Hey Guys!

So, glad to know this story has some support... those who follow and favorite this, thank you! really, I love the support and I'm glad that you enjoy this story so much.

These little beginnings will get longer later on, but until then, I just want you people reading to understand how much fun it is to write for you. Thank you, for this opportunity.

Disclaimer: I'm not Rick.


Annabeth:

(Five Weeks)

Home life was as follows:

1.) Be out of bed before they wake up.

2.) Make them a good, full breakfast before they could scold her about how it wasn't prepared upon their awakening.

3.) Do nothing outside of the home that could be used as punishment within the home.

4.) Never show up at home after them. They will inevitably be waiting to punish her inability to keep the house clean.

5.) Get homework and dinner prepared.

6.) Retire before they are finished eating.

7.) Pray to whatever gods exist to spare her anymore pain the next day.

Annabeth followed her own rules religiously. She gave her father and step mother no ammunition besides what her own birth had given her. If she were the perfect daughter on the inside, doing what most grown ups could do for themselves, then she could prove that she was better than them.

Some days, the fact that they ignored her was considered a blessing. She could go days without speaking at home, and it gave her time to think. Sometimes, she thought about the little things she had, like her Stanford worthy reputation and her boyfriend. Other times, those thoughts were… Unyielding. Weapons of her own mind. But besides those few times, she could describe the silence as comforting.

Though, silence didn't always last. Sometimes it was yelling. Things being thrown at the walls, or in extreme cases, her. The concealer that she kept near by wasn't just for the bruises that had begun to form under her eyes. Her father was expressive when angry, and her stepmother even more so. A bruise or two on her arm, or perhaps on her face were not uncommon. Some weeks it was a regular occurrence.

Her twin stepbrothers made everything just the slightest fraction of an inch better. They were not like their mother and father, antisocial and boisterous, and Annabeth didn't look the gifted horse in the mouth. They were kind, and gentle, and so loving. Whenever they had issues with their homework, they asked her. Not their degree-bearing parents. Her.

That was a victory, she supposed.

But today, she was late. Today, she'd had to cover a shift at the movie theater she had not counted on. She didn't have dinner ready, and her parents would be back in twenty minutes. As she ran into the house, throwing her backpack to the top of the stairs, she rushed to the kitchen, in an effort to avoid punishment.

But fate was not on her side. Nothing ever was.

Her father sat at the table, a book in one hand, a notebook in the other, and a newspaper laid across the table. Pens and pencils were scattered around the house, and it was as if he was their king. They accumulated to him. Instead of ten scattered over the counters or on top of the fridge, they were around his feet, on the newspaper, in the binder spine, behind his ears… A mess of disorganization.

Her step mother wore a dark red lipstick and nail polish to match. Her dress was a purplish color with white lotus flowers adorning the fabric, and it did look beautiful on her. The problem is that she knew that. Her hair was done up in a bun, and her eyes and mouth were screwed into a sneer, as if Annabeth being late was both expected and a daily occurrence. It made a spark ignite in Annabeth's chest, wanting to catch her off guard and let it burn through her.

Annabeth was frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, shocked and scared because they never got home early. Annabeth could set her watch to their punctuality. Helen stood, her palms upwards and loud voice echoing off of the hardwood floors. "You see, Frederick dear? No respect, no telling us where she was or when she would be home." She began. "Where were you, young lady?" She asked.

Annabeth flinched under their combined gazes. She didn't like the looks they gave her. "Well? Answer your mother, Annabeth!" Her father said, also joining his wife standing. That seemed to be the only thing they would both stand together for: punishing her.

She feebly held her hands out, her fingers intertwined in a childish way, and she couldn't stop her stuttering from spilling out of her mouth as she tried, in vain, to pronounce her words fluently. "I-I-I wa-a-as-"

Helen stepped forward and smacked her upside the head. Her facial expression was one of both fury and impatience, and her yet Annabeth winced as if the Devil himself stood before her. She ducked her head, trying to avoid that gaze. It was the casual nature that the beatings took that really scared her. That kept her up at night.

Well, among other, more pressing trials in her life.

"Look at me when I speak to you, young lady!" Her father said sternly, his voice rising with each word. She quickly straightened up, but her tense shoulders wouldn't lower, and her father's face tinged red. "Now, explain to us in clear, complete sentences, where you were tonight." He said, frustration clearly guiding his sarcastic jabbing.

As Annabeth went to open her mouth, Helen began to shoot out questions rapid-fire. "We're you in detention? Did you fail an assignment or test? Was it a boy? It was, wasn't it? You're just like your whore mother." Helen sneered, and Annabeth felt another open palm smack against the back of her head. Annabeth felt her stress building. The fire in her chest was slowly spreading, causing a panic.

She tried to speak, tried to get the words to tumble out of her mouth and give her tormentors what they wanted, but no sound left her mouth. Hot tears pricked at her eyes instead, and when her father saw his red face went darker. "It was a boy, wasn't it? Answer your mother! Tell us where you were!"

Annabeth was finally able to squeak, mostly out of panic. "It wasn't a boy!" She answered shrilly, her voice going an octave higher and cracking. "Reyna looked under the weather and my manager sent her home. I covered her shift-"

"Stop lying to me, Annabeth!" Her father yelled, stepping closer. He grabbed her outstretched wrists into one of his hands, holding them tightly and squeezing them together until Annabeth could feel the combined pulses of her wrists beating erratically against her own skin. She cried out, as if his touch burned her. His red face went purple, and his hand came up.

The smacking was repeated over and over, knocking into her cheeks and making her whimper in pain. She tried to turn her head as the hand hit, minimizing the blow, but Helen held her head still by her curls, keeping her prisoner. Her father gave her a dozen marks to each side of her face, and Annabeth finally tore herself away from Helen's grip on her hair and Fredrick's grip on her wrists, though his nails left scratches on the exposed skin.

She backed up, her tear filled eyes shifting from her father, to her stepmother, and back to her father again. She brought her hands up, as if to shield herself from their wrath, but she knew that it would be in vain. She would always be subjected to their anger, no matter how hard she tried to get away.

"Call them if you don't believe me! I swear, it wasn't a boy! I didn't do anything!" She pleaded, still backing herself up. Her feet hit the bottom of the stairs and she fell backwards, her shoulder blades making contact with the carpeted stairway.

They got closer. The kitchen light disappeared behind their combined silhouettes…

Ring! Ring! Ring!

Fredrick Chase looked down at his cowering daughter, then turned back towards the kitchen. Helen only sent her a much darker glare, taking a step towards Annabeth. She held up a single perfectly manicured finger, her dark, almond shaped eyes staring into Annabeth's grey orbs, large and wet with images tears. "One more time, young lady. If you're late again, I throw you into the streets like I should have done years ago." She seethed.

Annabeth didn't wait for Helen to retreat back to the kitchen. She barely nodded, acknowledging what she'd said. Then, she turned and began to sprint up the stairs, taking her backpack as she went. Her room, the furthest down the hall and wedged beside her parent's room, wasn't much. But it provided protection from them. Her thin walls and metal deadbolt were the only things stopping a drunken fist some nights.

She laid her backpack by her bed, the only ornament inside of the barren room, and then chucked herself into the mattress. Quietly she hugged her pillow, and quietly the tears fell from her eyes.

Escape was impossible. She'd tried running away, but she always ended up either back where she started or in the back of a police car. Those officers didn't question the bruises, they didn't offer assistance. She couldn't blame them: she was a lost cause.

Her sweater rode up her stomach, exposing her midriff. Her hand fell to her stomach, and really, that only made her tears run down her face faster. She tried in vain to stem the flow with her shirt sleeve, but that soaked through faster than she thought it would. She wanted to sob, but then her parents might hear, and they would remember that they had unfinished business to attend to.

She wished Thalia still lived close by, but she'd moved on, and she'd taken her brother with her. Frank and Hazel had opted to study abroad, backpacking Asia. Selina and Beckendorf: living in Chicago together. Rachel was in her finishing school, Piper in Malibu with her father, Leo living in Texas.

How is it that all of the people that she cared about, her group that told each other everything in Freshman year, suddenly evaporated by Senior year? How was it they'd all moved on and she'd been left alone, left to suffer? Perhaps it was just her luck. It was destiny, telling Annabeth that she wasn't meant to get any farther on in life. She was stuck.

Her closed fist clenched the pillow tighter, and her hand over her stomach rubbed a single, soothing circle over the flesh. What little muscle that had once been there had dissolved, and she knew that it was happening. That she would be showing and that even her biggest sweaters would soon run thin.

She closed her eyes tightly, thinking about how her parents would react.

Would she even be attending college? Was that still going to be part of her plan? Could she escape them with the money she had in the bank and the scholarship offers she'd receive? If she received any, that is.

Why was her life such a mess?


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