7.
As I rifled though online blogs dedicated to book reviews, I thought about Annabeth's ill-felt mortality repulsion. Being able to feel pain isn't unfortunate. It is the one gift we have to recieve; the dosage of reality that reminds us of our place. No man should ever not feel pain. The cruel truth of it is that pain is necessary, wether temporary or permanent.
"I am on paragraph two of our book report," she told me. "Exactly how many do we need?"
"As much as it would take to please Mr Dionysus," I said soberly.
"Did you bring a toothbrush, then?"
At exactly two in the morning, Annabeth sent me the draft for me to finalise. The first four paragraphs were our opinions on his writing style and a basic summary of the book. What we loved, and what we would change. But there, on the bottom of the page, she wrote her bit:
What was the moral of the story? For what purpose did you force, upon us, this amazing piece of literature? It's actually come to my attention my copy is of the revised edition, with that horribly untruthful ending. The un-truth. (It's a story, Mr Dionysus, and there is never deceit in a story written by a man with a brilliant mind.) The un-truth; the gray between the truth and lie. And that's what this ending was like. Estella wasn't supposed to end up with Pip. This is the biggest tragedy I am facing, among several painful others. Why have you done this to me? Only in these rewritten books, ever, would we find the main character gets what he wants. This un-truth is the biggest un-truth my days have brought upon me, and I am maddeningly disappointed its benefactor is you. Cowardice! Cowardice of the painful actuality of the situation. My dear, dear partner Percy Jackson will now have to live his life with the un-truth. How cruel. How cruel. Estella should have died in a ripe age, not with Pip, but (the) doctor. She should have been left to rot with the doctor. Pip, dear boy, wouldn't have had a prosperous life, had the story not be rewritten, but he would have had an honest, albeit fictional life.
"Well," I smiled sideways, "At least it doesn't lack that dramatic flare Mr Dionysus begged for."
She looked at me. She tilted her head slightly and looked at me. She stared at me. I was vaguely reminded of a lioness crouching, prepared to pounce on her pray. "Percy, dear, Percy. Did you even read my ending?" she asked, and I shook my head slightly. "My god, Chase, I didn't just read your ending. I fucking believed in your ending." She smiled at me, before crawling onto her bed.
"So," she yawned, "we actually finished the book report." I watched her carefully.
"Yes."
"But we still have not," she paused, "done the darn diddly deed."
"No."
"Good thing too," she yawned again, "I'm drunk and newly single and you're not drunk and-"
"I can let myself out, Annabeth Chase," I promised. She fell asleep immediately. I took her copy of Great Expectations and scribbled on the back page:
love is pain, but even and especially when we have nothing, pain is something we never lose.