So, so, so, sorry for not updating sooner! And thank you all who reviewed! And if you put this story as a favorite or follow!

RICK RIORDAN OWNS PJO, NOT ME.

Warning: Will be depressing, OOCness will be everywhere, and might be slightly descriptive in an area. It is slightly darkish, too.

Fall into Depression

He was six years old the first time he truly fell, on May 12, 2001, the day after The Worst Day of His Life.

Sure, that was a young age, and he understood that. But it didn't help him one bit. He knew he was depressed, his mother knew, his therapist knew, and everyone else knew he was depressed; the only difference was that his mother and therapist and everyone else cared about his depression. Percy didn't.

Percy couldn't bring himself to care.

He just couldn't.

Sort of like how he couldn't bring himself to forget about her.

She was missing, kidnapped, maybe even dead, murdered.

And the police blamed him.

Percy didn't see the logic in their theory. Yes, he was the last person to see her; yes, he was found at the crime scene; and yes, Percy had seemed like he was guilty of something, but that was only because he had felt guilty of something.

It was his idea to see who the strange people were, the strange people who had crept into the alley right next to Ms. Jackson's work building. It was his idea to start walking off, convincing her to follow. It was his idea to walk into the alley, completely and utterly exposing themselves.

It was all his idea, his stupid, selfish idea that he only wanted to do because he was curious.

Maybe curiosity did kill the cat, he would think sourly to himself.

But he loved her, not the I'm-going-to-marry-her-one-day love, but the brotherly/sisterly love, on an extreme scale, that is. And, Percy would admit to himself and only to himself day after day and night after night, he trusted her even more than his own mother; he felt closer to her than he did his own mother; he would listen to her more than he would his own mother; and he would do more than anything for her, which was more than his mother, which was only anything.

So, Percy would conclude. I did not, would not, could not hurt her like the police say I did, even if I am "crazy," or "mentally unstable."

And that's the way it was. That's the way Percy knew it should be. That's the way the police should picture it. That's the way everyone should see it.

Too bad that didn't happen. The police continued to question him; the neighbors around his apartment building threatened to sue him for something he didn't do and wouldn't allow him near their children; his teachers said to throw him in jail, even if he was a juvenile delinquent; news reporters would pester him constantly, asking, "Do you feel guilty?" or "Why did you do it?"

Smelly Gabe did not make matters any better by continuously saying that he was indeed, "crazy," and that he was, "mentally unstable," and that he was capable of hurting the person he held dearest and loved like no other.

So, when that was finally drilled into everyone's minds, the police would go up to him and ask the heart wrenching question: "What happened?"

Percy would panic. He would start screaming for them to go away and clutch his head, begging for the memories to cease. No one would help; only stare, as if he should be helping them. Percy—when nobody would move an inch, not even his therapist and mother—would then huddle himself into a corner far away from everything and cry and sob about blood and knifes and gunshots and last whispered "I love you's."

Then the police would leave, and Percy would be left with his mother whispering quiet nothings in his ear. When he would finally calm, she would leave, only to return with a small cup of water that would have to be forced down his throat and a single, whole apple.

The apple was the only thing he would willingly eat. Everything else was either forced down his throat or entered his body through an IV.

"But," he would say when he was in the mood (which was very rare, for he barely talked), "it's my good luck charm, like my beanie. 'An apple a day keeps the bad luck away.'" He would then point out, "I didn't eat an apple on May 11th, but I have every other day. On the days I eat apples, nothing bad happens. On the days I don't, something bad does happen, like May 11th."

Then Percy would stop talking all together until someone questioned him again or he felt like telling the obvious, like how he needed an apple a day to keep the bad luck away.

And every night Percy would listen to his therapist quietly talking to his mother about his state of mind. "He has fallen into depression," he would tell his mother every night. "We can give him medications and make him see dozens of therapist that would talk to him every day about what happened and what he witnessed, but I've never seen anything like his condition ever before. I don't think anybody has. Your son, Ms. Jackson, has truly lost it. He's not only depressed, but he's been through hell and might very well still be dwelling there. I don't think anybody can help him. Not now, not ever."

Percy's mother would nod with tears dripping down her face and tightly clasp his therapist's hands in hers, silently praying to whoever was above to help him.

And Percy would sit around the corner, hands woven together and placed in his lap, head lightly thudding the wall, mind praying to whoever was above.

But Percy wasn't praying for his sanity; he was praying that she would come back to him.

Only she could pull him completely out of the giant pit of pain he was in; only she could stop his fall into depression.

Wow… again… This has so much angst. Who feels sad now?

Who thinks I'm evil because I didn't tell you who she is? Do not fret, for you will learn soon enough, just not now.

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Peace and all that other stuff.

~XxxXGreek GeekXxxX