A/N: A lot darker than my usual work. Please don't read if you're uncomfortable with thoughts of suicide. No actual character death, but the idea's rather prevalent. This takes place sometime in between BoTL and TLO.
Distorted Reflections
There was that one time. Just once, for a fleeting second. It wasn't much, really, but it had shaken him to the core. The time when he was twelve, when he considered joining the subjects of his father.
Forever.
By his own hand.
He wasn't sure how it started. Or, rather, how this particular incident came to be. Because there were millions of reasons why he might want to kill himself. Depression. Pain. Grief. Boredom, even.
All he knew was that he was washing his hands in some mildly repulsive public restroom when he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
He'd never been vain. He knew that he wasn't the most attractive guy out there—he was twelve, for the gods' sakes. But something about the way his face looked made him pause and recoil.
His cheeks were sallow and dirty, the bones sticking out in a way that definitely wasn't healthy for someone his age. There were lines on his forehead, worry lines occasionally interrupted by thin white scars. The circles under his eyes took up half his face, purple and shiny like a bruise. His mouth was twisted down into what looked like a perpetual scowl, an expression that might be frozen on his young face forever.
And his eyes—the eyes were the worst.
At first glance, they were just black, which was abnormal in and of itself. They were unhappy on the surface, discontent but nothing out of the ordinary. Like he'd just had a really awful day and come home to find out that his pet hellhound had been kidnapped by Titans.
Then, if he stared for just a second longer, he could see something else between that initial dejection. A kind of manic fire, bringing a glint to his eyes that made them downright uncomfortable to look at. A stranger would've thought that he was insane. There was determination there, and passion and fury and hatred. Pent-up bitterness reigned in the second layer of the windows to his soul.
The last bit was what scared him the most. Terrified him, actually. Because in the smallest, deepest part of him, only visible if he searched for it, was a little boy curled up into a ball sobbing, terrified. The boy was hurt and sad. Utterly helpless. He was shaking a little bit. He'd just lost his sister, the only person who ever protected him. And he was completely alone in a world full of monsters.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, closing his eyes tight.
You look like a dead person, he thought. It was his feeble attempt at humor that didn't work in the slightest. The Zombie Dude looked like one of his servants. Ha, ha. With the sunken, pale face and the wild, bitter eyes, his observation wasn't too far from reality.
The next, unbidden thought shocked him. The words were a whisper in his ear, as if from someone standing behind him, their putrid breath making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
Maybe you should become one, then.
His eyes shot open and he looked in the mirror, his breath suddenly coming with great difficulty. His face was mostly the same, but now it was laced with fear and shock.
He hadn't just thought that. He wasn't suicidal. They needed him for the war. He had friends now. The very idea of it was crazy… and, though he hated to admit it, intriguing.
His heart rate sped up. What would it feel like to die? To leave his body behind? To escape the horror of the real world, and move on to his father's realm? He'd heard all about it from the spirits, of course, but he almost wanted to experience death for himself.
What would people think? Would they even miss him? The campers would be disappointed to lose him as a fighter. Percy might be upset. Annabeth and Grover, too. Hades probably wouldn't care, though. It wouldn't make much difference for the Lord of the Dead. And he'd get to see Bianca again.
He had his sword right there, strapped to his side. It could be quick, easy. Just a simple thrust through his chest, or even better, a clean swipe across his own throat.
Almost subconsciously, he had drawn the blade from its sheath. The dark metal glinted in the fluorescent light. It was beautiful, in an unearthly sort of way. He could clearly imagine it sprinkled with droplets of his own blood, like the rubies in his stepmother's garden—
Someone pounded on the door.
"Hey, you almost done in there?" came a gruff voice from outside. "There's a line."
He jumped and drew in a shaky breath. His hands trembled as he slid the sword back into place.
No way, he thought. There's no way I'm doing that.
Before he could form another coherent thought, the doorknob was twisting under his hand, and then he was sprinting out into the night with only one word running through his mind.
Away.