Will's Untold Story (Part II)

by Cracker Stealer

After the war, Will swore he would be better than his cabin. To never take refuge in their drugs and pills and moonshine liquor. Instead, he finds himself where they've always been - blood on his hands, broken glass in his fingers. But there's no time to figure things out, or sort through the complicated mess of himself. His path was laid out for him, even if he doesn't know why.

1. Broken Glass

Alright, part II of the Will Solace story I started a few months ago!

I should do a recap for any of you who weren't around then, or forgot what happened. Feel free to skip it, but read the rest. This story is gonna be both that and a prologue; since starting a new story takes a while, and I want to have it started before I start posting longer chapters.

*Clears throat* (In a dramatic voice) Previously on Will's Untold Story . . .

Will first comes to camp as a happy, excited, ten-year-old who wants to help and do good in the world. He quickly learns that "help" doesn't always mean saving someone from death, and he starts believing that he might not want to learn about these kinds of things after all. But it's too late; he's been pushed into a box already, and there's nothing he can do but watch his world burn around him.

Before long, his best friend in the cabin, an older girl named Harper, leaves to join Kronos's army. Completely destroyed, it is the first time he snaps and intentionally harms himself. Unfortunately, it isn't the last.

But no time for feeling sorry for himself, because the Hunters of Artemis have shown up, and with them, two demigods — one he's heard of — known as Percy Jackson — and one he hasn't — a nervous, overly hyper Italian boy who hasn't aged in decades and who is surrounded by darkness, eventually giving in to it after his sister's death. He does his best to befriend Nico, but is pushed away.

He does manage to befriend Jake Mason, a slightly wild son of Hephaestus who is Will's first patient to ask his name. The two quickly become close, but Will, eventually realizing that he cares for Jake as more than a friend, begins distancing himself, terrified of himself and what he will bring on Jake.

And that is nothing compared to the shit he's going through with his cabin — traitors, psychopaths, supporters of Kronos who want the Olympian system burned to the ground. And Will isn't sure if he disagrees, which terrifies him. No time to dwell on it, though; he's got work, not to mention a younger sister to think about.

It isn't until the monsters of the Labyrinth attack that Will truly realizes the depth of his cabin's pain and anger. He learns in the worst possible way — his oldest brother, Lee Fletcher, commits suicide in front of him.

Had Will been around any longer, it wouldn't have been a surprise — his cabin, especially the head counselors, have a history of being drunks, overdosers, cutters, unintentional killers, and end up in the same place — dead by their own hand. The only exception was a past head counselor named Claire, who was Lee's "first kill."

After watching his cabin slowly decimate itself for months, Will has no choice but to fight in the Titan War, becoming an accidental killer himself. Michael's "sacrifice" pushes Will over the edge, (literally as well as figuratively) and he tries to follow in his cabin's footsteps, but he is stopped — by Harper.

Harper, unlike the others, isn't going to kill herself, but that means nothing, not when the surviving traitors of your family are dead set on revenge and crack shots to boot. Before long, Harper is bleeding out in the street. She doesn't survive, but she doesn't leave before making Will promise to burn the system to the ground. Will, being a field medic, knows perfectly well what the gods will do without a second thought, and agrees. Harper dies, leaving thirteen-year-old Will alone with two younger siblings to take care of, not to mention an entire camp to keep alive.

Will has promised to be better than his cabin, but it's hollow, and he finds himself right where they always were — a cutter and a killer. After allowing a girl to kill herself and her catatonic brother, he closes himself in the back room of the infirmary, unaware that someone else is with him. After slicing up his whole body, he falls asleep, ending up in a nightmarish dreamscape and losing touch with reality. He eventually wakes up, finally admitting to himself that he knows where his cabin hid their liquor, and has forced the person in the room to drink it. He laments what he has done, apologizing in his head, and claiming that he left a note for his victim to find and read.

Wow, that sounded a lot cooler in the recap. I should just delete the first story . . .

Ha ha. Just kidding.

And now, a prologue . . .

---

— Jake —

I'm awake before my eyes are open.

I've always been like that — waking up to the pitch blackness, still groggy. It's only when I finally accept reality and open my eyes that my brain fully starts functioning again. It usually takes me at least an hour to work up the courage. I've always been like that too — shutting out reality, looking away at critical moments, closing my eyes and pretending things are the same as they always were. That's my curse, if I can call it that. I mean, curses are from other people, and usually a punishment for something. I did this myself, started looking away and closing my eyes.

I didn't want to see, not for a long time. Will . . . I think he's much the same way, but he . . . well, I don't know what I did to him, or for him, I guess, but he kind of made me want to see again. Sounds stupid, I know, but he's been a great friend — my first friend at camp, although lately, I think he's been a bit more. If the weird jump-flutter my stomach does whenever I see him is anything to go by.

Not that it matters, seeing as I can't tell him. I don't have time for crushes and dating, with an entire cabin to look after. Besides, I shouldn't be liking a boy anyway — you can bet your ass he doesn't like boys. He'd probably call me a freak.

I think he might have guessed, though — he's been distancing himself for a while, like he doesn't want to even associate with me. I don't blame him. I don't want to associate with me either.

So, he pushed me away. I pushed him away.

Then, the Titan War, the world pushed us back together. We hugged — really hugged, I mean, clinging to each other like we were the only things keeping each other from falling into Tartarus. I was crying. He wasn't. I haven't seen him cry since we were like eleven, after his older brother died.

So, anyway, point is, I'm awake before I open my eyes.

Only this time, I'm not registering a dim disappointment in the fact that I am, indeed, awake, or that I don't have much longer before I actually have to open my eyes or face the world, or sometimes, on those rare days where I'm feeling like a normal kid, annoyance that I have to wake up and get out of bed. It's always been one of those. Always. But today . . .

Pain. Blinding, burning, pain. Agony, really. Look at me with the fancy words.

I don't want to open my eyes. I'm just thinking, well, guys, this might be it. We've had good, long innings but this might be it. I don't know how it happened — probably a monster got within the borders of camp, that sucks, guess I'm 'bout to pull a Beckendorf. Or an Emma, or a Jodie, or a Thomas.

But I have to open my eyes. I don't want to, I'm not doing it on purpose, but it's happening — my body wants to know what's happened to my body, I guess.

Only when I see it, I think my eyes are kidding.

In a split second, my ADHD demigod brain registers that my shirt has been shredded, my torso turned into a hellscape of gouges, slashes, and holes. They're scattered all over, but a lot of it seems to be concentrated around a spot in the upper left corner of my chest. My heart.

Blood. Blood everywhere.

It fills the holes, runs through the trenches, drips down the sides of my ravaged chest and stomach onto the floor. Puddles of it already surround me.

Some of the wounds sting even more than others, and I now know why. There's broken glass in there — filthy, dark brown glass with razor-sharp, jagged edges. More of it is scattered around me, some of the pieces as big as my palm. Bigger, even.

A few are still almost whole.

Almost whole . . . now I can see they used to be parts of bottles. Liquor bottles. Cheap liquor, definitely illegal inside camp, maybe even in the country as well. Bad liquor. The kind you never, ever drink.

I see all that in a split second. Then the headache hits.

Blinding pain splits my skull in two. My head isn't just being pounded with a hammer; it's being gouged again and again with white-hot knives. I want to scream, but I can't move. I can't breathe. My stomach lurches.

Fuck.

I lunge, half up and to the side, pain exploding across my torso and head. Only I don't notice, not as I gag and spit out a wave of bitter, burning fluid. It keeps coming and keeps coming.

Liquor bottles . . .

The details of last night are fuzzy. Hell, it might still be last night. My headache blurs all the images beyond recognition in my mind, but, collapsing back onto the filthy, blood-and-moonshine-covered floor, I force myself to focus. Fuck how much it hurts.

I came here at night, right after lights-out . . . I was worried about Will. Why? I didn't know. He worked the night shift once, the night before . . . I didn't worry then. Why now? Why should I? I didn't know. But I worried.

Making my way through the infirmary . . . all the patients were asleep. Will wasn't there. Only I knew where the back room — No Man's Land, he called it, or any number of creative and insulting names — and I knew where Will would be.

The old, rusty doorknob stuck at first . . . so I hit it. And I hit it again.

The details were becoming clearer now, coming faster.

Will was hunched over in the corner, curled in a ball, knees to his chest. He was crying like fuck, but he was laughing like fuck too. His legs and arms were sliced to ribbons, his shirt and pants soaked with blood.

Scattered around his boots were broken and empty moonshine bottles. Some, the ones by his hands, were full.

I drank it, I know I did, I just threw it back up. But why . . . ?

I think he might have made me. Yeah, that's what I'm sure of. He offered it to me, I was freaked out, I thought I was in some vivid demigod nightmare, and I said no, trying not to panic. He grew firmer. I think . . . I think he might have made me drink it.

Will . . .

Only it wasn't all his fault. I drank it. I did. I drank more, after that first bottle, and more, and more . . . I passed out. He might have, too, I think he did, in fact, but not before smashing up the bottles and . . .

Trying to kill me.

But that couldn't have been Will, crazy but lovable Will, the hardened goofball. He was my best friend, and I think I was his best friend. He was so loyal . . . he never would have done it.

He was sick.

He is sick.

I look again at my torso, and I realize that some kind of salve has been sloppily applied, a few cursory bandages tossed onto the worst wounds, especially the ones around my heart. Will must have tried to help . . . I might be dead. I could have been dead.

Maybe I should be dead. Maybe we both should.

But I look around the room again, and I see better now . . . the headache isn't gone, but it has lessened, and I can see now how broken and filthy everything in the room is. A combination of storage and a junkyard.

On the wall . . . blood.

Writing.

Writing in blood.

Will's handwriting.

We're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorryWe're sorry

Everywhere.

"The fucking cleanup," I mutter to myself. My throat is scraped raw; my voice is hoarse. Shit.

My fingers brush paper.

There's a piece of bloody, ripped notebook paper.

By my hand.

The pain isn't gone, but I half rise again, clenching my fingers around the paper, crumpling it slightly, not that you'd notice.

It's shredded, spattered with blood drops and what looks like tear stains. Like somebody — Will, I mean, no use kidding myself — was crying when he wrote it.

With aching, trembling fingers, I bring the paper closer to my face.

My breath catches in my throat.

Jake —

I know you're going to be the one reading this because I put it right by your hand. I made sure you found it. Considerate of me, no? Least I could do after I got drunk, coerced you into drinking, and tried to kill you.

Since I'm guessing it's not gonna be long from you waking up to you reading this, you probably haven't realized it by now. But I'm gone. I'm not at camp.

I don't know where I am, and neither do you.

But don't worry.

I'll come back.

I have younger siblings to take care of, and that little girl, Cheyenne . . .

But I can't come near you right now, or maybe ever. Please, don't make me. And I hope you feel the same way, because I never meant to hurt you.

I want to get this off my chest because I know I might never talk to you again. I've had a crush on you. For a while. And I had to tell somebody, preferably you. I don't expect or even want anything to come of this.

If anyone asks where I am, tell them I'm just out for a walk . . . phrase it so they might think there's a chance I've gotten hurt, but that I'm probably fine and will be back soon. They won't worry. They don't take too much notice of me, in any case.

Nobody can ever know.

Lee once told me that healers can't fix everything, me in particular. I didn't fully believe him right then, only I believed him a second after, because he died. There's more to it than that, and I thought about telling you, but that's a long, sad, story, not to mention one for another day.

I'm telling you this because you're not a healer, Jake. You're a builder. A mechanic. Your job is to create; mine is to watch as things are destroyed. But that's just the way things are.

Lee never said what builders could and couldn't fix.

You have no box to be stuck in; I was forced into one as soon as I was born. Children of Apollo have one option: be a healer. I don't say this for pity, but you should understand why I did what I did, even if I don't understand it myself.

Machines can be built again.

People can't.

But you can try.

I can't.

One of my sisters once told me to "burn this system to the ground, and dance on the ashes." She was right. It needs burning. It needs someone to dance while it burns.

I don't know where I am, but I know where you are.

I don't mean to sound like a creep.

Don't give up on yourself.

Watching you grow from a crazy ten-year-old to a dark, entirely too serious almost-fourteen-year-old, and even better, growing along with you, has been the best experience of my life. If I have to grow up too fast with anyone, I want it to be you.

It's your life, you live it.

— Will.

I clench the paper in my hand, crumpling it beyond recognition, my chest still leaking blood as my eyes begin to burn with tears.