chapter twenty-three: regarding creation

Annabeth's lying on her bed at seven o'clock on a Friday, limbs sprawled out and face half-pressed into her pillow. Lethargy has seeped into her bones, and it's hard to do anything except ignore the texts from Percy and the others that have been lighting up her phone. She hasn't been into school for the last three days. Instead, she's been calling in sick every morning, too overwhelmed to face reality. She doesn't even have to feign illness to Helen—her stepmother never notices anything anymore.

A thousand things are weighing on Annabeth's mind. Her father, the dwindling bottle of anxiety medication sitting by her bedside, even the weeks of photography homework she hasn't been able to do. Since she went on Xanax, her creativity's seeped away. The simple act of composing a photograph and then immortalising the scene with a click of a button has somehow turned into the hardest thing in the world. She's beginning to wonder if she's really cut out to do photography as a career. If she's no longer good at it, is there any point in trying?

Annabeth closes her eyes. This happens sometimes—being unable to convince herself to leave the house, to speak, to even contact her friends. Whenever she caves in and ends up shooting a text to one of them, she always ends up feeling guilty. It's one thing knowing you're in a bad headspace, but it's another thing entirely to willingly drag the people you love down with you.

Talking to Dr Hale isn't helping anymore. She doesn't even know how to voice the way she feels, and the only solution he ever comes up with is to up her dose. After a month or so of him pushing her to give counselling a try, she assented. Still, she couldn't keep that up for long; the sickly-sweet demeanour and kind words of the counsellor made her feel dirty. Eventually it became too much to handle, and she stormed out of the third session in a rage.

Annabeth hears her bedroom door open, and she cracks her eyes open to see Matthew standing behind the door. Mousy-brown curls a mess, he clings to the door and tilts his head. "What?" she mutters. "Go away. I'm napping."

He pauses. "But the light's on."

"I know that. God. What d'you want?"

"Nothing. I just—" He chews on his lip. "You haven't left your room all day."

"Well, I'm sick," she says.

Matthew nods slowly, though she knows he's not stupid enough to fall for that. "You're not gonna become like…like Mom, are you? You're okay. Right?"

Annabeth heaves a sigh, but manages a smile. "Right, Matty." She turns over. "Now, go away and let me sleep."

"Okay," he mumbles, tentatively closing the door behind him with a quiet click. Annabeth doesn't move for a few long, suffocating moments, taken over by the hollowness in her ribcage. Suddenly, her phone starts ringing. It's lost somewhere in her sheets. Irritated, she scrabbles around until she finds it, lifting the screen up to her face as the ringing stops. One missed call from Luke, reads her most recent notification. She stares at it for a moment, brain fighting past inertia to form a coherent thought. Dimly, she remembers Luke mentioning to her that he and his group were going out tonight—he probably called to check if Annabeth was available.

Her first instinct is to ignore it in exactly the same way she's been ignoring everyone else. Her second thought, however, is that he'll probably be doing shit tonight. Annabeth's gaze flutters sideways to the almost-empty bottle of Xanax on her bedside. It's slightly blurred, too close for Annabeth's eyes to see clearly.

Lately, The Image has been haunting her. The medication has been helping with her anxiety surrounding it, but it's never gone away. Her nightmares about it are just as vivid as they've ever been. The kinds of drugs Luke does on nights out might help distract her from herself, at least for a little while. In the past, she never thought she'd try anything like that. But then again, everything's changed so much. She's alienated herself from her friends in her stupid, irrational fear of hurting them. Now, it feels like the only person she has to fall back on is Luke. Someone she doesn't care about, who doesn't care about her in return. A distraction incarnate.

Right now, all Annabeth knows is that she wants to get out of her head. She clicks Call Back and holds the phone to her ear. He picks up only a moment later. Voice hoarse, she asks, "Luke?"

They arrange to meet in an hour. Ethan will be there, as well as some others in Luke's group that Annabeth doesn't know too well. "It's okay, they're friendly," Luke reassures her. Annabeth doubts that, but she's far from caring. After changing into some clean clothes, wrestling her hair into a ponytail and applying enough concealer to hide the dark circles under her eyes, she heads out. Helen half-lifts her head from where she's laying on the couch when Annabeth passes, but she says nothing. Eyes glazed over, she goes back to staring into the TV screen.

Darkness has fallen by the time Annabeth reaches the park where she's meeting Luke and the others. They're hanging out by a bench, talking and smoking cigarettes. Luke's wearing a black baseball cap, and his blond hair peeks out like a shock of light from underneath it. "Hey," she calls as she approaches.

Luke spins around, grinning when he sees her. "Oh, Annabeth! Glad you made it out. I was worried. I haven't seen you in school for a few days." There's a girl and a guy Annabeth doesn't know sitting on the bench, while Ethan's standing with Luke.

"I was feeling under the weather," she says with a shrug. "I'm better, now. How've you been?"

Luke smiles, putting his arm around her and bringing her closer to the group. "I've been excellent. Charlie, Silena, this is Annabeth. She's gonna be out with us tonight."

Silena waves at Annabeth, her cigarette glowing red-hued in the darkness. "Thank God, I'll have another girl to hang out with," she says. "There's too much testosterone out here."

Annabeth laughs, already lightening up. Charlie—the guy sitting beside Silent—pouts. "Hey. I thought you liked hanging out with me."

Silena rolls her eyes, but gives him a kiss on the cheek anyway. "Of course I do, dummy. I don't know why, but—"

She bursts into laughter when Charlie playfully grabs her around the waist. "You take that back!"

Annabeth casts a look at Luke. He grins. "Yeah, they're always like this. Anyway—wanna hear the plan?"

The plan, as it turns out, is to head up to a hidden clearing out in the country. They hang out there a lot, but Luke says that tonight's gonna be different. Some of his friends will be setting off fireworks, and Luke insists that watching fireworks when you're fucked off your head is an out-of-body experience. "Isn't that dangerous?" Annabeth asks, but excitement's already building in her fingertips.

"Maybe," Luke tells her. "But isn't that the fun of it? Life isn't safe. Once you've gotten over that, everything's better." Strangely, Annabeth finds herself agreeing. He offers her a tiny, paper-wrapped package of white powder even smaller than the nail of her pinkie. "It's ecstasy," he tells her. "You don't have to take it. But if you do want to, take it now—it'll hit a while after we get there."

Annabeth looks at it for a long moment, then glances up to meet Luke's pale, blue eyes. For the last few months, she's felt desensitised. Useless. Hollow. If this'll make her feel something good again… "I won't die, right?"

He cocks a brow. "C'mon. I wouldn't give you something that'd kill you, Bethany." When she's silent, he lowers his hand. "Don't you trust me?"

Annabeth grins, shaking her head. "Never call me that again, and I'll trust you all you want." She takes the tiny package and the bottle of water he offers her, swallowing it and washing it down with the same muscle-memory she uses to take her anxiety meds.

"You're a natural," Silena comments. "The first time I bombed MD, it exploded in my mouth."

"Hey, at least you didn't throw up," Ethan says.

"I almost did. It tastes like utter crap."

The five of them head to the clearing, talking loudly and singing along to the music coming from Ethan's speaker. Above their heads, the moon's almost full. It's a nice night for the end of January, but Annabeth's hands still become painful and cold due to the exposure. The skin of her knuckles hasn't smoothed out all winter.

Luke notices her rubbing them together as they cross a road, leaving the town for the countryside. "You get cold hands, too?" he asks.

Annabeth nods. "Yeah—they're always super painful when I'm not wearing gloves."

"I get that," he says, showing her his dry hands. "But don't worry," he adds. "You'll forget all about the cold soon."

To reach the clearing, they have to weave through foliage and duck under some fences, but Annabeth doesn't mind it. It feels nice to be out the house, to finally have fresh air in her lungs and exhilaration pooling in her stomach. The MD hasn't hit her yet, but the anticipation of it is a rush. She can do this. She knows she can.

At last, they emerge into the clearing. Trees arch overhead, a living ribcage, and moonlight ripples through their evergreen leaves to pool on the mossy ground around. Vines hang down like stalactites. It's beautiful, but the sky's almost completely hidden from sight. "We're not gonna be able to see the fireworks from here," she points out.

"Oh, I know," Luke says. "When we're ready, we'll head to the vantage point." The vantage point? Annabeth wonders silently, but bites back the questions that leap to her tongue. She'll find out soon enough, anyway.

Ethan changes the song, and the others whoop. It's one Annabeth hasn't heard before, but their excitement is infectious and she finds herself dancing along with them. Luke takes her hand, spinning her, and a genuine laugh surges up through her throat. There's already a looseness to her jaw, and a distinct unawareness has rippled over her consciousness like a warm blanket.

"Is it starting to hit you?" he asks. "Let me see your eyes." Unable to fight off the stupid grin that tugs at her mouth, she opens her eyes a little wider for him to see. Luke studies her for a second, then laughs. "It's hit you, alright."

He, Silena, Ethan and Charlie aren't far behind. Time melts into itself, becoming nothing but the slight shudder of Annabeth's jaw and the affected voices of the others. Her limbs feel lighter than air, looser than they have in a long time. "Don't you feel like you could fly?" Silena asks her, linking her arm through Annabeth's. Silena's pupils are blown out, flooded with pitch.

"Yeah, I bet we could," Annabeth smiles back. They sit down together on a root, watching the guys mess around. Charlie and Ethan hoist Luke up onto a tree branch, where he pumps his fist and yells out. Annabeth doesn't even worry that he's gonna fall—all those thoughts have deserted.

Silena rolls a fresh cigarette, and the two of them sit there for a while talking. Their conversation's rambling and strange, but Annabeth feels like this is a pretty good way to get to know someone. Suddenly, Annabeth has a revelation. Right now, she can't envision The Image—not even a distorted, messy version of it. Her mind's eye is vacant, unpolluted by her anxiety or anything like it. "I can't see it," she says to herself. Voicing the realisation out loud somehow makes it even more impossibly real.

"What?" Silena asks, glancing up from where she's re-lighting the stub of her cigarette.

Annabeth stands up, giddy. "Nothing," she says, but she still can't stop smiling. Suddenly, a bang echoes from somewhere past the clearing. Annabeth whips around, locking onto its direction.

"They're setting them off," Luke calls. He swings down from the tree, stumbling slightly with inebriation.

He heads deeper into the clearing, closely followed by Charlie and Ethan. "Alright!" they whoop.

Annabeth grins. "Let's go," she says, pulling Silena to her feet. Together, they hurry after the others. The arching trees of the clearing slowly open out, revealing more and more of the glittering sky. As she walks, Annabeth finds herself gazing up at the glistening stars. They're so much brighter than normal, shifting and changing with every blink.

Annabeth stops walking, enchanted. "Come on," Silena laughs, tugging her along.

At last, the trees open out onto the edge of an incline. Annabeth loses her breath momentarily; they can see right out across the prairies of Virginia. "Wow," she murmurs. Right then, a firework goes off from somewhere in the fields. It spirals upwards, screeching, before exploding outwards like a drop of dye in water. If Annabeth squints, she can see figures hanging around a white van parked on a country road. She can hear faint shouts, and then another firework goes off—a vivid cobalt blue. After burning bright for a few moments, it slowly fades away.

Luke nudges her. "Cool, right?" As he speaks, they set off several more fireworks at once. Annabeth can only nod, enraptured.

The hours blur beautifully into themselves after that, and it's long past midnight when Luke walks Annabeth home. She's beginning to come down, but the sweet residue of the night is still heavy on her tongue. She knows she'll feel like shit in the morning, but she doesn't have to think about that right now. "Thank you," she tells Luke with a smile as they walk shoulder-to-shoulder through town. "For tonight. I feel better than I have in a while."

That seems to please him. He smiles quietly, gaze lingering on the ground beneath them. He's walking unevenly, stepping on every crack in the concrete. "I'm glad it helped. You're lucky. Sometimes it can make everything worse."

Annabeth shakes her head. "Nah. I felt fucking…invincible, or something. That was a really nice distraction."

"Anytime," he smiles. As soon as he says it, Annabeth can no longer hide from the inevitability that this will happen again.

It does.

February rolls around without Annabeth's knowledge. Her attention's averted by other things. Every weekend, there's a fresh sore on her gum, fresh scrapes on her arms and ankles. Her body probably hates her, and she doesn't even blame it. Going out and losing all presence of mind to the chemicals Luke offers her is the only thing keeping the bad thoughts at bay, but, God—it sure does hurt sometimes.

She barely ever sees Percy anymore. It's difficult to scrounge up the energy to visit him during his shifts like she always used to, but he hasn't said anything to her about it. Maybe he's disgusted by her. Maybe they all are. Annabeth's disgusted with herself, sometimes, but Luke isn't. He sees right through her and knows what she is—a sticky mess of flaws, a bomb waiting to go off—and doesn't judge her, because he's exactly the same fucking way. It's comforting, actually. Who cares if Luke's around to witness her self-destruction? He destroyed himself first.

It's the morning after a night out, and she's sitting with Luke on the wall outside his house. He lost his key, and his foster mom isn't home. Neither of them have gotten a wink of sleep, and the sun's already risen. Annabeth feels like shit. She's pretty sure it's reflected on the outside as well, if her under-eye bags in the reflection of her phone screen are anything to go by. He's working on a cigarette, swinging his legs. "Hey, Bethany," he says suddenly.

Bethany has become his nickname for her, and Annabeth's learned not to question it. She can't quite figure out if it's annoying or endearing. "What?"

"If you could be in a movie, what movie would you wanna be in?"

She stifles a laugh. Luke's always asking questions, and they range from existential to utterly random. "I don't know. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. C'mon, think about it."

She hums, gaze tilted up towards the grey skies. "Requiem For A Dream," she decides, a shit-eating smile on her face.

He snorts. "Fucking 'course."

"I'm kidding, God. What about you, then?"

"Probably Harry Potter," he says, without a trace of irony.

Annabeth laughs. "Yeah, I can imagine you as a Death Eater." He elbows her, and she almost falls off the wall. "Hey!" she defends. "You're the one who said Harry Potter in the first place."

Rolling his eyes, he relents. "Whatever." It's starting to rain. The drops are already falling hard and fast, lashing Annabeth's skin. "Shit," Luke mutters, peering up at the sky. "Have you got an umbrella?"

"Of course."

Relieved, he says, "Great! Get it out."

She stares at him, incredulous. "I was being sarcastic. I didn't even bring a coat 'cause I thought we were gonna be able to hang out at yours, Mr Shit I Lost My Key."

"Alright, alright! Don't rip into me." He stands up, putting up the hood of his windbreaker. "I know where we can go. C'mon."

Luke leads them to a disused bridge by the wayside. There are large, curved nooks in its structure, and it's easy for them to pull themselves up to sit inside. Annabeth leans against the stone wall, wringing out her soaked curls. She's cold and shivering, her hoodie completely sodden through. The rain isn't even beginning to abate. The sound of it pattering on the bridge above them sounds almost like faint, silenced bullets.

Annabeth leans her head back, fighting the headache that's beginning to settle over her. On her comedowns, The Image always comes back in full force. She picks at her fraying nail, using the slight spark of pain as an anchor. The smell of her dad's blood and the coffee she spilt over herself suddenly returns, like déjà vu. She closes her eyes, wishing it would go away.

"You're seeing it?" Luke asks, voice matter-of-fact.

Annabeth's mentioned The Image to him a few times, but never in much detail. Talking about it makes her feel like a mad person. "Yeah," she answers, opening her eyes again.

He nods slowly. Then, without warning: "Bethany. Did I ever tell you about my mom?"

"Your mom?" Annabeth shakes her head. All she knows is that Luke lives apart from her, and that's obvious from any standpoint. Luke takes a green slip of Rizla out of his pocket, then a filter, then a pinch of baccy. When he starts rolling the cigarette, Annabeth's half-certain he's doing it purely to avoid her gaze.

"When my dad left, she started having these…fits, I guess you'd call them. She'd stumble around the house, eyes dazed. She'd mutter, calling for me. I was too young to fully clock what was going on, so I'd just hide in the cupboard until she went back to normal. One day, she nearly burned the house down during a fit. After the firefighters left, the police came. They booked her into an inpatient ward rather than arresting her." He licks the line of adhesive, rolling his cigarette up. "Anyway, she's still there. Never got better."

Annabeth watches him, intent. What he's saying reminds her of Helen, in a sickening sort of way. "Why are you telling me this?"

He looks up, a grim half-smile on his face. "Because I kept seeing her face. Constantly. In the daytime, at night."

Annabeth searches his face. "Your own Image."

He shrugs. "I guess. Anyway, I tried avoiding it—shutting it out. For months, that didn't work. Now, though, I don't see it anymore. I don't see her anymore."

"You don't?" she breathes.

Luke lights his cigarette, burning away the excess paper. He looks up, eyes pale and tired. "Picture it now."

"On purpose? Why?"

"That's how I did it. I faced the nightmare head on, decided it wasn't gonna torture me anymore." He drags on his cigarette, then exhales. The smoke blusters out into the rain, dissipating. As Annabeth thinks about it, the rain becomes louder above them.

Maybe it doesn't hurt to try.

One day after school, Percy catches up with her. "Annabeth," he calls, hand locking onto her sleeve. His wrist is in a cast again—it had to be re-set after he strained it at work. She hasn't spoken to him in a week. Or any of the others, come to think of it. "Can I talk to you?"

She shifts the strap of her satchel higher on her shoulder. "Sure."

Percy falls in beside her, wheeling his bike along. "Are you okay?" he asks. "You haven't responded to any of our texts for ages, and you've only spoken to me in Latin. Have I done something wrong?"

"No. No, of course not."

Percy throws a concerned glance her way. "So…why? Is it getting bad again?"

Annabeth knows what he means. "Kind of," she sighs. "But I'm getting through it."

"With Luke?" He sounds bitter.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I didn't mean anything by it."

She glares at him as they step out onto the road, ignoring the brazenly green traffic light. "Seriously. Do you have a problem with me hanging out with them?"

"I just—"

"What?" It comes out as a snarl.

He stops walking, forcing her to turn and look at him. A car screeches past them, a flash of colour and wind, but he doesn't budge. There's a jarring look in his eyes, in the clench of his jaw. "He's not good for you. You look like shit."

"Oh, thanks."

She scoffs and tries to push past him, but he blocks her path. "I mean it. I know you're not doing great, but getting fucked off your head every weekend on the shit they give you isn't gonna help.

"Well, it sure feels like it's helping to me!"

"Does it?" he snaps. "From here, it looks like I'm losing you."

"Losing me?" She steps forward, getting in his face. Seemingly involuntarily, he steps back. "You never had me in the first place."

"I know that. I just meant—"

"What exactly did you mean, Percy?" she asks coldly.

"I meant what I said! I'm losing you," he shouts. "I've known you for so fucking long, and things have never been like this before. Never."

"Like this? Like what?"

He struggles for the right words. "You're a stranger."

Annabeth laughs, brutal. "That's rich, coming from you."

"Coming from me?" he says bluntly. It's not a question. He tilts his head, fixing her with a look that's clearly meant to hurt. "Annabeth, I don't give a shit about the drugs you do—they don't make you any different from all the other burnouts at Mileview. I give a shit that when I look at you, you look so fucking empty and lost and—and in pain." He takes a ragged breath. "I miss Annabeth. This…" He gestures at her, like someone might gesture at a statue in a museum. "This isn't Annabeth."

"I don't care!" she says, feeling ill. "I'm not fragile anymore. You used to have to help me through five panic attacks a week."

"Well, I'd help you through a hundred more," he snaps. "You were never weak before, but now you are. You're doing the easy thing. You're shutting me out because you don't think I can handle seeing you at your worst."

That hurts. A lot. "I don't have to take this from you," she mutters, stepping back.

"Take what? The truth? You're never gonna last like this."

"Fuck off." She hates him so much, and in that moment she searches for the worst possible thing to say, the only thing that'll hurt him as much he's hurt her. Turning away, she shoots over her shoulder, "Go back to your trailer!"

Annabeth storms off. She's met with nothing but silence.

For months, neither of them say a word to each other. Annabeth forces herself not to dwell on what she said during their argument, because then she'd hate herself even more than she already does. She blocks Leo, Piper and Jason's contacts, refusing to speak to them. She tells herself it's because she's pissed off but the real reason—that she's scared of hurting them—flutters perpetually in her ribcage, like it's alive.

Summer rolls around, and she and Luke become joint at the hip. She forgets what it's like to be sober on the weekends—and when school comes to an end, she loses her sobriety on the weekdays, too. Along with Virginia's scorching heat comes warm, pleasant nights. Sometimes Annabeth stays out with Luke and the others until sunrise. The lack of sleep barely bothers her; she trained for this.

For the first time in years, Annabeth spends her sixteenth birthday without her old friends. She won't allow herself to remember last year, at the beach house—that was a different time, and she's burned too many bridges to ever go back there.

Annabeth turns sixteen on the grass in a short summer dress, under the warm sunlight. Her skin's sticky with sunscreen and music surrounds her like mist, fracturing itself over and over again in her distorted mind. She's completely pinged. Luke lays beside her on his stomach, eyes lidded and hair ruffled. He seems content. She's trying to be. It isn't as easy as it looks, even with her thoughts so slow and sidelined.

"Are you having a good birthday?" Luke mumbles.

The sky above her burns blue. It hurts her eyes. "I think so. I don't know."

Luke lifts himself up onto his forearms. The scar on his face looks irritated. Stupidly, Annabeth reaches up to touch it. Beneath her fingertips, it's textured. "How'd you get that, hmm?" she whispers. She didn't mean to say that out loud.

He doesn't answer, and Annabeth wonders if he heard. His eyes have a reddish sheen to them—he's stoned, and smells like it. "I like you," he decides. "We're the same."

Annabeth shields her eyes from the sun. "How do you figure?"

"Well, I'm not a very good person. Neither are you." Annabeth already knew that. She's spent the past year turning that fact over in her head, trying to make sense of it. Luke's still looking at her. "Hey, Bethany. Can I ask you something?" His words are slightly slurred.

Jaw tense as a stiff lock, she nods. "Sure."

"How do you think the world happened?"

She groans. "These questions, I swear. Don't you ever get bored asking them?"

"Only if you're bored answering them." He grins. "Come on."

"The Big Bang, I guess." She pauses. "Not God, I hope—it isn't as though I can square any of this shit with my religion."

"Your religion?"

"I'm Catholic. Or I used to be. Fuck, I don't know." Annabeth heaves a sigh. It's easier to stare up into the rippling, bleeding sun than think about this anymore. "Stop asking difficult questions."

"Hey, I didn't ask any of those." He flops down next to her, closing his eyes.

"What about you, then?"

"What?"

She nudges him. "How do you think the world happened?"

"Did I really phrase it like that?"

A laugh bubbles out of her. "Yeah. Because you're stoned."

Luke opens his eyes again, looking at her. His lips are cracked. He lifts a hand above his head, tracing the lines of a sparse cloud. "Maybe we made it happen," he tells her. "By living."

"That's the most fucked up creation myth I've ever heard," she says. Her voice sounds hoarse. Then, quietly, "I can't believe I'm sixteen."

Silena sits down beside her with a jolt, picking up their conversation. She asks, "Already, or only?"

Both. Neither. "I don't know," Annabeth murmurs. She can't think straight—but isn't that the point of all this, anyway?

this chapter's sad, but it's also important. I don't condone any of annabeth's actions in this chapter—she's going through a bad time and coping in a self-destructive way, which I think a lot of people can relate to! let me know what you thought. as usual, the next chapter will be up on wednesday.

you can come talk to me about this fic on my tumblr at stolen-arts :D