I was writing a short story about someone having to deal with the death of a military spouse, and the characters kinda morphed into Percy and Annabeth, so here we are. Not sure about the response it will receive, so just tell me if it sucks or not. (This is the first of two chapters)
WARNING: This is gonna be pretty heavy, with an emphasis on the stages of grieving that a person goes through after losing a loved one. If you're not up to that, no biggie. There is also a sort of vague suicide attempt...not really, but I don't know how else to phrase it. It's more like a character deciding to let go, I guess.
She knew he was gone when the flower turned black.
The dandelion had been tattooed on Annabeth's forearm for nine years—almost a decade since the day she rushed in the coffee shop, smacked into his chest, sent his drink flying, and had first caught sight of the small yellow flower imprinted on her skin.
And now it was black. Not yellow.
Black.
She didn't remember dropping the glass. Didn't remember falling to her knees among the shattered pieces of a once whole part.
There wasn't any pain. Feeling would come later. For now, all that came was an icy paralysis that overtook her body like the frost that killed the weeds in fall.
Percy arrived seven days later. After the uniformed man knocked on her door with a letter, a medal, and eyes filled with grieving regret. After she spent a week locked in her room, unmoving, unable to do anything but sit on the floor of their bedroom, trying to see nothing and seeing everything regardless.
He arrived a single day after the pain finally hit.
It slammed into her chest like the bullets that killed him: with shrapnel exploding and ripping apart from the inside.
Him.
Not everyone had the privilege of having a flower solidify truth. Those who did were prized for which type they possessed, judged for its beauty and rarity and hue. People longed for crimson roses, ivory lilies, fuschia tulips, azure hyacinths. They believed the flower measured the amount of love it held.
They were wrong. The way society perceived the worth of the flower had no correlation with how much love was stored within. Annabeth knew that every time she looked at her simple yellow weed.
And didn't she have it better? Dandelions were everywhere: Once you had them, they never left. But those majestic, primed, refined flowers that were so worshipped? They were gone the instant you snapped their stems. Her dandelion was impossible to let go of.
But now—when the six man honor guard carried the onyx coffin down the aisle; when the three volleys were shot into the silence; when the flag was taken and folded, corners crips, and placed in her unwilling arms, where she held it away from her body as he was lowered into the frozen ground—she wondered if it would have been better to have a flower that would be gone the moment you picked it. Because every time she tried to forget him, to rip out his roots and cast them away, another yellow headed weed would pop up in its stead.
People told her to accept the pain. They told her to be sad, to ache, to let the grief engulf her, and then to let it go.
Annabeth refused. Giving in to feeling was weakness. She would bottle it up and shove the hurt into the darkest recesses of her mind, where it would stay forever, unable to be released and unable to be held.
It was easy for them to tell her to move on. Their flowers deserted them when their soulmate died, blackening, wilting, and then crumbling to memory. Three months later, her flower was still branded in her skin. Still black. But still there.
Her body began wasting away, withering from an athletic build to hollow gaps, prominent ribs, and translucent skin. Most days were spent sitting or lying in bed, staring blankly at the walls or ceiling, in dirty clothes that grew dirtier and curls that became greasy and matted against her grimy skin.
Getting up to eat—hard. Showering—arduous. Leaving the house—inconceivable.
Four months later, her tattoo was still there.
Five months later, her tattoo was still there.
The six month mark greeted her with the promise of the black dandelion's continuous taunts.
Staring at its perfectly preserved head, its leaves that twisted and twined around her arm, black, unceasingly black, she began to tremble with rage. "Get up," she ordered herself. Her limbs refused to move. "Get. Up!"
Annabeth lurched out of bed and nearly blacked out, but she pushed the rimming darkness away. She had to do this. Now. Using the wall as a support, she stumbled out of the bedroom, down the hallway, out the front door, and into the warm spring air. Her head spiked with pain as the bright yellow sun filtered down through shifting clouds.
Her car took several tries to start but eventually spluttered to life. It sat there, humming gently, until she jerked the steering wheel and slammed her foot on the gas pedal.
The drive took less than ten minutes.
Grass was beginning to push its way through the neat rectangle of dirt when she collapsed next to it, body trembling from exertion, head pounding and blurring the engraved stone in front of her. Several people were walking around, large bouquets or cards in hand, their clothes neat and faces clean. Annabeth had nothing to give. She couldn't even remember the last time she showered. Or ate. It didn't matter. She stopped caring about those things a long time ago.
She closed her eyes. This was what she needed. Acknowledgement, a push into reality, and then she would be able to move on. She took a deep breath. Opened her eyes. And saw the small yellow weed poking its head out of the dirt.
Annabeth burst into tears.
As quickly as they appeared, she shoved them back, swallowing the painful burning in her throat and swiping at the thick droplets with her hand. "Stop it," she said harshly. "Stop it!" She began smacking her tattoo with the heel of her palm, imagining it shriveling to dust and crumbling to the ground, or better yet, regaining its perfect yellow coat that was supposed to be there and was gone now, just like he was, gone with a spray of bullets and blood and the blackening of a forever that would always be gone, gone, gone….
Curled up. Arms wrapped around torso. Knees to chest. Rocking back and forth. Too sane to be deranged. Too deranged to be sane. Trying...to hold...everything...in…
This was it. She would stay here until there were dandelions pushing up above her body, too. Rolling over, she stared at the too bright sky with its too bright yellow sun, chest heaving, arms spread eagle. Her fingers dug into the soft earth beneath her, made warm in the late spring air. This wasn't so bad. There were worse ways to go.
Her eyelids fluttered. Just let go, everyone told her. Fine. She would let go.
A shadow fell over her. "Well, would you look at this?" a voice said. "Hasn't anyone told you it's disrespectful to sleep on a lover's grave?"
Annabeth's eyes snapped open. She sat up. Twisted around. Blinked in the blinding yellow sun until he stepped in front of it, silhouetting his figure in the light.
He wasn't dressed in the stiff, formal uniform they had buried him in, the one he told her itched and rubbed in all the wrong spots. Instead, he was wearing his favorite jeans and an old swim team sweatshirt from high school, his head tilted and that stupid, goofy grin on his face, the one she used to hate but had missed more than anything when it left.
"Hey there, Wise Girl," he said.
"Percy," she breathed. And then they were together, arms wrapped tightly around her waist and his neck, bodies pressed together, each breathing in the presence of the other.
Warmth that had abandoned her came back in full, blossoming in her chest like miniature fireworks. It sharpened the world, filled her with reason, hope, longing, happiness—everything flooded back. The force of it made her knees go weak.
"I love you," Percy said over and over, his voice muffled by her shoulder. "I love you so much."
Annabeth pulled back, arms still hooked around his neck, and stared into his green eyes that matched the sea. Seaweed Brain, she thought giddily, pressing her forehead against his and breathing in his saltwater scent.
He smiled and stepped back slightly, keeping his hands resting gently on her waist. "You just can't stop yourself from running into attractive men, can you?" he said in mock disapproval.
A laugh bubble up in Annabeth's throat. They were the first words he had ever spoken to her.
Percy's sea green eyes flicked over her and some of the light left them. Annabeth self consciously attempted to pat down her hair—which was matted and clumped—and tried to remember the last time she bathed.
Unlike her, he looked flawless. Dark hair messily perfect, olive skin tanned, lean muscles as strong as ever. He practically glowed with health.
"I…" she tried to say. "I…"
Percy held up a finger. Bending down, he plucked the dandelion from the dirt and held it out to her. "Annabeth Chase, will you give me the privilege of walking with you?"
In that moment, Annabeth could forget the pain of the past months. She smiled. "It would be my honor." Tucking the yellow weed behind her ear, she accepted his extended hand, entwined her fingers with his, and let herself be led around the graveyard.
Second part will be released when I finish editing it. In the meantime, be rest assured that Percy has not miraculously survived, swam across the ocean, and reunited with Annabeth to live a long life together. (Apologies if I have presented any information about the military incorrectly or in a disrespectful fashion; I did my best with the information that google gave me. Please feel free to correct me if needed.)