A/n: hey y'all! It's me, Kellan. I promise I'm not dead, but junior year has been kicking my ass. I'll have a new chapter of TLT out tomorrow or Monday. Anyways, this prompt is from the amazing forum: Camp Half-Blood. You can find the link on my profile, if you wish to join. So, sit back, deep breaths, and read on!
Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson.
Broken Pencils:
The pencil snaps in my hand, much like my soul snapped. The pencil is my soul. I am broken, like the pencil in front of me.
When I fell, I was whole, the whole pencil, freshly sharpened end, brand new eraser, fresh of Out the box. When I emerged, I was broken. A pencil that you've used all year, that has finally snapped in half from the strain.
I'm worn down, much like the end of the pencil after it's sharpened. The point gets used so much it loses the battle, andnaps off. Then, the pencil is shstpened again, and ow whole cycle repeats itself.
I stare at the pencil in my hand; snapped in half, broken, and think that that's me. Annabeth Chase. I am a pencil, a pencil that's been worn down over time.
The halves of the pencil represent the two halves of me. There's the sharp half, the one that's still usable, and then theres the half that longs to forget, to cross out the unpleasant parts of my life; to find sollace in something; the eraser end. My soul is as brittle as a pencil.
The pencil stares back at me from its spot on my desk. I turn resolutely away from x; and go to sharpen a new pencil. However, it doesn't take me long to break another pencil.
And I'm left wondering, yet again, if that's what the gods see humans as; pencils, so easily broken. And I wonder, in my case, if it's true. If I am easily broken. The pencil is wood, my soul is me. I'm not sure which is stronger; which would last longer in the pits of Tartarus, but I do know that the pencil will outlive me. The pencil was invented before I was born, and it will be used after I die. And for some unexplicible reason, that thought comforts me, more than anything has in a long, long time.