chapter thirty-four: not to survive, but to live

As summer bleeds on, Percy begins to allow himself to look towards the future. Somehow, it seems like all his friends know what they're going to do with themselves for the rest of their goddamn lives. They seem ready to leave Virginia, to leave the only home they've ever known. And Percy's always wanted to get out of this place more than all of them combined; up until the last year, his youth was characterised by the potent desire to get the hell out of this dust-ridden town and escape the painful memories associated with it. But the need to leave was borne out of a desire to survive, rather than a desire to live. And at long last, he's finally starting to live—so he's no longer sure if he wants to leave.

The uncertainty is paralysing. He won't be with the others anymore. He might not even be with Annabeth anymore, though they've managed to avoid talking about that on the basis of fear. Maybe their affection is built for long distance; maybe it's not. The foundation of this life he's built for himself has begun to crumble, and Percy has no idea if he should try to keep it standing or let it fall.

He's been tentatively searching for an apprenticeship. At first, he hoped to sign on somewhere as a mechanic, but the more thought he gives it, the more an apprenticeship seems like something he could do. He has the experience, for sure. And after pouring a lot of work into his exam results, he came up with a respectable grade in math. The only thing stopping him is his own hesitation, and he decides it would be stupid to allow that to hold him back any longer.

Still, he supposes that isn't the only thing holding him back. Even though he's been taking it easier at work, his joints aren't any better. Neither is the fatigue. He wishes he knew why his body's being like this, but it's not as simple as replacing a car part or rewiring a circuit. Bodies are complicated. And this doesn't feel superficial; it feels integral.

Recently, the horrifying idea that the pain might be a remnant of his time in the trailer has been nagging at him. It reminds him of the time he spent in the hospital with several broken bones and that godawful concussion. The hearing in his left ear became temporarily flimsy, and he was filled with fear every time it faded in and out. When his concussion healed, so did his hearing. But now, whenever Percy has to ask Annabeth to massage out the invisible knots in his aching shoulders, he wonders if his stepfather really did come up with the winning hand.

One warm Tuesday, Annabeth receives a response from CalArts. They're standing on the cracked sidewalk outside The Winehouse when she tears opens the letter with vigour. After a moment, her face falls. Percy's heart thuds into his stomach. He's already reaching out when she whispers, "This isn't fair."

Gently removing the letter from her shaking grip, he pulls her into a hug. "It's okay. You've still got three more colleges to hear back from. They're the ones missing out, alright? Not you."

She nods, but Percy can tell she isn't convinced. He knows how much going to such a good college would've meant to her. "I still might get into SVA," she says, as though she's reassuring herself.

Living in New York would probably be a dream for her, even if SVA isn't as esteemed. "Exactly. So you don't need to worry, okay?" She nods in response, managing a quiet smile.

A few days later, she receives an email from the photography competition she applied to during finals. Second place. She didn't win the cash prize, but Percy knows she doesn't care about that. Her work's going to be featured in a magazine, seen by people all across the country. He doesn't quite know what to think of the idea of his own face pasted in a photography collection, but he supposes he'd better get used to it.

Then, at the end of the week, she finally hears back from SVA. Her face is pale as she opens the letter, but she needn't have worried. "I got in!" she practically screams, launching herself into Percy's arms.

"I knew you would," he laughs, squeezing her tight. He's not lying; there was no chance in hell of them turning Annabeth away. But despite his joy, fear begins to settle over him. New York. How can he possibly hope to follow her all that way?

Percy resolves to try, at least. He doubles down on his search for an apprenticeship, this time focusing his efforts on New York. Most of the apprenticeships there are for engineering, not mechanics, but...He'll have to be good enough. As he works through the applications, he doesn't tell Annabeth what he's doing; he doesn't want her to know yet. It's unlikely he'll land one, and it would be awful to raise her expectations only to destroy them again.

Annabeth takes the train to visit Bobby and Matthew for a few days. Percy's glad they'll have some time to catch up; he knows there's been bad blood between them ever since she got her partial emancipation. A summer storm passes over Virginia as June fades into July. Percy's come to hate the rain; though bad weather can be a nice respite from Virginia's ever-consuming heat, there's something about the change in pressure that causes his joints and sinews to ache even more. Though he's grown accustomed to the pain over the past year or so, he's beginning to reach the end of his patience. Time has done nothing to lessen it—if anything, his body hurts more. The fatigue's gotten worse, too. Percy can't shake the feeling that something must be wrong.

Against every instinct he's ever known, he books a doctor's appointment. He has health insurance now; it was the first thing his social workers demanded he should budget when he was emancipated, but he's been loath to use it. Though he knows in theory that he doesn't have to grit his teeth through new discomforts anymore, his subconscious hasn't quite registered that truth.

Annabeth's still busy with her brothers, so he drives to the doctor's office alone. He's caught in the rain during the run from the Pontiac to the building, and cold drops of water drip from his hair down his neck by the time he finally steps through the door. Nervousness thrums in his fingertips as he signs his name on the sheet the receptionist offers him. After only a few minutes of sitting and waiting, his name is called.

The doctor starts by asking Percy what's troubling him. It's an effort not to shrink into himself as he describes the continual ache in his joints that's been present for months and the tiredness that often threatens to send him to sleep. She takes notes—the scratch-scratch of her pen against paper is almost jarring. "Any other symptoms?" she asks.

Symptoms. Percy's never thought of them like that. "No."

"And this has been going on for a year?"

"Maybe longer. It took a while for me to notice."

"You really should've come for an appointment sooner," she chides him. Standing up, she snaps on a pair of latex gloves. "I'm going to check for tender points on your neck, shoulders and elbows. That alright?" He nods in response. Stepping behind his chair, she places a thumb on the back of his neck and presses with some force. His wince isn't subtle, and she immediately stops. "Did that hurt?"

"A little."

Writing something down on her notepad, she nods. "Lift your arm, please."

Percy's in the doctor's office for an hour. His pressure points sing with discomfort by the time she's finished, but she seems overwhelmingly certain as she writes everything up.

"I've been looking at your medical records," she tells him. "You have a history of abuse. Isn't that right? The patterns of skeletal fractures on the X-rays in your records confirmed my suspicions. I believe the pain you're feeling may be a result of fibromyalgia. It can be caused by repeated injury."

His brow furrows. "What's that?"

"Fibromyalgia as a condition isn't anything dangerous," she reassures him. "Chronic pain, stiffness and fatigue are its main symptoms, though it can also cause headaches and affect your sleep." He must've been looking troubled, because she continues, "Really, you don't need to worry. Now that you've received a diagnosis, I can prescribe you painkillers. I'll give you a leaflet with all the information you need."

"So you can't get rid of it?"

She purses her lips. "I'm afraid not. But we can manage it."

Her words echo, clanging through him. When Percy gets back into the Pontiac with a paper bag full of painkillers under his arm and a leaflet in his hand, he groans and thuds his head down onto the steering wheel. He knows he's supposed to feel relieved that someone's told him what's wrong with him, but he doesn't. He feels like the floor's slipping away beneath his feet, like someone's buried a knife between his ribs and won't pull it out. He thought he escaped the trailer without any lasting injuries thrust upon him, but he was wrong. He was wrong.

He heads home to his apartment, feet dragging with every step. He's tired—so fucking tired. He sits at his desk and stares for a moment at his open laptop screen. It still displays the application he sent to an apprenticeship in New York this morning. He hasn't received a response from them yet. In the moment, it feels so far out of reach that he wants to scoff.

A text from Annabeth lights up his phone: will you come with me to church on sunday when I'm home? I was thinking about going again.

A quiet smile tugs at his mouth as he shoots back a response. sure! can't wait to see you :) Thinking about her is easier than dwelling on everything else. Kicking off his shoes, he sets his phone down on his bedside table and falls back onto his bed. He knows distinctly that he has a shift soon, but maybe it wouldn't hurt to rest for a while.

Later that afternoon, Percy finds himself missing Annabeth with fervour as he finishes up his shift. The painkillers he took before heading to Lucy's actually helped—though his joints are still stiff, they don't ache so much. He feels lighter on his feet, too.

He's supposed to meet up with Piper in a few hours, so he's got some time to kill. Settling into the familiar driver's seat of the Pontiac, he switches on the radio and slowly turns the dial. Classic pop floods the car. He hasn't got anywhere to be, but he doesn't feel like going home just yet.

Faces he hasn't seen for a long time trickle through his thoughts as he drives. Rachel. Jane. People he loves, left in a place he hates. He hasn't been back there since the trial, ever since he gathered his belongings from his room and left without looking back. Rachel has probably received word of what happened by now, but he has no idea how much she knows. He should've been a better friend. Still, he doesn't think he would've survived a trip back to the trailer park. Not so soon after getting out of the hospital, anyway.

On impulse, he finds himself turning down a familiar country path. He glimpses a sign: Trailer Park Ahead. Slowing down, he asks himself what the hell he's thinking. No one wants to see him back there. But he doesn't stop—he keeps driving, right up to the gate. Scenes flash through his head like forks of lightning. Blood, pain, the resounding crack of his own temple hitting the step. Knuckles white on the steering wheel, he takes in a shaky breath. Maybe the only way to resolve these all-encompassing memories isn't to bury them, but to confront them.

He'll never confront Gabe. Never. But returning to his childhood home before he leaves for whichever apprenticeship will take him might be the next best thing.

The rain has stopped, leaving dark water and drowned grass in its wake. Mud squelches beneath Percy's sneakers as he shuts the Pontiac's door and approaches the gate. It's a matter of muscle memory to unlock it, pushing it open. The breeze picks up as he heads down the burnt-grass path with his heart in his throat, willing himself to remain calm and logical in the face of the learned terror that washes over him.

It's loud here—louder than he remembers. Music plays somewhere. He takes a breath, then another. Resolutely refusing to look at the trailer he used to call his own, he instead crosses the path and ascends the steps of Rachel's. The light's on inside, signalling her presence. He knocks twice. From within, Rachel's mom shouts, "Darling, can you get the door?"

A familiar voice yells, "Fine." The door creaks open, and suddenly Rachel is before him. She's the same as she ever was: wheelchair-bound, a mess of freckles and frizzy red hair. The only thing that's changed is that—like him—she isn't as young as she used to be.

Uncertainly, Percy raises a hand in greeting. "Hey, Rach."

At once, a thousand emotions flit across her features: anger, confusion, relief. She chokes out, "Jackson? What the fuck?"

He rubs the back of his neck, unsure what to say. "I'm sorry for ghosting you," he tries. "I didn't mean to leave it so long—"

Looking furious, she cuts him off. "Shut up. Stop apologising."

"Um. Okay?"

"Christ, I missed you." She reaches up, tugging him down into a hug. "It's been so long. You're a dick, you know that?"

"I know." With a smile, he adds, "I missed you, too. Wanna go sit at our bench?"

"You better explain everything, alright?" she orders. The harsh words are a flimsy cover for the weariness of her voice.

"I will. Need help with your chair?" he asks. This, too, feels familiar.

She shakes her head. "No, I got it."

It feels surreal to sit down at the bench they used to sit at in the evenings, to tuck his feet under the wooden panel. Rachel eases her wheelchair into the gap at the end, a practised motion. He asks, "How much do you know about what happened?"

"Not much," she responds, drawing circles on the wood with her cherry-painted nail. "I saw your friend stab your good-for-nothing stepfather. I saw the paramedics take you away. After that…" She trails off. "I heard that you won the trial. But I didn't know if you were okay."

"I am," he says quickly. Then, measuredly: "I am now. For a while, I wasn't sure if I would be. But I got my own place, healed up and started work again. Things have gotten better."

"I felt guilty," she admits. "That I didn't fucking—contact the police about him, at the very least."

"I never wanted you to."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, because you're annoying." A pause. "You're not stupid, though. I'm glad you pressed charges against that jackass. How many years did he get?"

"Four years. He'll be out soon."

"Fuck."

"No, it's okay. He can't touch me—I've got a restraining order."

"He should be rotting in there," she mutters. "I hate him so much, you know. I still think about that time you showed up at my door with blood on your face."

He can't bring himself to say, So do I. It's enough to know he's not the only person raging against Gabe for the things he did. Gently, Percy nudges her. "Rach?"

"Yeah?"

"How's your physio been going?" he asks carefully.

She sighs. "It's not going well—or at least, not any better than it ever has. Still, my mom won't let me stop trying."

"I'm glad." Percy's silent for a moment. "Either way, maybe you'll be happier when you leave. This place isn't good, you know."

"Maybe not. But it's still home." Rachel shakes her head, gaze stretching out across the trailer park. She seems downcast, but there's a spark of hope in her eyes when she turns to look at him once again. "I've started making money by selling my art. Not enough to get me and my mom out of here, but she's getting a new job in the fall. Maybe together, we can do it. I might be able to save up enough for surgery."

"You will," he insists. "I know you will."

She shakes her head with a sense of wonder. "God, it's nice to see you again. I thought I wasn't going to, that you'd fucked off for good. Hell, I wouldn't have blamed you if you had. I wouldn't blame anyone for never wanting to come back here."

"I should've, though. It was shitty of me to leave you in the dark about what happened."

"Yeah," she says bluntly. "But I understand why you did."

"You were the only good thing about living here," he tells her.

Rachel's answering smile sings of affection. "So were you."

It's Saturday night, and Percy's half-sprawled on his bed with an old graphic novel in his hands. Without warning, Annabeth walks through the door and lets her bags thud to the floor—she apparently didn't even stop by her estate after the drive back from Bobby and Matthew's care home.

"Hey," he smiles, sitting up.

She says nothing as she kicks off her shoes and hangs up her jacket. As though there's no time to waste, she's beside him in an instant and throws her arms around him. "Missed you," she mumbles, burying her face in his shoulder.

He holds onto her, latching onto the feel of her warmth. Strands of her soft hair tickle his jaw. "I wasn't expecting to see you 'til tomorrow."

"Yeah, well. I asked the cab driver to drop me here instead."

He gets it. "How are Bobby and Matthew?"

"Matthew's doing okay. Bobby, though…" Annabeth trails off. "I can't help. He thinks everything that's happened has hardened him, but he's a kid. He's a kid." She turns her face into the crook of Percy's neck and whispers. "I fucked up. I should never have left them."

"Hey," he chides, gently taking hold of her wrists. "We've had this conversation. You're not to blame for any of it, okay? You were barely keeping yourself alive." She looks exhausted, so he hugs her again. "Let's get some sleep. We've gotta be up early for Mass tomorrow. I'm coming with you to church, remember?"

"I remember. Thanks, by the way." Scrubbing her palms over her face, she heaves an unsteady breath. "I just—"

Percy shushes her. "We can talk tomorrow, alright? I can tell you're tired."

Tucking her knees up into her chest, she curls against him briefly and whispers, "Tomorrow. We'll deal with everything tomorrow."

I can't believe this is the second to last chapter! the final chapter will be up on thursday-sorry about the extra day, but it's going to be a long one. thank you so much for reading, I'd love to hear what you thought! :D