chapter nineteen: one and only

Annabeth jerks out of sleep for the third time in the same night, a cry on her lips. Sweat glistens on her skin, and the remnants of her nightmare are still branded on her vision. "God," she mutters, falling back onto her pillow with a thump. It took her hours to get to sleep, only for The Image to tear back her to consciousness again. Reaching an absent hand up to her necklace, her fingers close around the most recent charm hanging from it: the silver owl. Its metal is cold beneath her grasp, soothing and grounding. It's her favourite one so far, and she knows how much it must've cost Percy.

His birthday was last week—always the first sign of summer drawing to a close. To celebrate, they all hung around Annabeth's estate and ordered pizza. It was fun, but Percy seemed scattered and far-off the whole time. Annabeth's aware that's just how he is sometimes; she only wishes she knew why.

She turns over and opens the drawer of her bedside table, taking out a cardboard jewellery box. Lifting the lid, she withdraws the baroque pearl Percy found for her back at the beach house. She thumbs it, letting herself fall back into the memory of him closing her fingers around it. You keep it, he said. Like it was nothing—and wasn't it?

Replacing the pearl, she grabs her phone and shoots Percy a text. You awake? Hopeful, she stares into the burning, luminescent brightness for a few long moments to see if he'll reply. When there's no immediate response, she sighs and shuts off the screen. It's late, so he's probably passed out in bed. He's been taking too many shifts lately, working himself to the bone. Annabeth sometimes thinks about saying something, asking him not to work so hard, but he never listens to her. At least, not when it comes to things as inconsequential as his own wellbeing. She knows he thinks he has to struggle through everything alone, but that couldn't be further from the truth.

Annabeth pulls the covers up to her chin and turns onto her right side, drawing her knees up. She squeezes her eyes shut, hoping that the blood rush might push her father's broken, ruined form from her vision. Recently, The Image has been more horrific than ever. She knows there wasn't so much blood when she found him, wasn't so much brain matter on the concrete, but over time The Image has contorted into a hideous version of what it used to be. It's become alive—breathing, changing. It torments her waking moments, and wholly takes over her unconscious ones.

Even with the sleeping meds diluting her thoughts, falling asleep is a battle every time.

Sophomore year begins. Already, Annabeth is tired of it; the enjoyment and invigoration she used to associate with learning is absent. The long, lucid hours that came with summer are wrenched away by her long school days, replaced by a dull-edged anxiety. Her teachers seem to sense that something's up. Still, she doubts they'll intervene unless her grades start to suffer.

The only good thing that comes with school is that she now has Latin with Percy. She sits on the row in front of him, and his snide remarks and whispered comments are the highlight of her school days. But today, even he can't do anything to lift her mood. It's a Thursday, and Annabeth woke up with The Image at the forefront of her mind. All morning, she hasn't been able to stop thinking about the tests she's done nothing to prepare for and the photography coursework due on Monday that she hasn't even started yet. Lately, it feels like she's in a perpetual state of sleep-deprivation and stress. Being unable to stop thinking about her dad is the cherry on the cake.

Annabeth's staring at the textbook open in front of her, clicking her pen with a detached kind of subconsciousness. Mr Louis' voice has become blurred and indistinct. Annabeth can't seem to stop the racing of her heart, or stave off the sense of doom that threatens to swallow her up.

"Miss Chase?"

She jerks her head up to see Mr Louis looking at her expectantly. She manages a hoarse, "What?"

He crossed his arms, a muscle in his jaw ticking with irritation. "I asked you a question. Please pay attention during my lessons, or I'll be forced to send you outside."

"Sorry," she mutters. Mr Louis moves on, directing the question to another classmate. Lifting her chin, Annabeth makes an effort to focus her gaze on the blackboard, but the Latin words scrawled across it in pale, dusty chalk appear even less comprehensible than they ever have. She places her pen down on the table with an unsteady hand, feeling almost feverish. Pull yourself together, she orders herself, but the thought is nothing but a far-off echo.

Suddenly, Annabeth feels a gentle tap on her shoulder. She turns around, meeting Percy's endlessly green eyes. They're creased with concern. "You okay?" he whispers. "You seem stressed."

She doesn't even have time to summon a nod in response before Mr Louis butts in. "Jackson!" he snaps. "Stop talking and take some damn notes."

When Latin finally ends, Annabeth sweeps her stuff into her backpack as quickly as she can and books it out the door. She's sweating, and she's struggling to gain control of her breathing. The restroom, she thinks. Locking herself in a stall is the only plan of action she can think of. She hurries down the corridor, squeezing her eyes shut in a desperate attempt to block out The Image that screams for attention.

But before she can reach the bathroom, a hand closes around her wrist. She spins around, eyes wide and breathing fast. Percy's there, worry etched into the lines of his face like unmined gold dust. "Let go of me!" she all but shouts, wrenching her arm out of his grasp.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," he says. "Just—Annabeth, you're panicking." He steps forward, taking hold of her sleeve. Gently, this time. "Come on." Annabeth doesn't tear her arm away. Instead, she allows Percy to lead her down to an empty corridor in the Art department.

It's quiet down here, and somehow that's so much worse. Annabeth grasps at her own forearms, sinking down the wall. It's darker here, too. Percy's arm around her is an anchor against her heaving breaths, against her shuddering limbs, against the awful sense of unreality that's fallen over her like a consuming, stifling weight. It feels like an eternity that she sits there, struggling to regain control of her raging thoughts. Percy keeps murmuring, "Breathe, Annabeth. Breathe."

She latches onto his words, tying her consciousness to the constant and familiar sound of his voice. Slowly but surely, she calms down. A wave of relief washes over her. She can feel her body again. "God," she exhales, still fighting to slow her breathing. "What the fuck? What the fuck?"

"You're okay," Percy tells her. "You're okay." He's crouched in front of her, looking frightened but clearly trying to hide it for her sake. "How do you feel?" he asks with a tentative smile, leaning forward to pull her into a loose hug as though he's handling something fragile.

Annabeth's embarrassed to feel salt welling up in her eyes. "Like shit," she mutters. I'm sorry. I can't believe I freaked out like that—"

Percy pulls back, shaking his head. "No, you just got overwhelmed. You did really well, alright?"

She scoffs, digging the heels of her hands into her eyes. "I gotta stand up," she mumbles. Cautiously, Percy helps Annabeth to her feet. She feels exhausted, fatigued through her bones to her fingertips. The realisation of how stupid she's acting falls upon her, and she steps away from Percy. Her hands come up to her forearms again, a nervous habit. Face red with humiliation, she says, "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Hey, don't apologise," he chides her. "It wasn't your fault—in any fucking way." He pauses, brow crinkling. "Do you know what brought it on?"

Annabeth starts shaking her head, then half-nods. "I don't know. My mind's been in a mess all day. I haven't slept much…" She trails off.

"Your dad?" Those two short, quiet words ask more than a thousand ever could. Nowadays, Annabeth feels like he's everything in her tangled-up life leads back to him; his ever-present ghost lingers like a wine stain on white tablecloth. She doesn't say anything, but Percy seems to understand her silence anyway. He hugs her, but pulls away a second before she wants him to. "Should I take you to the school nurse?"

"No. No, it's okay."

"Sure?"

"Yes, Percy. I'll be fine."

For the next few weeks, Annabeth can't seem to get a grasp on her anxiety. The attacks—whatever they are—only get worse from there on out. Annabeth feels helpless, like the floor's been ripped from beneath her feet. She knows the others notice, but Percy's the one and only person she lets near her when she feels the first dredges of an attack coming. She trusts him more than she trusts the others. He is her oldest friend, after all, so maybe it makes sense.

Either way, Annabeth's grades plummet. Initially, she tries to stick it out, but it's not long before the school nurse convinces her to see a professional. "This will continue to affect you until you find a way to deal with it," she explains. Obviously, Annabeth wants to retort. It's an effort to bite her tongue.

Annabeth goes to the same doctor who gave her advice about her insomnia, who then refers her to a psychologist: Dr Hale. He recommends either CBT or counselling, but she fights both of those options. She doesn't know if it would help, and is terrified of even trying. Talking about any of it has only ever made everything worse, more encompassing. More painful.

After two visits to her psychologist, he diagnoses her with severe anxiety caused by PTSD. "I expect it's probably also what's been causing your insomnia," he tells her.

"Isn't that what soldiers have?" Annabeth asks, tentative.

"It's common in people exposed to warfare, yes. But it can develop after any traumatic incident, no matter how minor those incidents may outwardly seem. I'd argue that finding your father's body was a traumatic incident, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, but…"

"You told me you've been experiencing a recurring, hyperbolic nightmare of when you first saw him on the steps. And this—image, as you call it—also affects you in your waking moments. Right?"

She picks at her cuticle, trying to summon her voice again. "What are you saying?"

"Well, nightmares and anxiety attacks are symptoms of PTSD," Hale explains. Satisfied, he writes something down in his notepad. "I'll draw up a diagnosis," he murmurs to himself. After a moment, he lifts his gaze onto her again. It's piercing, but still warm. "What worries me is that you've fallen from being an exemplary student to someone who's achieving lower-than-average grades. And though you're refusing counselling, I still think you should try anxiety medication. If anything, it'll help you focus on school again."

"Medication?" Annabeth asks, a little stupefied. "I don't know if…"

"It says here you're on Triazolam to treat your insomnia," he continues. "That may complicate things as Xanax can cause side effects when used with it, but you should be fine. You're young and healthy, and we'll monitor you for the first couple weeks or so anyway. Sound alright?"

Annabeth nods mutely. "I guess so. If you think it'll help."

Hale calls Helen in from the waiting room to sign some forms of parental consent. She does so quietly, eyes empty but never drifting. When Hale asks her questions, she answers monosyllabically. Annabeth's pissed off. Even now that Hale's found that there's something wrong with her daughter, something fucked up that needs fixing, Helen doesn't seem fazed by it. In fact, there's no emotion in her face at all.

Annabeth doesn't know why she expected anything different.

On the way home from the clinic, Annabeth walks with her hand tightly closed around her paper bag of orange medication bottles. Miss A. Chase is printed in tiny lettering on the crowded label of every single one. Anger seethes in her stomach, mostly directed at the woman walking beside her. "Annabeth?" Helen asks quietly. Her voice isn't timid, but it is vacant.

Annabeth responds with a curt, "What?'

"Is everything going to be fixed now?" It's the longest sentence Helen's said all day, but it instills no hope in Annabeth—the opposite, in fact.

"I don't know," she offers, but Helen doesn't reply. In silence, they walk on.

percy is honestly the sweetest :') just a short one today, but wednesday's upcoming chapter will be longer. let me know what you thought!

quick PSA: I finally made a tumblr so y'all can keep up with me! my url is stolen-arts and I'll be posting about pjo and the fics I write on there. come yell at me in my inbox, I'd love to talk to you :D