There's a house on Juniper Lane. A small, yellow house, with a white picket fence, a green, box of a lawn, and the shade of a tree to keep it cool in the heat of the summer. A happy couple lives there. She's a school teacher, witty, young, beautiful. He just got back from serving overseas. A Captain in the army. Also witty, young, handsome.
Except for the woman has black bags under her eyes. And scars up and down her body. Bruises. Fresh cuts. And the man? He's got the same. Cuts, bruises. Stubble. Stained clothing. Sits on the couch all day, probably drinking.
"Percy!" Annabeth cried, racing forward. "The doctor told you not to drink on these new medications!" She yanked the bottle from his lips. He had already drunk half the bottle of wine. From the looks of disorientation, that hadn't been all he had been drinking.
"What have you had to drink? How much?"
"Why does it even matter?" He slurred, trying to stand but failing miserably.
"Because you shouldn't be drinking! You're on several new medications, and they had you under anesthesia in the hospital—who knows what could happen!"
She looked at the creamy, white label pasted to the glass. The green was so dark; it was almost opaque. The remnants of the burgundy liquor sloshed around inside. She peered at the label. It was the bottle of wine from their wedding. Supposedly, they were saving it for their fiftieth anniversary. So much for that.
"Why not?" He glared back, running a shaky finger over his lower lip, where a plump drop clung to his skin. "Give me one good reason."
"For me, Percy." She responded, perching on the chair opposite of his. "Don't you want to live, so that we can be happy together?" Her eyes were both wistful and pleading.
"But we wouldn't be happy." He interjected. "You would be running yourself ragged trying to keep me from hurting myself. From hurting you. I'm a monster." He slurred in a whisper, staring at the floor.
"You are not a monster." She murmured. "You're sick. You just need a little help." She stood from her seat, giving him one last, longing glance as she left the room, leaving him to wallow.
There was truly no way of telling whether or not his medication was working. He passed out, most nights, drunk. Annabeth had no way of stopping the drinking, though, unless she caught him in the act. Scolding would only go so far.
He had been upset that she was lying to him. Lying to him about the medication. He was horrified that he had hurt her. He had promised her never would.
Yet, in trying to prevent his horror, she caused it, intensified it. He treated her as a liar, a betrayer. A Benedict Arnold. It was as if she had cheated on him, or stolen large amounts of money from him, or killed his dog. At least, that's how he was treating it.
Imagine Percy's horror upon waking up in the hospital, surrounded by doctors, knowing that he had stabbed himself. Imagine that. Now imagine the hurt he had felt when a psychologist was called in to speak with him about his 'violent' tendencies. Imagine that. Now, finally, imagine the shock that comes with knowing that his wife was in on it the entire time. And that he had hurt her. Imagine. That.
Annabeth shook her head, walking down the narrow hallway and into their bedroom. She just had to be patient. She had to see where he was coming from to help him. She just had to wait for things to work themselves out.
She straightened the covers. The white comforter was stained with an unidentifiable brown liquid. Scotch, probably. The bed reeked. Of sweat, of stale booze. Of someone who had given up.
Sighing, she began to strip the bed, removing the offending linens and throwing them to the floor. She took from the closet fresh linens, smoothing them over the firm mattress, hoping to erase all signs of failure. Failure as a woman, failure as a wife, failure as a friend.
Just as she had finished tucking in the last blanket, she heard the breaking of glass in the other room. Per usual, this prompted her to run, dropping the forgotten soiled linens, sprinting for her husband.
The first thing she saw was broken, green glass. The wine bottle. She swore, knowing that she should have taken the bottle with her.
Next to it, brown glass. Beer, probably. When he had bought a six pack, she had no idea.
Next to that was Percy, lying face down in a puddle of vomit.
"Holy shit!" She exclaimed, racing forward and lifting his head. His eyes were closed, though she knew they were bloodshot underneath. "Oh, Gods, Percy! Wake up! If you can hear me, wake the fuck up!" She screamed, her eyes flitting across his face, searching for any signs of life.
Nothing. Nada.
Taking a deep breath she rolled him onto his back, her fingers groping for a heartbeat. There was none. His skin was getting colder, bluer, from lack of oxygen.
She whipped out her cell phone, dialing 911.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Uh…my husband…Percy Jackson….he's passed out….not breathing."
"Okay, ma'am, does he have a heartbeat?"
"Uh, no, I…I don't think he does." She pressed her fingers back to his neck. "No. He doesn't."
"Okay, ma'am, I'm going to send Emergency personnel over. They should be there shortly. In the meantime, do you know CPR?"
"Uh…yeah….yes. I took a class back in…February. "
"Okay. I'm going to stay on the line with you. Do you feel comfortable administering CPR to your husband?" Annabeth was silent. Was she? Did she know what to do? What in Hades was she supposed to do?
"Ma'am? Are you still there?"
"Yes. I'll do CPR."
She opened his mouth, giving him two breaths, per her instructor's directions. She began chest compressions, pushing hard into his sternum until she could hear his ribs snap, a sickening, wet pop that could have made a squeamish person vomit themselves. Not her.
She continued chest compressions, pushing down with the heel of her hand for thirty beats and then switching to giving him two breaths.
After a minute or so of CPR, his eyes broke open, his mouth opening to gasp for breath. Annabeth fell back on her knees, grappling for the phone.
"He's awake! He's breathing!" She yelled into the phone, pulling a hand to his face and caressing it slightly.
"Okay, ma'am, personnel will arrive shortly and take him to the hospital. Make sure that he doesn't slip back into it. Keep him breathing and conscious. Leave him where he is, though. Don't try to move him."
Annabeth agreed, thanking the woman and snapping the phone shut. She heard a knock on the door and uttered a brief 'it's open.'
Percy's eyes tracked her, though he did not speak. Bloodshot, green orbs that used to enthrall her. He held panic in his eyes, and his hand reached for hers, holding it as tightly as he could muster. His face was dirty, stained with his own vomit.
She squeezed his hand back as uniformed medics ran in with equipment.
"I'm here for you." She whispered, struggling to keep back the tears that prickled her eyes. "I'm here for you."
