Annabeth stared at the mirror for a long, long time. Not looking at herself, but looking at what was written in bright red marker. She couldn't stop reading it, over and over and over again. She just couldn't understand it. She understood it so clearly; fuck, she said it. She had said it when she was piss drunk and her friends dared her to go on the news. She had screamed these exact words at a surprised camera man that was taping a story about Halloween years ago. Then, after that, one of her "friends" had somehow convinced her to jump off the roof. So yeah, she broke her hand and shattered a few ribs. Later on, she found out that she may not be able to talk again, a few pieces from her ribs had punctured part of her lung. And they were right, she wasn't able to talk for a few months. But eventually, when she was alone, she would sing. It was painful at first, singing with previously punctured lungs. But eventually, she had her voice back. She still didn't talk for a while, though. Only sang alone in the shower. Before long, she was talking. And screaming. And crying. And cutting. And drinking. And taking the oh-so-familiar pills. And waking up without knowing where she was, or sometimes even who she was. And crying. Again. And again. And again. It was vicious cycle. It was a deadly battle. And she was sent here to win it.