CHAPTER WARNING: This chapter contains painful injury descriptions and suicidal thoughts. Read at your own risk. I don't want any of you lovelies getting triggered.
Percy POV
Sleeping was hell.
It was bad enough that demigod dreams usually ended in nightmare and hysteria, but add in the blankets that felt woven out of barbed wire and the way his skin tingled acidicly when contact was made, and it was impossible. Still, I tried, from rolling around for comfort to staying as still as one of Medusa's statues, I tried. I really did. But it just wasn't happening. Not tonight, at least.
But the result was hours of writhing on the bed, twisting and shifting to get comfortable when he felt wrapped in pin-needles. By now the poison from the Pit Scorpion was reaching its peak, and by 1 o'clock it reached my heart, leaving me to spasm in seismic panic as my heart threatened to shut down. The burning, inflamed skin of my other arm did nothing to ease the situation either. Black, burnt skin flaked off like layers to a biscuit and the pus pockets popped and seeped into the sheets.
In the rare instance that I could sleep, it wasn't even sleep. It was unconsciousness. Because the pain was too much to handle. But even then, my dreams were filled with thoughts and memories from the past. Things that happened years ago, that still felt too raw to confront now. More than once I woke up in a panicked, cold sweat, relishing in the physical pain of the real world, cause emotional pain hurt too much.
Somewhere about 6' in the morning, the Pit Scorpion venom finally ran its course through and the burns began to fade.
Still didn't get out of bed though. There was something about experiencing mental and physical pain for hours on end that really depleted my will to perform the normal, mediocre tasks of the day. But then again, normal people didn't usually have poison slowly carving a path through their veins. Only instead of killing him, it fades away, leaving only wisps of phantom pain, making room for the next fatal injury standing in line.
Luke just had to pick a Pit Scorpion. It just had to be something extravagant and painful. Of course.
The ceiling becomes my subject of interest as the clock next to the bed ticks the morning down, and the feeble sun rays peeking through the curtains crawl across the floor in a mission of espionage. I listen to the music of the city outside, with it's loud, chaotic beat, pulsing like the beat of a creatures heart. But the sound isn't right. Its tune feels off, not quite aligning with the rhythm beating in my own chest.
People didn't realize how different cities sounded. Each one had their own tune, like a theme song, that played day after day. The beeping cars, the buzzing conversations on the streets, the sounds of countless machines and millions of people coinciding in one place - they became the beats, the high-rocking notes, the sloping tunes that made the city. It was a little stereotypical, but Chicago reminded me of a rap song. Its beat was high and steady. It's tune long and fast-paced as the rapper runs off jumbles of words that you're not quite sure belonged in the English language. Or any language, actually.
Chicago was a song I couldn't decipher. Its words were rushed, it was loud, it's opinions open, brash, and in your face. The city felt aggressively bipolar, like it would be your loyal friend one second before pointing a gun at you're chest and demanding your wallet. If it were a person, I imagined it'd have gold rings, chains around its neck, a gun hidden in its pocket, and a nailed-through bat hanging off its shoulder.
It was so different to New York's tune.
Where Chicago was aggressive and loud, New York was strong and insistent. It was still loud, definitely loud, but it's tune didn't carry the same mighty high notes. It had a beat to it, a pulsing rhythm that continued consistently throughout. The song wasn't necessarily all rap and macho, but strong, with thick notes and resounding tunes that rang deep in your bones and reminded you of where exactly you're at. It inspired creation just as much as is inspired challenge. It was a song that never ceased.
I miss it.
The blankets are burning a hole into my back, but I don't feel like turning to mellow out the pain. I'm grateful for it, of anything. The sting draws my attention from the nagging yearning in my chest.
Hypersensitivity is terrible. It's like my skin had its own brand of ADHD, becoming hyper-aware of everything. Even the littlest thing could set it off, which was a real stickler when society expected me to wear clothes all the time. Sure public decency was important, but even a loose t-shirt feels rugged sandpaper grating my skin raw.
Speaking of skin and pain and all-around suckiness, I needed to restock my medical kit. Pronto. More pills to numb the pain, gauze so I didn't spill blood everywhere, and skin cream - a crap-ton of skin cream.
Have I been paid yet? I emailed my employer the information I gathered just before going to bed. Whoever it was promised an instant check for my efforts, and while the leader dude technically got away, I still got enough intel to inspire thought AND the trophy heads of everyone else involved. That had to earn me a decent wage.
Groaning, I turned slowly in the bed and grab my work phone next to the alarm clock. Moving, after such a long night of cramped muscles and never-ending seizures, felt like hands grabbing my muscles from opposite ends and ripping them apart tissue by tissue.
It takes only a few minutes to check my work account, and I was pleased to find it paid and full. The money is decent and will be well spent on restocking my supplies. Maybe I'll invest in a few new work "tools" too.
Spirits feeling a tiny bit lifted, I manage to pry myself out the puss, vomit, and blood-stained bed. Which, ew. Add new bed-sheets to my shopping list. No washing machine could save those blankets at this point.
My first morning priority is the shower. I didn't wear anything to bed, so I hopped right in. Twisting the water completely cold, I grab the body wash sitting on the tub rim and squirt a healthy amount into my palm. Baby body wash, cause it's soft and careful with my skin. I don't normally wash in hot water anymore, the temperature made it feel like taking a shower in the Phlegethon river. Cold is good. It's numb the pain better. Besides, it reminds me more of the ocean.
I wash my stringy hair as well as I can, but it's demeanor is that of soggy straw. I never thought I'd miss having healthy hair. It's never been something I've thought about until now, but di immortals did I miss have something soft to run my fingers through. Blonde, curly hair was my personal preference, but best not to think of that because it sounded a little weird and sent unhelpful pangs in my chest.
Don't think about her. Don't think about her. Don't think about her.
I didn't tarry too long in the shower this time, despite my bodies insistence to stay with its natural pain-relevant. I dress in loose-fitting sweatpants, so large I have to pull the string and knot it several times just to keep them up. Going naked was always an option, but, even if it was just in my apartment, even I couldn't stomach my body for long periods of time. It was like I was in the process of decaying before Hades - or whatever god was in charge of the decaying process - decided it just wasn't worth it and denied me a full death.
But at least one thing hasn't changed despite my condition. My hunger. Usually using my water-based powers was the only thing that taxed my energy so immensely, and when it did it also happened to make me extremely hungry. It was the same for constant pain too, I guess. Something about my immune system trying to heal me all the time. Whatever it was, it made my stomach turn in on itself looking for something the gnaw on.
The cupboards in the kitchen are basically empty, and one glance in the fridge gives me insight to a limited stock of pizza, china take-out, some fuzzy, green burritos, and a bottle of hot-sauce. Nothing looks good enough to sate my hunger. Pizza, while still a personal favorite, was getting a little repetitive. The china didn't sound good, and those burritos must've had their own ecosystem at this point.
I grabbed the hot sauce, squirting half the bottle straight in my mouth, hoping that might do something to burn away the hunger. Or at least get it off my back for a bit. Paycheck meant more food, but if I'm going outside I need to look presentable.
Mouthing burning, eyes watering, I head back into the room to get something suitable to wear. Heavy pants, boots, an over-sized hoodie, and a scarf wrapped tightly around my face later, and I'm ready to go. The fabric feels drenched in acid, and walking feelings like sandpaper chafing my body at once, but at least as much skin is covered as possible.
Grabbing my wallet, I thumb through the few measly bills inside, check to make sure my credit card is there, and head out the door, locking it tightly as I leave. The apartment complex I live in was decent enough. Not terrible, like some of the slums I've been in, but not 5-star either. But it did the trick. The landlord was patient, I never skipped out on rent, so that was a plus for him. My neighbors were partial to their own business and never tried to make much communication, so I was clear in that department too. Besides, after a few awkward first weeks, they stopped coming by and asking what those late-night screams were.
When I get out on the street, it's about high-noon and the crowds are walking fast to escape the sun. Summer's just beginning, which meant Camp recently started too. How many new campers were there? If Annabeth was still there, she was no doubt a senior counselor with her own class to teach. It's been a few years, but I can't imagine that much has changed. I don't try to imagine that it would. It's been a while, but I could still remember the way the strawberries fields smelled. The familiar heat of the climbing wall, the canoe lake, the beach, the fighting arena. The details were there, sharp and in high definition.
Man, I miss that place so much.
This city is not the best substitute, but I suppose it does the job. At least here, where I'm miles away, I can't do any harm. This - this was for the best.
Walking down the street, I keep my head down and stick close to building sides and alleyways, short-cutting through said alleyways when there's an opening, and avoiding crossing the street with crowds as much as possible. A few notice the dark, heavily clothed figure walking behind them and step faster, but I don't blame them. It's hot outside, so why would anyone wear so many layers? I was keenly aware of how suspicious I looked, but it was more for their benefit than mine.
If only they knew.
There's a small little convenience store a few blocks past my apartment. I get there with relative ease, little no complications, and step into the air-conditioned store with a breath of relief when the sun's heat lingers outside the door.
Grabbing a plastic basket stacked near the door, I pull my hastily scribbled list from my pocket and trace down the line. First, the essentials - skin cream. Even if it's the crappy, oily kind with a brand worthy for the store shelves rather than an actual pharmacy. After knocking nearly the entire row into my basket, earning an odd look from an old lady searching through bottles, I turn to essentials numero 2.
Food. Real food.
If one can consider heat-ables and pre-cooked dinners real food. But it was probably better than eating take out every night. Besides, buying straight from the store saved me the paranoia of giving someone my current address everytime I ordered fast-food. I've had to relocate too many time when they started catching onto my location - they as in monsters and campers alike.
So, several boxed meals and microwavables end up in the cart, and after that, a pack of coke and some water bottles - cause faucet water is terrible. The last thing on my wrinkled list is a few cereal boxes and some milk, a normal breakfast, before heading to the check out ail.
My shopping spree is brief and quick. Monster attacks have been rather few and far between lately, likely due to the reputation I was building up for myself in the monster world. Or maybe they decided the broken son of Poseidon wasn't worthy of a target anymore - not when he's a monster in his own right. Which wasn't far off. I was practically one of them, at this point. Or maybe my reputation preceded me, and they knew there was no point in killing an unkillable demigod war veteran.
Wow. I kind of am a war veteran, aren't I? Survivor of two major wars. What a perplexing though.
A war veteran. The title felt better than I was, though. I don't really deserve it. War veteran made me think seasoned soldiers, badges of honor, boundless courage, hearts of gold, battle scars. I had the scars' part, but badges of honor? Boundless courage? A good heart? No. Not me.
But occasional monster attacks weren't the only reason my mediocre visits to the mortal world were brief. Nor was it the chance of getting tattle-telled on my a wondering satyr or nymph.
It was the stares. Everywhere I went, whenever someone could spot the monster underneath the layers, it was the stares. Wide eyes, falling jaws, roaming glances over my face. Awkwardness, skepticism, pity, so many mixed emotions that felt like a hammer repeatedly smashing my face. Or a big neon sign with a bright arrow pointing down at me: Here! Look here!
I remember the stares at school, the way they talked about me behind me back. I was the school rebel, I befriended the "weird" kids, the staff tolerated me at best and considered me a despising burden at worst. There were bound to be stares when the big red words: TROUBLED KID, was practically painted on my back.
But this felt different. It was a different type of look. The things they whispered when I walked past didn't align with the school kids' rumors. They stared, not because of the gossip they overheard, but because of my face. How I tried to cover up. The way I looked.
This felt - this felt a little more personal.
After the first initial weeks experiencing these stares, it didn't take long to inherit a particular fashion sense. Less skin showing as possible was my best option. Staying on the down-low was the goal. Keep those stares, and the way they made my stomach squirm and my shoulders hunch, as far away from me as possible. My self-esteem was already choking on its last fumes, I had to have something to keep me going.
It was hard enough knowing I looked this way every day. I didn't need anyone to remind me.
There are small lines of people waiting by each of the cash registers, so I linger near the aisles, pretending to look over spaghetti sauces and spice packets until there's an opening. Once a register clears up, I quickly stride across the floor and all but claim it by dumping my packed dinners on the rolling belt. The employee working the register jumps a little. He huffs softly, straightens his name-tag with irritated fingers - Gary Darish, it reads - and snatches up the box of hot-pockets to be scanned away. Our interaction is nice and quick, with him keeping his eyes down to scan items and me turning my back to him in an innocently feigned act of looking around the room in impatience.
"Anything else, sir," he drawls, short and bored, after the last box is beeped through, and I shake my head. Trying to turn without looking at him is hard, and I'm not as successful as my skills would lead me to believe. I loop the grocery bags into my arms, quick, but I'm not fast enough. Through my peripheral vision he looks up, and I catch his eye widen, mouth falling slightly - surprised, caught-off-guard. Horrified. Then I look up and his gaze plummets to the black rolling belt, face flushing when he's caught.
"Hav-have a good day," he stutters, purposely tapping at the register, looking over some microscopic problem in the screen. I shoulder the bags and try to ignore my own shroud feel of squirming discomfort. I've never really known what mortals saw through the mist when they looked at me - a burn victim? Someone heavily scarred? A cripple? - but whatever it was liked grabbing peoples attention. The dude's eyes glance between me and the cash register as I grab all my groceries, trying, unsuccessfully, to be sneaky about it. I take one last look at him when all the groceries hang off my arms.
He doesn't look much older than me.
Chiron warned us not to think like this, but a part of me wonders what his life was like and whether or not mine would be like that too if I wasn't born a demigod. What would it be like if I had a normal life? It was negative, destructive thinking. There were courses at Camp dedicated to helping new demigods adjust to their new sudden lives. You couldn't thrust a kid into a world of gods, monsters, constant danger, and fighting for their lives without dangerous repercussions. Yes, the honed senses were explained, and our ADHD felt at home among the Greek and Latin-based camps - but there were still so many questions. So many things to miss about being purely mortal. Going places without fear of being attacked by a monster. Using technology without sending up an invisible flair about your current location. Not having to do quest after quest for ungrateful gods who made messes where ever they stuck their noses.
If I wasn't born a demigod, where would I be right now?
Probably not in some store in Chicago getting worked up over a kid staring at me.
"Thanks," I said, trying not to sound bitter as I feel, and turn away. "You have a good day too."
I wrap the scarf tighter around my face. I don't dare step outside without it. But even then, even without my skin showing, people shoot me with glances. Raised eyebrows. Suspicious frowns.
There were no escaping the looks, no matter what I did.
Disassembling guns is surprisingly therapeutic.
Unclipping them, taking the pieces apart, clicking them back together, oiling the joints and metal to keep it slick and usable. It was a nice way to keep my mind off things and let my fingers do something other than tap against my leg or wring each other's neck.
Cleaning my weapons was probably the brightest part of my day.
After getting my mortal weapons polished - the guns and knives that would actually affect a mortal - I turned my attention to my half-blood tools. Specially made things I've gotten from my supplier. A few small knives, shrapnel grenades made with celestial bronze, hooked daggers, bullets designed to hurt monsters. My two guiltily prized possessions were two swords, one made of celestial bronze and the other of hard steel. Together, with both swords, I could take down mortal and monster alike without worrying about the material of which weapon I grabbed.
My supplier had asked me what I would name them, cause any fine weapon deserved to be consummated with a name that matched. What I didn't tell him was that the first word that popped on my tongue was one that still made chills rattle my spine: Backbiter.
Luke's specially made sword. One side celestial bronze, the other steel. Just thinking of the name and I was thrown back into battle against the sword, hearing its terrible clang against Riptide as we traded blows. I could remember the scarred face wielding the nightmarish weapon, his look of hatred and pity, the snarl he wore because I didn't understand and he had to cut me down because of it.
Backbiter was a weapon that should stay in the past, nor did I want to carry out its legacy. But I couldn't deny its, albeit it, gruesome effectiveness. The ability to cut down monsters and mortal alike, especially in my line of work, was useful. But while I didn't use my two swords to wage war against the gods and mankind, it still left my tongue souring every time I used them. It was a kind of power that could easily turn sadistic if its wielder slips, so I try not to use them as much as possible.
I didn't name the swords.
But they did make me miss my sword.
Cleaning all my weapons takes a couple of sweet, time-consuming, mind-attracting hours to complete, and I was so disappointed when I was done that I was tempted to clean them all over again. Sometimes when the days were long and there was nothing to do, the voices came back. As if bored with his mediocre lifestyle beyond fighting and killing for money, they'd whisper things in his ears, suggestions.
There were ships in the Chicago waters, what a shame if something were to go wrong and it sunk. All those poor mortals who couldn't get off in time.
There's a fuse box down in the building basement, something could happen. Explosions happened all the time. The building is old anyway.
That person looked at me funny, perhaps I should show them something to truly fear.
Mortal lives are so fleeting anyway. Might as well spare them the pain of actually living.
I needed something to do. I have to keep them away.
The wounds my skin takes on only increases the voices affects. My skin prickles, it burns, my insides were cold and broken, then hot and searing, blisters, cuts, blood everywhere. Adrenaline, aggression, energy that needs an outlet.
As if sensing my mental distress, a shooting pain tears through my side. I gasp around the feeling of an arrow shooting through my ribs, likely the same one I shot through Geryon on his ranch. Its phantom point is lodged somewhere deep inside, its shaft splintering and impaling through bone as if they're made of thin ice. Breathing gets harder the more air I try to suck in, and I think I can feel something warm and wet filling up the empty spaces of my lungs, up to my throat. Drowning me.
The clashing panic of choking on blood and impaired breathing spur my legs to stand.
When I try, one knee buckle as a new pain climbs up my thigh like fiery poison. I collapse immediately, coughing out invisible blood, and all feeling of my knee on down vanishes. As if not there at all. I think of an ax and water beds.
"Damn you to Tartarus, Crusty," I choke, one arm holding my thigh where raw, rugged pain is hammering my upper leg, while the other swings over my ribs as if to appease its pain with pressure.
For several minutes, I can't move. I don't even dare an attempt. But after hour-long minutes, the pain makes no hint toward ebbing, and there's no point in curling into a whimpered hamster ball waiting for it to go away. Found out real quick that that did no good.
Barring myself, I take a deep breath, clench my eyes, grit my teeth, and push up to my feet. My body is screaming in all its reproach, but I gird past it and stumble my way toward the bathroom on one functioning leg. But only a few feet away from my destination my other leg goes out - a late bloomer, I suppose - but identical in its pain to its opposite.
"Damn you, Crusty,"
I can't walk. My body is convinced both legs have been cut short, and with the pain ripping up from the should-be stumps, I'm prepared to believe it too. I can almost feel real blood seeping out from the skin, staining the wood-floor under me. My muscles seize, and my ribs are consumed in a wild-fire. Sucking in a weak, raspy breath, I resort to crawling forward, bit by bit. I nudge the door open with my head and keep crawling. My breaths come out scratchy and hoarse, my body slumped and rigid. I probably look like an extra from a zombie film.
I get to the tub and don't even wait to take off my clothes as I pull myself in and turn the knobs. Both of them, hot and cold. Water comes gushing out of the faucet and splashes my front in the first few, sweet, sweet relieving drops. Slumping against the tub edge, I melt into the side as it begins to fill. Once reaching my legs, the pain gets watery and thin.
My head clears from the poisonous fog shrouding it. Breathing is a little easier. My arm still clings to my side, but the other lays peacefully under the running water. I suck in deep pockets of air, filling my lungs to drive our the ache setting up home.
How did I survive three years like this? Why can't it just end? Why can't I end it? I've tried everything. Bullets were useless. Blades didn't nothing. Not even cold hard concrete from hundreds of feet below seemed to do the trick. I was indestructible to all outside forces, subject only to the pain my body could re-invent. Pain and injuries that didn't even belong to me. Stuck with tormentors in my head that drove me to try new things, cause you never know, one might work.
And I hate how that thought, even after all this hellish living, scared me. What if one of these times it did work. I want it to. Gods of Olympus, did I want it to. There was only one thing I wanted more than to finally end all this agony.
Annabeth.
"I wa-want Annabeth..."
So much agony, because I can't have her either. The sob pushes on my ribs and brings the pain back to life. The tears burn, but they're familiar and habitual. I can't care anymore. My body shakes, and I feel as though my bones are cracking and popping from their joints. I bring my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them to hold them in place, and cry into the space between. I feel small in my tiny, bathtub corner. Too small to mean a thing.
I want Camp back. I want my friends back. I want my mom. And Paul. And Chiron. And Blackjack. And my cabin. And Riptide. And Annabeth. I want my Annabeth.
I want...
I want...
I...want...
I...
I'm dying. I have to be dying. I can feel the pain before I open my eyes, before I've even risen out of unconsciousness.
It harsh, and punishing and everywhere. Not an inch of me is spared. Every nerve is being pushed beyond its limits. My inside are under siege, falling pitifully against the rolling army that seems to be tearing me up inside. My liver is shredded. My ribs are crumbling. My veins bursting. My skin cracking. There's acid in my throat, and it's burning up toward my tongue, and my eyes, and my head. I - I can't think.
A wave roars in my ear, and I hear someone screaming. The sound of a dying animal begging to be put down. I can hear its words, sobbing, crying.
"Make it stop! Please make it stop! Gods, it hurts! PLEASE!"
My lips are moving. Somewhere in the back of my head, I register that I'm the one screaming.
Someone new appears, but my eyes are so blurred with tears I can't make out who it is. They're saying something, but I can't hear past my own screams. I can feel water on me, around me, but it's not doing anything. Why isn't it healing me? Why am I still in so much PAIN?
I need to go. I need to stop this. Please, the water isn't helping. PLease, please, PLEASE! Someone pushed me down when I try to rise and the contact feels like thousands of white-hot needles sinking into my skin. The water reacts before I can react to the touch, and the person hits the far wall with a splash.
"CHIRON!" the person resorts to yelling. "I NEED HELP IN HERE! HE'S NOT SETTLING DOWN!"
Clopping noises outside, my sense sky-rocket and everything little thing stands out. My eyes clear, slightly, past the blur. I'm in a bathroom. I'm in a bathtub. The rustling of the bath curtain is sharp and grating, the familiar soaked boy on the ground is breathing hard and it feels like someone is hammering nails into my ears.
The door opens and someone wheels inside. A noise from a room outside filters in. It's in pain too. But its pain is different. It's hollow and grieving, shrieking and suffering. It's familiar too and makes my heart bleed.
"PERCY!" It's tormented cries scream, choked sobs and a scratched voice. "WHERE ARE YOU? WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME? PERCY? PERCY?!" it breaks off into anguished sobs. "WHY DID YOU LEAVE? PLEASE COME BACK! PLEASE-" the door closes and cuts it off.
"Percy," I see brown hair, kind, concerned eyes. "Percy, my boy, can you hear me?"
"Hurts-" I scramble out. "Chi-Chiron. It's hurt! Everything - everthing - I can't," I break off into fumbling sobs, "Please - please."
"I know, I know," he says, leaning down. "We're gonna help. I promise we're gonna help. Will, get some more nectar and ambrosia. Hurry!"
"We're - we're getting low on supply, Chiron. Demigods are still coming in. I - I don't think we'll have enough for them and him."
"Then - then get some more water. We have to do everything we can."
The door opens again.
"WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME? WHERE DID YOU GO? I DIDN'T - I - PLEASE! PERCY!? PERCY, PLEASE COME BACK!?-"
I jerk up in the water, panic grasping my throat and wringing my neck to wake me up. I gasp and fuse myself to the tub, squeezing the sides so hard my knuckles are white. The water splashes and rolls along my body and tub walls, inundating both with small waves that splash over the side and onto the floor.
I shake my head, trying to loosen her voice where it's still shrewdly pinned into my brain. Her screams. Thinking I had abandoned her when I had only been across the hall. The water is still going and I turn it off, running a hard hand over my face to scrub away all remnants of ghastly sleep.
The pain from early had dulled.
So why did my heart still hurt?