A Thousand Years:

Chapter Twelve:
Thalia's P.O.V:

. . .

I was all dressed up to run away. My duffel bag was filled with dollar bills and credit cards I had snagged from one of my mother's unused purse. Four sets of clothes accompanied them, mostly black and ripped. I was still in my uniform, the stockings itchy against my legs and the tie too tight around my throat. I was eager when I could finally change, but that wouldn't be until after the bus ride. I was jittery and nervous-although it was proved that my mother didn't care for me much, (or at all) there was still the slim possibility that she would notice my absence and call the police. I pressed my chapped lips into a tight line. That was definitely wishful thinking.

I ignored the glances cast at me from bystanders as I impatiently waited for the bus, fingertips drumming up against the tear in the fabric of my thigh, feeling the warm skin beneath. I tightened the straps of the bag, feeling the wind brush through my long hair. It wouldn't be long now. The bus would take me to Long Island, and from there...

Well, I wasn't actually sure yet. The thought made a shaky sigh escape, my stomach twisting uncomfortably. Too young to get a job and rent a motel, but much too old to put up with my mother any longer. I just couldn't handle it anymore. The weight of the world was too heavy on my shoulders, but no one lifted it away. I licked my split lip, hoping that the makeup was enough to hide the darkening bruise that I had received this morning. I brushed one of my dark tendrils aside, trying not to seem out of place.

"Maybe this is a bad idea," I murmured to myself, crossing my legs. It would be easy to go back there. Back to my home. Back to my mother. Back to my mother's boyfriends. Back to the abuse. Back to the place where I was welcomed with drugs and thick stacks of bills. I blinked my eyes, wincing slightly when my gentle eyelashes brushed against my tender injury. I could just go home right now. My failed escape attempt wouldn't be acknowledged to anyone other than my dignity, and I could keep it a secret. No one would ever have to know that today I tried to run away.

"Where are you headed?"

I would already be home if it wasn't for him.

He was a blonde haired idiot with bright blue eyes.

When I didn't respond, he raised another question. "Are you running away?" His voice wasn't pitiful or disapproving like I had expected. It was respectful and pained. Understanding. Almost as if he had taken a walk in my shoes for a day.

"Possibly," I said slowly. Carefully. You could never be too sure who was out to get you and who wasn't. There could be no trust in a world like this. "What's it to you?" I hoped that my voice had a hardened edge to it, making it well known that I was intimidating. A force to be reckoned with. The vast and undeserving streets of New York City was no place for a child. Then again, I wasn't much of a child anymore. The body of a ten year old, yes, but the mind of a fractured adult. It eventually came to my attention that-why? Why was I doing this? Why was I lingering? I had left school easily, so why not here? Who said I couldn't just ditch life rather than school? I was all dressed to run away, duffel bag filled with dollar bills and credit cards. Combat boots, a school uniform, shredded hair, black 'n blue eye, (though I hadn't planned that) and four changes of clothes.

The bus pulled in.

We stood in frosty silence for a moment or two.

"I'm Luke," he said. "I don't have a dad."

My eyes softened, but I turned so he couldn't see. "Me neither. I'm Thalia."

"I have a mother, but she doesn't take care of me much."

I laughed dryly, chafing my gloved hands together. "We have a lot in common."

We both watched the bus pull away, drowning in the sympathetic presence of each other.

. . .

That was the day that would forever play on repeat.

I woke to the sound of music blaring loudly.

I wouldn't mind starting awake to the flawless sound of Green Day, but I was in too foul of a mood to truly appreciate the song selection. My hair was sweaty and matted to the sides of my cheeks, undoubtedly from the heavy blanket draped over me. I let out a small groan, wilting from the blinding light shining through the bedroom. I tugged it off me and allowed my eyes to close momentarily, soaking in the peace and non-existence that sleep always managed to put me in. Eventually, knowing that Percy and Annabeth would be waiting, I pulled myself from the sweaty covers, blinking down the stars that came.

Deciding that no shower would be best because of how time consuming it would be, I tugged off my clothes. I replaced them with a pair of worn jeans and a white t-shirt, pulling my hands through the tight leather of the jacket I always wore. Taking a heaving breath, I opened the door, pushing myself through the cramped opening. When my father was still around, (before he had ditched my mother and I for margaritas and swimsuit models anyway) we lived in an expensive home. I went to a private school, itchy skirt and all, and my life revolved around my father's company and how I would eventually take over it. My mother Beryl was caring (with black hair rather than bleached) and she always made sure to take time out of her busy schedule to spend time with me. Even then, however, my childlike mind knew deep down that she'd rather be at a prestigious art opening than with me. It was one of those situations where her real daughter was in fact a diamond necklace and a lace dress.

Her neglect was proven blatantly when I was seven, and I walked in on my mother having sex. I had gotten sent home after a blistering fever took its hold on me, excused of any regular school duties. I waited patiently for my nanny to arrive (or my mother, although I doubted that) to take me home, but as the minutes grew to gradual hours the feeling of the nurse's prodding eyes grew unbearable. The questioning stares got suffocating, and eventually my temper shortened and then simmered. When the nurse wasn't looking, I slipped from the room, then simply opened the door to the school and walked out. It was exhilarating, the immense amount of freedom that had swept over me. It excited me, but also scared me. I knew that my days of being safe and sheltered were over. I was sniffling, sneezing, and red eyed, but I took a bus to my apartment complex, the grip on my backpack weak.

When I got home, I wandered around blankly, unsure of what exactly to do. I had just broken the rules. I had just shattered the notion that others should take care of me. Frightened for my mother's patronization when she discovered what I had done, I lingered in the kitchen. I let out a sigh, another huff, then climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

There was a man on top of her. A man that wasn't my father.

They both laughed when they saw my confusion. He grinned, climbed up, and then slammed the door in my face.

I stared at the white paint of the door for a moment or two, listening to the animistic noises coming loudly from the bedroom. I went back down the stairs. I made myself a sandwich, and attempted to take the proper amount of cold medicine. I didn't die then, so I guess I had done it correctly. The man left after another half hour, his shirt unbuttoned and belt undone. He ruffled my long hair before doing so, yellow teeth grinning. The door closed. The door opened an hour later, and my father waltzed in. When he questioned her absence, I told him she was sick and resting. I told him that she had given me medicine beforehand and made me lunch. I told him all the things I had done for myself, masked by a lie that he took in stride. It was that day that I knew everything was going to change.

Months passed. Life got worse.

Zeus caught Beryl cheating on him for the fifth time before he decided to leave.

My mother was like a leech that drained all the money from my father. Although I couldn't say I blamed his resentment for my selfish mother, why did that hatred have to spread to me? It seemed that whenever he looked at my bright blue eyes and locks of silky dark hair, he could only see a pile of ignited money. He hadn't bothered to say goodbye to me when he eventually left. My mother was drunk when he had packed up his suitcases. She was crying, sobbing, kneeling on the floor and begging him to stay. When it became clear that those methods wouldn't work, she resorted to violence. She threw items at him, screamed until her throat rang ragged, cursed until she could curse no more, and eventually fell to the floor sniveling again.

All the while I was seated at the table, chewing thoughtfully on carrot sticks, watching the events play out. Of course my stomach churned and my throat tasted of bile, but I knew he would stay if I showed him any sign of pleading. And I didn't want him to stay. I wanted him to go. Because as much as I hated both of them, I hated my mother more, and he didn't deserve to be chained down like me. He didn't say anything once he stepped across the door, mascara running down my mother's cheeks. He did glance back at me then. Caught my blue eyes with his own, a silent conversation passing between us. Perhaps a silent promise or comforting words that went unspoken. I would never know.

Then he was gone.

He never came back, and my mother had been a wreck ever since.

I sometimes wondered what would've happened if he had stayed. If things could've gotten better, if things got even worse...

But then I never would've gotten to meet Annabeth and Percy.

That was a great unthinkable.

I had met Annabeth before Malcolm had died, but we hadn't been very close. My life was a flurry of taking care of my mother and the mortgage, all while balancing school and paperwork. They had a picture perfect life, that Chase family. A hardworking mother, a clever daughter, an even smarter son, and a go-lucky father. Life was great for them, and a small part of me often longed to set fire to their house. But that would reduce me to selfishness, and there was nothing more I despised than being anything like my mother. I knew nothing bad would happen to the Chase household as I watched from afar. Mr. and Mrs. Chase would live a long and happy life together, full of grandchildren, while Annabeth and Malcolm would go off to Dartmouth or Harvard and become lawyers or doctors.

That all changed in an instant, and I had witnessed first-hand the unraveling of perfection.

Their son had died in a car accident.

I was wrong.

Even perfection could be severed.

Annabeth was only seven.

It would be a lie to say I didn't see myself in her. It would be another lie to say that I didn't take her under my wing to spite my mother and past. When I finally met Annabeth officially, she was so fragile and lost. Athena was so overcome by her grief that she spent endless hours just staring out a window, reliving the tragic day that was reflected in her eyes. Her father thrust himself into work; housework, his job, repairing cars, obsessing over wars- it grew too much for their daughter. She was left alone, unloved. Abandoned. Just like me, and I didn't want her to end up like me. So instead of relying on herself for taking medicine while sick and making lunch while hungry, she had me. I took care of her until her parents were able to, but it was clear that she never truly forgave them for that period in her life when she had to be saved by a complete stranger, and then eventually a friend. It was also clear that Athena never forgave me for taking her role and stealing her spotlight. My reasons were both selfish and selfless. I thought I could mend myself, redeem myself, if I helped her.

Luke was another story. One that I didn't want to think about anymore. One that was too painful to even consider thinking about.

I tiptoed down the stairs, hand clutching the railing beside me. My boots lightly touched the ends of them, allowing them to sink into the silent parts. I tried to keep my presence unknown and inaudible, but somehow she heard me anyway.

"Thalia?" Beryl's voice was hoarse and undignified, but not fogged over. That was a good sign. I stepped into the kitchen, eyebrows furrowing together at the sight in front of me. She hit pause on the Green Day track before looking at me, a ghost of a smile spreading across her lips.

"You're cooking," I stated. I bit back the and you're not drunk part.

She shrugged flippantly, the edges of her bleached hair curled. The house was tidier too, pizza boxes and beer bottles picked up and thrown into the garbage. My hand lingered near the car keys, but froze when she began to speak again. "I thought we could have breakfast together for a change. I feel like I never see you anymore." This wasn't a new occurrence. She got like this sometimes, all cheerful and put together. The first time I saw her like this, the house like this, hope bubbled within me. Because she seemed normal; she looked like the shell of a person I once knew. I thought my mother was slowly returning, piece by piece, bit by bit. She could be my mother for a few days, even apply for a job, completely dismissing the person she was the day before. Acting like she was never drunk, never stoned, and pretending that she had never struck me. In the end, no matter how strong she seemed now, my mother would slink back to the drugs. To the alcohol. To the abuse. I learned never to trust her because all that brought was disappointment.

"Wonder why," I retorted dryly.

She stiffened, but stubbornly refused to say anything. She cooked eggs, occasionally flipping them. It was a sloppy mess in the pans and pots, but I didn't comment. Whenever she cooked, the food always tasted off, and she always ended up burning something. Beryl could burn anything. Even water. I reached out to help her, (to save the food) but she swatted my hand away. "I'm good, Thalia. Why don't you take a seat?"

Suspicious and hesitant, I begrudgingly complied. I watched her from the corner of my blue eyes. She was whistling as she cooked, and I spotted the vacuum to the left of her. I swallowed, pondering exactly why she was doing this, and whatever the reason, it couldn't be good. The smell of eggs and bacon filled the house. I took a sip of the orange juice on the table, trying to get the stale taste of last night from my mouth. That party had been an awful idea, especially the fact that Percy and Annabeth had tagged along with me. Guilt washed over me. I never should've done that to them. What kind of 'mother' was I? The bacon sizzled and popped, grease slathering on the sides. Steam rose from the eggs and I heard the familiar ding of the toaster. She wiped down the counters as she worked, keeping everything neat and tidy. While her productive attitude was rare, it wasn't new. This on the other hand, was a change. The house was never clean, and she never even bothered with going grocery shopping.

Try as I might, optimism festered inside of me and arose. I tried to slam the feelings down, brush them away, but they continued to come back.

"They're not your family, Thalia. I'm the one that gives a rat's ass about you, not them!"

I blinked as my mother set down the plate. "Thank you," I mumbled, making sure the constant reminder that she's not your mother constantly rang in my head.

She beamed, taking a seat next to me. "No problem, sweetheart."

I scraped my fork around as a cold silence swept over us.

"How has school been?"

"Fine," I replied, this feeling of utter normality completely foreign to me. Small talk was never something we had ever done. Talk in general was rare. Usually our conversations consisted of screams, barks, declarations of hatred, crying, and mostly avoidance. I decided not to mention to her how I was barely pulling a C in any of my classes, and that I only showed up for important tests. Ditching and wandering around the city had become my every day schedule.

She cut up a piece of egg. "Thinking of colleges?"

Her question struck me. To be completely honest, I hadn't given college a second thought. I figured that I would be stuck here forever, playing on a loop that was inescapable, getting jobs and struggling to keep the rent. I hadn't thought of the future, but now that I was, I realized that things would change. Percy and Annabeth would grow up. They would go to college here or somewhere far away. They would get jobs. Start families. All the while, I would be stuck here. I ripped off a piece of toast and shoved it in my mouth to smother whatever this new feeling was.

"Yeah," I replied, willing nonchalance to my tone. "A few community ones."

"I'm sure you could get into better ones."

Bitterly, I took another drink. "Maybe." She didn't understand, did she? She couldn't comprehend everything that she had obliterated when she decided to throw herself off the rails. How? How could she not see the hatred in the pools of my eyes every time she came into my line of vision? The fear welling up in my expression if I ran into another one of her boyfriends in the dimly lit hallway? Didn't she notice my uncanny ability to flinch over any loud noise? I wished I could press the information into her, slamming my feelings without confessing them, forcing her to understand the whys and hows. Why I hate her. How it happened. My eyes flickered away. I concentrated on the minute hand of the clock. The second line. Both hands in an endless race to touch each other, to pass each other, even for the briefest moment, and then starting the cycle over again.

But then there was the hour hand, almost forever separated.

I had to wonder...did it ever give up? It never seemed to relent, but what if the endless despair of being quaintly alone was too much to bear? If so, could it? Could it just stop?

A knot was made inside my stomach, one that made eating unbearable. I allowed my knife and fork to twist around the meal, but never bringing it up to take a bite.

A look of hurt flashed across Beryl's face as she followed my gaze. "Somewhere to be?"

I nodded curtly, trying to leave their names out of the conversation. The less she knew about me, the better. I fidgeted uncomfortably in my seat. Ordinarily, if I detested someone, they wouldn't matter to me anymore. I would be rude and obnoxious whenever they entered the room, never allowing myself to show them an inkling of respect. I would just repress their memory and forget about them. I had done that with my father. So why couldn't I do the same with my mother? With Luke? I knew I hated them. I wondered what would happen if they died, and all that filled me was with pure relief. No sadness. Their imaginary departures only brought comfort to me. I guess, no matter how strongly you despised someone, if you had grown with them, it was difficult to sever the ties between times when they cared about you. It was hard to let the memories of my smiling mother fade until I could barely grasp at them, but also easy. It's like jamming things through a door- emotions, memories, feelings, everything- and then locking it. But it's never forgiving. To forget or remember, it's still the most torturous idea that the world has created.

"Somewhere," I echoed in a slightly breathless voice. There was an imploring look on her face, even a demanding one, but I knew that she was too scared of what the answer would be. More scared that I wouldn't bother responding. She thinks that she's close to losing me, I thought in angered bewilderment. What she doesn't realize is that she already lost me. A long time ago.

"I think we should talk," she spoke to me like I was a bomb. And maybe I was. And maybe if she cut the wrong wire, I would explode right in her face. "It's been a while since we spoke."

I couldn't remember the last time I said one word to her. Weeks? Months? Years? All the days blended together. "And whose fault is that?" I asked dryly, malice leaking into my voice.

She cleared her throat to silence me, but that didn't stop my scowl from deepening. "I understand that you're angry with me, but I want to fix things."

At that, my head recoiled back and my anger re-doubled. "It's a little too late for that."

Beryl stared at me blankly, her smile fading and twisting into a look of obtuse confusion. "What has gotten into you?"

It was the utter shock in her tone that snapped me from my revere. I ripped myself up from the chair so fast that my knee jerked against the wood, and I chomped down on my lip to keep from cursing. Still, the painful throbbing to my leg was nothing compared to the heated rage that rushed through me. My mother's blue eyes widened in alarm at my abruptness, her fork still hanging in midair. Why was she so surprised? Her puzzlement was the very last straw, and my boots began to walk in the opposite direction.

Beryl huffed out a weak set of laughs, but I caught the plead in them. "I'm trying here, Thalia. I really am. The least you can do is support me."

I didn't share her laugh. "Why would I ever support you?" I demanded, far too late to evade the confrontation altogether.

"Because you're my daughter!" her voice caught, raised an octave, then broke off completely. She rubbed her temple soothingly with a new set of painted nails, annoyance and desperation clear on her face. "Why must you make things so difficult all the time?"

An inconvenience. That's all I was to her.

"Me and you- we're just problems for our families."

"Sorry," I apologized mockingly, not bothering to hide my disgust. "I guess I'll just leave if I'm too bothersome." I turned to go, and thought about how proud Luke would be of me for finally taking a stand. That's all that kept me going. Even the bruise planted on my thighs and wrists couldn't brush the image of old Luke away, smiling softly and cheering me on.

Beryl shook her head wretchedly, practically flying from her seat. She grasped onto my wrist, halting my destination. "Please don't go. Please." Incredulously, I caught glimpse of the tears in her eyes. The raw pain in her voice. "I love you, Thalia. I can't do this without you."

I didn't know which surprised me more. The fact that this was the first time my mother told me that she loved me (and meant it) or the pathetic anguish she thought would actually make me stay. I jerked my hand out of her grip, fighting back a set of repressed sobs that kept building up in the back of my throat. "No," I whispered. "You don't get to do this."

"Just give me a second chance," she pleaded, latching onto me again. She was going into hysterics, hiccupping and crying profusely. "Just a second chance!"

"I already have!" I burst. "And a third chance! And a forth chance! And a fifth chance! Frankly, I've run out of chances."

Our conversation soon morphed into incoherent screams, sobs, and shrieks.

"You're going to leave me!" she blubbered onward, gesturing to the breakfast laid out. "After I did all this! You're just like your father!"

Zeus knelt down so we were at eye level. I could hear my mother's drunken slurs from outside the room. "Thalia."

"Daddy?"

"You're a good girl." He smiled a watery smile. "Such a good girl."

"Are you going to leave, daddy?"

At that, he shook his head. He smoothed the crinkles in my shirts out, and I could see his lips quivering. "Take care of your mother, okay?"

"Okay."

All the breath left me like a physical blow. All my emotional turmoil laid out in front of me. Of all the things she could've said, it was the one that I had been striving to ignore. The cut was so deep that not even her newest set of tears could bring forth any sympathy. I struck her with my open palm, the slap so loud that surely the entire neighborhood could hear it. Beryl staggered back, clearly not expecting such violence, her cheek reddening as she gaped at me. I stumbled backward, heaving through burning eyes, and I could finally see the comprehension dawning in her eyes. Did she finally realize it? How much I hated her? How much I was afraid of her?

She held out her hands helplessly, as if expecting an embrace. "Thalia..."

I brushed the wetness from my cheeks.

She called my name. Once. Twice. Three times before I finally slammed the door to our house.

She wasn't my family. Luke wasn't my family.

Percy and Annabeth were.

They were my neighbors. My best friends. My siblings. My children.

I stood on the porch, gathering myself. With trembling hands, I lit a cigarette with my Marilyn Monroe lighter. I knew what that familiar feeling was now. The one I had felt earlier.

Percy and Annabeth would grow up.

Abandonment.

A/N: I'm so sorry for the long wait. I really have to get out of this update-once-a-month-funk. UGH. This (in my opinion) is one of the worst chapters to a story I've ever written. I apologize for that. Hopefully you somewhat enjoyed reading it. On the bright side, we've reached the 300 reviews mark! You guys rock. Seriously.

As a gift, I'll give you guys the best book quote ever written:

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT MY PARENTS OWN THE WORLD'S LARGEST COLLECTION OF BLACK SANTAS!"- Paper Towns

I hope that changed your life.

Good or bad, reviews are always welcomed!