Hello all!

Welcome or if you've been here before, welcome back. Sooooo this started as a one-shot and for now it is, but I had an idea of maybe developing it into a full-blown story...? IDK, let me know what you think, if that's something that you'd like to read, or if I should leave it as is. Until a verdict is made I'm going to leave it as "in progress".

WARNING:

Possible triggering content is in this story/chapter thing. There is discussion of, depression, suicide, suggested parental abuse, self-harm, and eating disorder. If any of these are or can be triggering to you please skip it. I rated it, T, not just because of the content but because of the age at which the character is dealing with these issues. It can be... troubling for some to consider someone so young going through things so difficult. So be forewarned.

Thank you, please read and review. Hope you enjoy!

A shirt was all I had.

It was old and worn, ratty even, but it was still a shirt.

A shirt was all I had of the boy who saved my life.

It was a miracle I survived the fall. It was a miracle I wasn't killed when I hit the water. It was a miracle that he wasn't killed when he hit the water.

To this day I don't know what made him jump after me. There was no way for him to know that I couldn't swim. And there was no way for him to know that both of us would survive the fall. Come to think of it, there was no way for him to know that I had fallen.

The sidewalk had been crowded. I wasn't even aware of what was happening until it was too late.

People were pushing and shoving, trying to get through the crowd of people, to get to work or school, to get on with their lives.

I wasn't even supposed to be there. My Dad was supposed to take me to school that morning. I had spent the weekend with him and his new family while they were in town. He was supposed to take me all the way to school, not drop me off at the edge of the Holland Tunnel nearly 15 whole blocks away from school. Alone. At the ripe old age of 12.

But I digress.

His new wife, Helen (shudder), didn't want to drive all the way into the city to just have to turn around and drive back. Even though they hadn't even left the city yet. I swear that woman has it out for me.

Now, normally I wouldn't have batted an eyelash. Yes, I was only 12, but to be honest, I was used to figuring things out on my own, and I didn't mind it. In fact, I thrived off of it. Between having a neglectful yet demanding perfectionist workaholic for a mother, and an absentee father, it was my norm. That made me pretty tough.

Things like walking ten blocks or riding the bus or subway alone at night didn't scare me. If anything the fact that I did it and was so confident about it scared those who might try anything.

But this time was different. Not only was I alone, but I was in a part of the city that I wasn't familiar with. And I had 20 minutes before the first bell rang. And I was still 15 blocks away.

The school knew that I would be late that morning, but at that rate, I wouldn't have been there until nearly the final period.

What upset me the most was the prospect of missing a day of school.

I loved school. It was my only escape from the overbearing demands and neglectful ways of my mother and the large and quite obvious absence of my father. It was also where my friends were and the only place where I got to see them. They filled a hole in my life, the giant hole that my family was supposed to be.

Anyway, despite my many protests, my father left me there, standing in a crowd of people, tears in my eyes, as I watched them drive away.

Crying will do me no good. I will NOT cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

Mental pep talk over, I started walking.

I wasn't even sure if I was walking in the right direction.

And to answer your already brimming question: no, I did not have a cell phone. My mom said it was a waste of money. Believe me though, after this little "incident" I got one and wasn't allowed to go anywhere without it. Who knew all I had to do to get a cell phone was get abandoned and nearly drown in the Hudson River? Go figure.

Anyway…

I was walking through (threw? Shrug. Oh well) the crowd, pushing and shoving, trying to find a landmark in order to get some sort of bearings.

I was desperate. I had never been lost before and I had never not known what to do before. That scared me the most. Not knowing anything. Where I was, how to get to where I knew, what to do, or who to call. If I could call anyone. There wasn't exactly a payphone on every corner anymore.

I had just decided to try and find a police officer, maybe they could help, when I noticed that I was awfully close to the river.

At the time I was small. Short, skinny, hardly anything to me except skin and bones. That's what happens when you have an eating disorder, no parents, and no professional help.

I figured out that I was so small that the natural force of the crowd was pushing me, the least resistant force, out to the edge of the larger, stronger force. I didn't mind, I like the water. It was pretty in the early morning light, and it was calming on my already panicking heart.

What I did mind, however, was getting pushed into the river.

You heard me.

I got knocked. Into. The. Hudson. River.

One minute I'm standing there, trying to find a cop in all of the chaos, the next I'm falling. Backward. Into oblivion.

Fear froze me. Choked me. Absolute terror gripped me from head to toe. My brain short-circuited started running all of the statistics of falls from that height, falls into water from that height, and survival rates. It wasn't good. And then I remembered that I couldn't swim. Then I hit the water.

I swear I heard something crack. Cold enveloped me, shocking my system almost as badly as hitting the water.

Water filled my mouth and nose. I couldn't see, feel or breathe.

I didn't know which way was up or down.

I tried to kick my way up like I had seen in the movies and read in books, but it didn't work. I had no muscle, no power, so I went nowhere.

My clothes felt like an anchor. My backpack and duffle bag weighed heavily on me.

I had given up.

Decided that the world would be better off without me.

After all, this was something I had been thinking about lately.

How no one would miss me.

How my mom could get on with her life like she was always saying she wanted to.

How my dad and Helen wouldn't have to fly across the country with two toddlers to fulfill court orders.

How my friends would even out and wouldn't have to worry about "poor Annabeth" anymore. They wouldn't have to worry about whose turn it was to make sure I had eaten. Or who needed to make sure I got home okay by walking me because I was the only one without a phone. They wouldn't need to worry about trying to talk me into telling the counselor at school or the teachers what I was going through. To get myself some help. They wouldn't have to worry about checking my wrists to see what kind of day/week/weekend I was having. They wouldn't have to worry about me anymore, period.

Then he came.

I felt rather than saw strong hands with a sure grip grabbing me. Hauling me up.

We broke the surface and immediately I started coughing. Sputtering up nasty river water. I'm still waiting for my third eye to grow in by the way.

Words like "breathe" "it'll be okay" and "I got you, you're safe now" were said into my ear. A soothing voice that sounded young, but sure. Confidant. As though he held all of the world's answers.

I don't know how, but somehow he managed to swim with my dead weight all the way back to shore, and haul both us up out of the water.

A crowd had gathered, but he paid them no mind. After a simple shout of "call 911" his attention was completely riveted on me. With large sea-green eyes willed with concern and genuine worry, and a mop of raven black hair falling in his eyes, dripping with water. He sat over me, coaxing me to let it all out. Let out all of the water in my system, all of the fear and pain.

I didn't realize until the paramedics arrived and pulled me away from him that I had been clinging to him, gripping him with shaking arms as though he were my lifeline. In a way he was.

I also realized that he was shirtless and when I started to shiver and shake from the cold he offered me his clean, dry shirt.

In the ambulance, I changed from my shirt and jacket to his simple one and wrapped blankets around me. But the shirt made me feel far more safe, warm, dry, and protected than the blankets ever could.

I had dislocated a shoulder and sprained an ankle. I had several bruises along my back and spine. I needed oxygen, but other than that I was fine. The paramedics said I was lucky it wasn't worse.

I saw the green-eyed boy talking to police officers. He was wrapped up in blankets too.

Someone called my mom, I don't know who, but if I ever find them, they'll wish they hadn't by the time I'm finished with them.

The green-eyed boy looked up at me and smiled.

And that was it. The perfect smile. A mischievous grin that was teasing almost, but good-humored.

It did strange things to my insides. Made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

So much so that I didn't care when they told me that all of my stuff had been lost down the river.

Or when they told me that I had to miss school and go to the hospital.

Or when my mom showed up and started yelling at everyone, even me.

Or when they told her that I had to miss school in order to go to the hospital. And she yelled some more.

Or when we got to the hospital and they told me that I was showing signs of early pneumonia and had to stay for a couple of days.

I didn't care at all because the green-eyed boy had smiled the perfect smile at me.

And now all I have of him is his shirt. Ratty and worn, thin and with holes.

I slept in it every night, even when I grew and gained some weight and it became a little snug, I still slept in it. Because it made me feel safe and warm. It reminded me that someone cared enough to come in after me, at the risk of their own life. It made me feel loved.

And all I had was his shirt.