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Warning: You should know by now.

Second warning: It's not very good.

Oh, and don't kill me for not updating sooner! Here is the chapter!

I DO NOT OWN!

Fall Into Mourning

He lasted over a year before he fell again, on May 11, 2003.

As it turns out, she was not proclaimed dead, just missing. He didn't know that until mere weeks before he fell, and hope had surged through his body when he had heard the news. He grew happier, more open; he had a reason to hope, because she would return. She always came back.

Too bad all good things must end, and the one good thing that was swept from under Percy was hope. He lost hope.

It was May 11th,the date of The Worst Day of His Life, exactly two years after. Police officers and investigators and every other person with an important life-saver job were crowded into his living room, interrupting Smelly Gabe's oh-so-important poker game. His mother was there, too, sobbing silently.

"We're very, very sorry," one police officer was repeating; Percy guessed he was the person who had questioned him, from the sound of his voice. "But it's official: she is dead. You can plan the funeral."

Percy felt the world begin to spin wildly. She was dead? No, no she wasn't; the world would explode before she left without a proper goodbye.

He stomped up to the officer, whose name he never felt the need to learn. "No! She isn't dead!" he shouted. "No! No! No!"

The officer crouched down and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Percy, but she has been dead for a long time. It's just that no one had the heart to give up and admit it."

"No! No! No!" He clutched at his head and tugged at his hair. "She isn't dead! She isn't dead! She isn't dead!" It became a chant that he screamed over and over.

"Shut up, kid!" Gabe hollered. "Get over it. The girl is dead."

His eyes went wide behind his sunglasses and his nose flared; he then grew frighteningly quiet, waiting for people to turn, to watch, to listen.

It took barely any time at all.

"Listen people"—his voice was venomous with a sharp edge to it—"you know nothing of her. I knew everything about her. She doesn't die." His blind eyes trailed over the whole group; they all shivered.

His mother got down in front of him. "But Percy, what if she is dead?"

Percy gave no reaction to her comment. "Then she would find a way back."

Someone snorted. "From the dead? I'm sorry, but that doesn't happen."

Again, no form of emotion came from him; he was a marble statue—perfectly still, unmoving, yet his eyes seemed to follow every movement, though no one could see them. "I know her better than anyone, and she would travel through the worst parts of hell to escape, smiling the whole way, knowing she was getting one step closer to saying good bye. She. Does. Not. Just. Leave. She will come back, because she always does."

No one moved; no one even so much as breathed. Percy didn't care or know, because he was already heading to his room.

So much for returning home, he thought bitterly as he flopped on his bed. I'll just be shadowed by police officers and doctors everyone I go, especially after my little speech.

With that in thought, he rose from his bed in order to amend his outburst. Traveling slowly, he trailed his hand along the wall, but he stopped right before he rounded the corner. He tucked himself into a little ball against the wall and listened, something he's always been good at, and grew even better at when he went blind.

His mother, sniffling slightly, was whispering to someone. "Two weeks. The funeral, it can be in two weeks."

Percy was dumbfounded. They didn't believe him, not even his own mother, all because he was "crazy" and "in shock."

He slipped back to his room and packed a small bag.

Percy was gone before midnight, only leaving a small note, like he did the every time, and a single blue rose that no one knew how he got, a knew tradition. Being blind definitely didn't stop him from doing tradition. And as tradition goes, the manger didn't even look up from the computer, and he slipped through the door and left, again, with no one to stop him, with no one to keep him with them. Like anyone would care. He was "crazy."

He walked off, not knowing where his feet were leading him, not caring where he was going. As long as it was away, he was okay with it. Just keep running; just keep running, his brain urged. He began running—there was no use in leaving if people brought you back to where you were leaving from in the first place, right? Just keep running, moving, leaving.

Percy was in the forest, the same one he went into when he ran away the first time; he could tell because he found his old camp, where he finally allowed the reality that he was blind to sink in. He sat at his little camp site and thought it all out—what the police officer said, how no one believed him, the funeral.

The funeral. It was worse than a stab to the heart. At the funeral, people would be mourning for a living person. They would bury an empty casket. They would cry for her, and maybe even him, because he was dead to them, lost in his own mind.

And, to top it off, it was all on the date of The Worst Day of His Life, a day he never had a chance to eat an apple on.

Percy began to cry, sob heart-wrenching sobs, by himself in the wood. He was mourning, but not like them. He just wanted her back; he missed her. He was mourning her disappearance, his disappearance, their separation.

Because people don't have to mourn over death; mourning is sorrowing. And he had sorrow over many, many things.

It was the beginning of his fall into mourning.

I know. I know. It's not my best work. But… yeah, that's it. Don't kill me!

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Peace and all that other stuff.

~XxxXGreek GeekXxxX