Disclaimer: I own Percy Jackson, Really, I do. Thats why I'm writing fanfiction instead on publishing this and making a ton of money. Makes sense, dosen't it?

Warning: This is going to be quite a dark fic, so if you don't like reading about this stuff click the back button now. It will contain rape and violence, and may contain other dark themes. Don't say I didn't warn you.

A/N: Okay, so this is the first time I've tried to write a PJ fanfic so I'm not exactly sure where its going to go. I've got a general idea of what I want to happen in my head, its just getting it down thats hard, so just stick with me guys, kay?

Prologue

Hi, my name is Annabeth.

I'm seventeen years old. I have curly blonde hair and grey eyes, and my skin is sunkissed from spending so much of my time outside, I'm not stick thin like most girls my age but I'm not fat either. Many people would call me beautiful, but I don't really give a damn how I look. My life is too hellish to be bothering with frivalous things such as make-up and hair cosmetics, I've learnt that now.

Its a cliche for girls to always be moaning about how their life sucked, but mine really does. Unlike all the others though I never complain about it because nobody could ever learn about the truth. Because while other girls are obssessing over their weight and boys I'm too busy wondering whether my dad will give me a beating when I get home.

It wasn't always like this, there was a time when he cared. But since mum died and he married that beast of a woman, him and my life changed drastically. In the year after she died he drowned his sorrows in alchohol and women and then he met her - the she-bitch. She was a stripper at a seedy strip joint out of town, and just thinking of my father going there made me sick to the stomach, but when he brought her back to our house and fucked her in the room right next to mine, knowing I was still awake, that was when I knew that the dad I loved and cared about was never coming back.

They got married a few months after that and every night I had to suffer through listening to them getting it off through the thin walls. I tried to talk to my dad about it and he just slapped me, telling me to keep out of his business. I was shocked senseless, he had never hit me before, sure we'd had our vicious arguements but he'd never layed a hand on me. Little did I know that was just the beginning. Slaps turned into punches, which sooned turned into weekly beatings. I dreaded those beatings so much that I stayed away from the house as long as I could, sometimes I even considered running away but I knew that I would never survive, at least at home I had a roof over my head and clothes on my back.

But now, as I'm lying in a car boot, blindfolded and tied up, I've decided that I'd rather be getting beaten than lying here. At least with the former I knew I'd escape with my life.

AN: So whatcha think?

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