Chapter eleven

ONE YEAR LATER

APOLLO'S POV

My heart is aching

Why did I chase her away?

I am so stupid.

I crumpled the pathetic Haiku and tossed it into the overflowing trash bin next to my desk. It was overflowing because of how many crumpled sheets of good paper I'd used up writing these useless Haikus. I figured if I wrote enough, I might be able to get a good one out of my hurt and guilt that pounded through me every day and maybe it would ease the pain up, if only for a few seconds.

It had been a year since Persephone had left my palace and me and went back to that jerk that'd broke her heart. But then again, I guess I wasn't much better. Usually, we Olympians don't feel time pass. What's a year, here and there when you have eons of life to live for? Soon a year turns into five; five turn into a decade, a decade into a century and a century into a thousand. What's the point of counting one meaningless year when you have millennia more floating through? Drifting in a never-ending sea of supposed happiness and joy, with the occasional kill or genocide here and there to liven things up a bit.

But this year, this horrible, horrid, terrible year,

had all but crawled to a stop. The universe had a sick sense of humor sometimes. These days I can hardly get out of bed without feeling that familiar ache in my chest that suffocated me throughout each endless day. Sometimes I would not even get up, just close my eyes in hope of falling back into a dreamless sleep where I could escape the world for a few restful hours. Other times, I would drag my sorry excuse of a butt out of bed, telling myself that today would be different, determined to forget those ruthless memories that burned themselves into my mind and heart, telling myself over and over again that I could make it that I would wake it through this painful sea of loneliness and bitter resentment.

But alas, my ship would sink again and again every time to the very bottom of the deepest cavern in the blackest of oceans. My soul would be lost yet again, set adrift with nothing to cling to, and even Poseidon himself could not save me even if he wanted to.

So every day I stay locked away in my palace writing depressing poetry with a bottle of rum as my only companion, and play my wretched guitar and sing sad and heart-breaking songs. It seems like what I deserve after what went through with Persephone and I. But I cannot, for the life of me, get her out of my head. Then again there isn't really that much left of me, just a broken shell with no soul in it, singing and moaning to no one. So perhaps since there's nothing left to live for, I'm not really trying to forget. Maybe, subconsciously, I know that I should not be torturing myself like this, that it wasn't my entire fault after all. Maybe, deeply buried inside of me, there is forgiveness. Forgiveness of Persephone, forgiveness of Hades, forgiveness of even myself. Maybe. But I don't think so.

Turn back the clock please

So I can get rid of the

Memories inside.

Call me insane, call me crazy, or call me just a stupid idiot who was foolish enough to think that loving Persephone might've actually worked. Call me any or all of those things, and you would be right. I was jealous that Hades was the one to steal her heart while he was a liar who stole much more: Persephone's heart, her innocence, her pride, her love, and her soul and throw it all away like garbage just because he could. It sickens me to even think about it but I do. I torture myself day and night and even in my dreams because I know I deserve it. I know I should not have kissed her or ran her away like I did. But most of all, I should have turned back around that night and raced back to my palace, apologizing and begging from the knees of my heart for her forgiveness. I shouldn't have kept walking on the road most traveled by. I should have swallowed my pride and dignity like a real man would and turned around to take the road less traveled by. Perhaps it would have saved me from losing Persephone. Perhaps it could have made me grow braver and more confident so that I could say, "Persephone, I love you." Perhaps I should've turned back, because it would have saved me from myself, drowning in my grief and sorrow and helplessness.

But I didn't. And that had been the worst mistake I've ever made.

Coulda woulda shoulda. Now everything was a mess with no way of ever being cleaned up.

Perhaps if you stay

I will learn to forgive you

Or maybe myself.

R&R