself around him, suffocated him, made him gasp for air even though he knew it was no use. Darkness crept into his lungs and he thinks he might have died.
He doesn't really remember.
And you try to breathe in sometimes —not that you try too hard— but the oxygen seems to get lost before it reaches your lungs.
Oh well.
(You didn't care anyway.)
There's a man, and a woman, and they once loved each other beyond all comprehension. Now, though, they sleep together from time to time and shared tired looks.
There's a man, and a woman, and they are running out of life.
Well, well, well, look who the new couple in town dragged in. Nico de Angelo! Take a seat, sugar, your interview is about to start. Comfortable? Thought so. Tell me, how long have you been looking for them? Was it hard? Did you think about giving up? Have you ever—?
"Shut up."
Hum, that's not very nice of you. (Don't mind him, he's just troubled. Poor child. All he wants is to find the love of his life and his girlfriend and go back to the life they used to have.)
"How do you know that?"
Honey, I'm the narrator. I know everything.
"Whatever."
Five years and who knows how many failures later, he has finally done it. Nico di Angelo, son of Hades (screwed up kid), has proved a room full of mourning people wrong.
I bet that doesn't feel so good, does it?
"None of your business."
Oh, touchy. I see today it's not a good day. (But we'll just have to forgive him, because this is the best he has.)
White sand under his feet and a lilac sky stretched above him. Sunsets in Florida have always been nice.
He turns his head to the right and there they are— the couple he's been following for weeks. A blonde haired girl and a guy with eyes that are the colour of the sea behind him. Ding, ding, ding! (Tu premio, cariño.) After five years of searching what cannot be found, a young couple from his past with brand new memories and problems stand before him. Quite a shock, huh?
"Quit talking, I'm trying to think."
That's rich, honey, especially coming from you. Think what, how to approach them without them thinking you are insane and sending you to a mental institution?
"I'm trying to come up with a way to give them their memories back."
What? You think you have a chance?
*Cue laughter*
My sweet little Nico, look at them. She sleeps around because she tries to find love and kills without remorse and avoids eating, and he drinks himself to oblivion every night and tries too many drugs and hates his life. Do you really think they want more trouble?
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What?"
They have a lifetime worth of problems. Do you honestly think you can just go to them and convince them to go back to a life ruled by petty monsters and uncaring gods and absent parents? What is wrong with you?
"But it's their life!"
And how are you going to give them their memories back? Because I know for a fact that they won't believe you unless you have proof. So, tell me, do you really think they'll get involved in more trouble willingly? I don't think so.
"But it's their life!"
It was once. Look at them now. Honey, they have normal lives. That's all they ever wanted. Will you really take away the only thing they truly wished, only because of your own desires? Are you really that selfish?
Honey, you were heavy in their arms (but they have the weight of the world when you hold them.)
"They don't belong here."
Let me tell you a secret, my little soldatino: nobody really does.
"Don't call me that."
Why not? You used to like it when your mother called you that.
"How do you even know that information?"
Sweetheart, I already told you— the narrator knows everything.
A young Italian boy —don't jump into conclusions, he's older than any of you— stands in the middle of a Florida beach (waves leaping at his feet, and maybe that should make him feel on the top of the world, but it really doesn't), watching the retreating couple. He knows they will sleep together tonight, although he remains ignorant to the fact that she will be gone in the morning and he will be drunk by the time the clock reaches the number ten. There's nothing he can do to avoid that, not really.
"Their lives are horrible. How do you know they won't want to come back?"
Nico, dear, everybody has problems, in one way or another. They are not an exception.
"Usually, not such big problems, though."
My little dark angel, you may know everything about the dead— but seems like you don't know anything about the living.
(You don't know what some people go through.)
"I was born in the 1940's and my father is the god of the dead. I really think I do."
Most of those with problems can't blame a supernatural parent for them.
The kid —a man, really— stares at the setting sun and wonders if he has wasted the last five years of his life. Asks himself if he knew that this was damned from the start, but he just chose to ignore it.
He's young. He's still has to learn than everyone makes mistakes and the price you pay for them is an undefined amount of your precious time. (The same time that tickles down quickly, reminding us that our hour is one second closer. The same time we're all running out of.) For some it's a second, a mere moment; for other it's a whole lifetime.
Five years is not such a bad deal.
"Do you honestly think they'll be okay?" His voice is rough, grave, like he's trying not to shed the tears he's been keeping in for the last five years.
No. But we can only hope. It's not our story anymore, young one.
He nods. Perhaps keeping the tears at bay is a much more difficult task that he originally thought. But it's okay. There's no one here to judge a young man who just lost the love of his life to an existence that's not really his. He can cry.
A couple whose lives don't truly fit together walks slowly along the beach line, fingers intertwined and promises that are already broken whispered between them. A man with a past he'd rather not mention again glances at his shoes briefly, only to look up at the sky with a knowing smile on his lips.
He found them. His mission is complete. He can go home now.
Once, a boy who was more a man than a child, ran a thousand miles and fought a hundred monsters and saved a billion souls.
Now, a kid that was never a boy (not really) walks away from the greatest heroes he ever knew; and maybe that's the bravest thing I've seen.
On his left, the sun sets behind and endless ocean.
Okay, before you kill me for the ending, I must say that this ending was planned all along, even in the first version. Well, in the previous version Annabeth and Percy were a happy mortal couple who didn't have so many problems, but Nico didn't take them back to camp. Poor Nico spent five years only to have to walk away without even saying hello.
My poor sweetheart.
Well, I hope you likes this; and don't forget to review, fav or to correct one of my mistakes. I'm always available if you have any suggestions or doubts.
Thanks for reading!