Author's Note: Hello lovely readers! I just thought I should put a trigger warning for a self-harm scene and suicidal thoughts. Also, I'm sorry for making this so angsty! I promise it'll get happy soon. Enjoy :)

Chapter 9

Nico's Point of View

I don't know why I always end up here. By here, I mean on my floor, my back against my bedroom door, a blade in my hand. A disposable razor lies in bits next to me, discarded after I got what I wanted from it. Percy took my good blade, and this one is flimsy and will probably only work once or twice, but it'll do for now.

I just feel so overwhelmed and I don't know what else to do.

Friday night was good. Well, not good. The day as a whole sucked. But the telling Jason about Bianca thing went okay. Better, I think, than I ever could have hoped. I told Jason about my sister, and I cried, and I showed him that I wasn't okay, and he didn't leave. He didn't even look like he wished he could. He held me as I cried and when I stopped he held my hand. Then he carried me to bed like my dad would when Bianca and I were younger, and we would stay up reading in her room long after our bedtimes.

And then yesterday, Percy found out. Everything. He knows I cut myself, he knows I loved him, and he knows I'm gay. How could I have been so stupid, leaving a blade where he could find it? How could I have told him all of those things? He was so kind, though, and so caring. I couldn't help it. At the time I was so sure it was the right thing to do.

But I woke up feeling sick to my stomach. Because I'm ashamed. Ashamed that I let them in, even more ashamed that I needed to. Ashamed that I am so broken, so dependent, that after all this time of telling myself I didn't need anyone, I do. I can't do this on my own. But what other choice do I have? There's this deep ache in my chest, this tired in my bones. There's something dark inside of me. It overpowers any thoughts about how Jason didn't run away, how he held me, about how he looked under the moonlight…

Because what does it matter? I'm not who he thinks I am. He can't understand. He can't love me. Why should I even let him try?

And Percy. Maybe he feels bad for me, but he doesn't really care. He's just trying to be the good guy, like he always is.

I am alone. And god, I'm tired. I'm so tired. I can't do this. All of the fight has slowly drained out of me, and I don't think there's any left. And what was the point of fighting for so long anyways? Nobody really cared. Maybe Jason does now, or he thinks he does, at least. But he'll get over it. I'm not worth crying over. So I give up. This is it. And the second I think it, I know it's true. I'm done.

I roll my sleeves up, revealing hundreds of angry red and white lines, some of them almost faded completely, some of them still in the process of healing. There's a moment, there's always a moment, where the sight of them makes me ashamed of myself and what I've become. How could I let this happen? But the urge to surrender myself completely, to lose myself, overwhelms and dominates my thoughts.

And so I do. I surrender. My aching chest stops trying so hard to fight. The clouds clear from my head. I feel the sting of the blade kissing my skin and watch with satisfaction as the blood pools up on my arm. It hurts, so I do it again, and this time, there's more relief than pain. The third time, there's practically no pain at all, just a sense of calm beginning to travel throughout my body. By the fourth time, I feel okay. I am okay. But I keep going until I feel alive, and euphoric, but even then, I don't stop. I cut and cut and cut until the calm has overtaken my body, and I can't continue and my eyes droop. Red drips down and stains the floor and sleep is beckoning, and god I wish I could sleep, and I've gone too far.

A panic arises inside of me that I didn't expect. I'm bleeding out and I can't see straight but there's a spark inside of me. I'm scared. I don't want it to end like this, I never wanted it to end like this. All I wanted was a home. Some place where I was safe. Somebody who actually knew me, who understood me, who loved me. I wanted it so badly that it hurt. No, I still want it, it still hurts. I'm still alive. But I'm still afraid. And the longing is killing me. My yearning for safety and love turned to bitterness, because I was alone, but in this state between wakefulness and sleep, I know that I was the one who pushed everyone away.

But it doesn't have to be this way, does it?

Jason. He can help me. I pull out my phone and go to his contact and hold my finger over the call button.

What else could I do? I press the button.

Jason picks up. "Nico?" he says.

I try to focus, but it's hard. Everything feels fuzzy. Jason says my name again.

"Jason," I say.
"Is everything okay?" He sounds worried.

"I- I need help," I choke out. And then I have to choke back a sob. I hate those words. I hate needing anything, and I hate needing help most of all. Especially help with something like this. But I don't see another option.

It's just lucky I'm home alone; Percy's out with Annabeth's family, Hazel's with Frank, and it's Paul and Sally's anniversary, so they decided they'd spend the day in San Francisco.

"What's wrong?"

"Can you come over?"

He doesn't even ask any questions. He tells me that he'll be right here and then hangs up. I think he knows already.

I try to stand up, but a wave of dizziness goes straight to my head, and I stumble. I start to lower myself back down, but then I think better of it. I can't lean against the door if I want Jason to be able to get in when he gets here. Miraculously, I manage to get myself over to my bed. I look around for something to try and stop the bleeding, and see no other option but the shirt I'm wearing. I struggle to remove it, but it gets stuck around my ears. I groan in frustration. My bleeding arm is still in it's sleeve, and my other one is stuck halfway in. I can't get it off without the pain in my left arm becoming unbearable.

I'm like that when Jason walks in not even ten minutes later. If I wasn't already half unconscious, I'm sure I would have turned red from embarrassment. I must look like an idio. I try to tell him not to laugh, but it comes out as a jumbled, mumbled mess.

He doesn't laugh, but he does try out an interesting combination of swear words.

He comes over to me and helps me out of my shirt. Though my eyes are half-closed, I can see his eyes catch on the scars on my chest. But he moves on quickly and pushes me down so that I'm laying with my head on my pillow. Then he examines my arm.

"Shit, Nico," he says. "I think these might need stitches."

I try to sit up in protest, but he pushes me back down. "Can't- tell-"

"Calm down, man. We don't have to tell your parents. I know how to- I can do it myself. We just- We'll have to go to my house."