"I've been up, I've been down; I've been so damn lost since you're not around."
She's been very annoyed for the past few days; what with the fact that she's going back to her father for two weeks. She could've said no, and she knows her dad would have accepted that answer—he would, he would, she knows it, she would've said, "Dad, I just need some space," and he would've bought it, she knew it—but no. No. Of course not. Her siblings pitched in and said, "Oh, Annabeth, you need to stop with this, you're getting exhausted, Annabeth, you need to go back home," the little traitors they were. It certainly didn't help that Chiron had wholeheartedly agreed, Iris Messaging her father and having a "talk" that sounded a lot like a few scientists deciding what to do with the new specimen the others had brought in. It ended with the both of them deciding that it was best for her to go back to San Francisco for a fortnight, thinking that she needs to rest at her home, with her family.
They ignored her protests from where she was standing right behind Chiron, pretending they didn't hear a thing and by the gods, that hurt like blisters on her skin.
But still, she packed her bags, albeit while fuming and threatening any single one of her siblings on knife-point when they came one step closer than she gave them any right to. They all left the cabin about fifteen minutes ago, when she nearly stabbed Helena in the shoulder for putting her hand on hers. Three of her youngest sisters started to cry at that point, and all the other boys slowly edged away from their clearly not-in-her-right-mind cabin counselor. Malcolm managed to let out a nervous, "Well, in that case Annabeth, I think we should go. Now, and somewhere far away. Let's go!" before high-tailing it out of the cabin; the rest following his footsteps. She expected to feel a sense of triumph, to cheer out a gratified "Finally!" and to slam the door in their faces.
Instead, she started to cry.
"Oh gods," she sobbed, putting her face in her hands, "Annabeth, what is the world doing to you?" And for once, she didn't have an answer, or even a guess. It was all question marks and nothing else, clawing in her heart and tearing it apart, leaving the empty space as empty as the big blank that followed soon after. She's been so lost lately, all so alone, her only companion being tear-stained cheeks and a broken girl who didn't know what to do but wait. But that was so hard, she thought, she couldn't wait. If she could wish upon a shooting star, she'd ask for a cable car to take her to the only person she can always call home.
Her knees gave out and she started to feel shivers running through her arms. Gods, how she wished it was Percy holding her right now, instead of the wind doing some cold mockery of a loving caress. She wished that when she looked into the mirror, she saw green to contrast her grey, black to contrast her blonde. She wished that when she asked a question, some sort of witty remark would come barreling right to her, trying to remind her that he's okay. To tell the truth, she missed everything that reminded her of Percy. Because well, sure; she's got a family and siblings and a good reputation; sure, it's a wild, wild, beautiful world out there; sure, she's got what other people have been dreaming of, but...
She's got a wide-eyed idiot back there, and, well, if Camp Jupiter really is in San Francisco, then she's got to go home, doesn't she?
"So I kept on going, going on right through—won't you save me, San Francisco?"
A/N: Di immortales, isn't it obvious that I downloaded a new song today? Anyway, this was inspired by me listening to Save Me San Francisco by Train on repeat for the past hour. I was pretty lazy making this, but I feel a little better with my pre-contest jitters. (For Editorial and Feature Writing this weekend; eek! Cheer me on!) Honestly, have you counted the times I've mentioned San Fran in this? Scroll back up and take a drink every time you read those two words. In which case: San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco, San Francisco.
If any of you got drunk, then two things—a) does that mean a lot of you are lightweights? And b) I have done my job. Did you expect anything less after reading my pen name? Really?