chapter forty-six | to build a home
In the depths of night, when the thunder rolls and the hours seem long, there is your best friend, who lays beside you in that single, white-washed bed, and recites stories from the Odyssey in his own, modern way. When your stitches itch, and the room swings with the effects of medication, the boy lying in bed next to you, who has dedicated four whole days to being right by your side, fumbles around the sheets for your hands and holds them both together between his.
“You’re safe,” Percy whispers, just for you, brushing the tip of his cold nose against yours. “This will get better.” You sigh slowly.
The nights are filled with him, shoulders and legs smushed and tangled against one another in total bliss, entirely calm, staring at a sky beyond a window, made just for you. The stars blink and brighten and you stare and stare and do not blink or look away because god, you’ve worked hard to hold the privilege of having this watching moment. A few days ago, you almost never saw the sky again. It is through Percy’s unrelenting effort that you remain in this world, and what a joy it is to still be here, a little too hot, slightly too uncomfortable, relishing in the newly familiar routine of lying with a boy who crept through the hospital after visiting hours to bring you a new book he thought you’d like to read, before crawling into bed beside you to breathe one another’s air and watch the stars rejoicing in the sky.
Pushing your cheek into Percy’s shoulder, you sigh slowly. Your lips part. “Thank you for saving me,” you whisper.
He leans his cheek on the top of your head. “Thank you for being here.”
The heaven-sent beauty of spending four whole days with Percy does not last. On day five, Percy and your sister, Annabeth, sit on either side of you. The weather is super nice today, a cool breeze blows your ankles cold but the sun still shines, and that’s all you can ask for given the circumstances. Annabeth declared you needed some vitamin c, and so snuck you away from your room before Percy could notice. Here you sit at the front of the hospital, on an old ass metal bench that’s seen better days. Your stitches are due to come out tonight, and you’ll be on your way back to Percy’s place; Sally refused to let you go back to camp so soon.
No, the beauty of stillness does not last. Day five brings only sadness.
“It was…Silena?” you flick flecks of paint off of the bench. The old material floats away. “She was the spy?”
Annabeth hums her confirmation, slowly. She inhales deeply. “Unfortunately so.”
On your right, Percy moves his hand to brush his fingers on yours. “Yeah, she is. So is Michael Yew, Apollo’s son. And Pollux, Mr. D’s son.”
You have to admit, it’s difficult mourning people you didn’t really know. You acknowledge the weight of what they did, each and every one of their actions had different outcomes. That weighs on you, forces tears behind your eyelids. You close your eyes against the sun and simply breathe, steadily. At the end of the day, these people were young adults. They still lived and breathed and saw the sun one day and now…
You can’t hold back the shaky exhale that slowly leaves your lips. The finality of the last few days feels inescapable. Good people who fought to be noticed, gone in the blink of an eye. You swallow thickly.
Suddenly, your sister threads her arm through yours, allowing one violent, devastated sob to escape her lips. Percy wrings his palm around yours. His heartbeat pulses against the centre of your palm.
It suddenly occurs to you that this part of your life is ending. It’s happening too fast, too painfully. It sends you dizzy. Makes you panic, whips the oxygen from your lungs and refuses to let it flow back. But you know it has to be this way. Nothing can grow if it’s tied back for too long.
A branch above the bench rustles. Tilting your head back, a small brown bird hops further up the branch and drops a tiny seed in your lap. You take it as a sign—
At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
Annabeth leaves you with the latest magazines and a hug goodbye, promising to drop by again soon. You have a lot to catch up on, she presses, before she catches a cab back to camp. One of the nurses, a daughter of Apollo around Sally’s age, takes out your stitches around six o’clock and runs through aftercare procedures. The area is still a little tender, especially the through-and-through wounds, but they’re healed up from the inside out, and minus a bit of residual bruising, you’re squeaky clean and ready to go!
Oh, and the best part of all your care?
“We don’t charge for injured half-bloods, it’s against our code,” the nurse winks. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we don’t see you again!” She wraps up the remnants of your wounds with care, softly explaining that there will be some scarring. Take it easy, she advises, patting your shoulder on her way out, and thank you. Percy sits at your side, where both yours and his legs swing slowly back and forth over the edge of the bed. Your shoulders slump downward and relax, forgoing all composure.
Unsureness has taken place in your mind and soul. Your world, the very place around you, feels fragmented and shaken, as if it could collapse any minute. Your nerves are live wires. Your brain doesn’t stop.
You feel like you need a sedative.
Shakily, your breath leaves your throat. “What now?”
Nobody ever has the answer to that. Not even adults, who should know everything. Truth is, adults are just as clueless as everybody else, even children, especially teenagers. Nobody ever really grows up. This truth scares you, specifically when you cry to Sally Jackson in the dead of night under the table light in the kitchen, wondering what it is you’re supposed to do next. For as long as you’ve lived, surviving without unnecessary pain has been your end goal. Every argument with your dad was met with your deflection in humour and fawning to try to stop the anger and violence. Every fight for your life for the greater good had been fought with fake bravado and pretence. Now that is all over, what do you do? At last the night is long and fruitful with endings and beginnings both together. The finality of this chapter scares you.
Swiping your hand over your eyes, you sigh wetly. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
Sally takes your chilled hands in a motherly hold and claps them between her hot ones. You admire the lines on the backs of her aging hands and know this is where Percy gets his softness from. He has been raised well, by a wonderful mother who found the will in herself to show kindness to him in the darkest of times. He has not had to fight for affection or bend himself the wrong way to be heard. Percy just was. For that, you despise him. You loathe the unknowing boy for being given a gentle life without a fight. Perhaps that isn’t how he sees it, but he isn’t you, and he hasn’t been through what you have.
And you love him all the same for showing those gestures he grew up with to you.
Sally wipes salted tears away with her blue pyjama sleeve. It is soft like feathers. “You be whoever you want to be,” she murmurs. “Not who they tell you you should be.”
Your stomach is littered in four thick, pink scars. You poke at them in the steamed-up bathroom mirror, running your fingers flat over the blemishes. They’re bumpy, they stick out like thick worms on your stomach, and they reduce your self-confidence to ashes. You turn and twist your head as far as you can, witnessing two identical scars on your back, and one on your left hand side. Physically they’re healing up perfectly. You feel forever tarnished by them.
“I could get plastic surgery eventually,” you shovel mouthfuls of Lucky Charms in your mouth, clinking the spoon back in the bowl. “You know, when I get a proper job.”
Across from you, Percy chews on his piece of toast slowly, gradually slowing until he stops and swallows the piece. “There’s…there’s nothing wrong with you.” Percy persuades, leaning forward ever so slightly. His mouth twists like he’s tasted something sour. “You’re beautiful.”
The cereal in your stomach swirls around, knocking you squirming. Your eyes dart from the ceiling to the floor to Percy and back again. “You can’t say things like that!” You hiss.
He gives you a blank stare. “Why not? It’s true. You’re gorgeous. The girls at camp are jealous of you. I hear it all the time.”
The spoon between your fingers falls away to the table and clatters down to the floor. You shoot up, throwing yourself over your cereal and knocking the bowl over. The cold milk barrels over the edge of the table, all over Percy. His jaw drops as you slap your hand over his mouth viciously.
“Shh!” You encourage. “That’s—Percy, stop it! Don’t try to make me feel better. Lying doesn’t help anyone. We’re not twelve anymore.”
Annoyed, Percy’s face falls flat. He raises his hand to wrap around your wrist, tightly but enough not to squeeze. He pulls your hand away and down, pressing your palm to the table and flattening his hand on top.
“I’m not lying,” he leans forward, his nose brushing yours. He’s so close you have to close your eyes in order to prevent a heart attack. If you can’t see him, he’s not there, like prey hiding. Still, Percy doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, tilting his forehead to yours. He smells of Nautica Voyage and Tide detergent. Suddenly you understand when people say they get the urge to bite something because it’s so cute. The intense rush of emotion scares you. “When will you get it in your head,” he asks with mellowing, “that I love you for you. Your soul. Your will. You’re pretty, but—gods, I don’t just like you for your looks, B. You’re beautiful inside and out.”
Your lips part and your breath stutters. Slowly, you peek with one eye, and then the other. He’s already looking. His dark lashes kill you every time. “I—I dont know what to say. I’m—happy! I’m glad you said that. Well, glad is a strong word, I just—I don’t know what to say. You love me?” A coy smile grows.
You’ve never noticed that Percy’s canines are a teensy bit longer than the rest of his pearly white teeth. He’s a heartthrob. Are you still sleeping, high on meds?
He leans closer, and you swear you might be sick. “Then, don’t say anything at all. Not yet.” Finally, he makes the last push. You don’t pull away and stay put. The feeling of his soft lips sets off fireworks in your healing stomach. You find the courage to be your usual self and push back with vigour; he stumbles lightly, laughing into your mouth with brightness.
Percy kisses you over breakfast. The second of many more to come.
Two weeks pass. Sleeping doesn’t get any easier.
Percy sneaks in beside you on particularly bad nights, when the moonlight feels too bright and your head pounds furiously. You squeeze together, the two of you on that tiny couch in the living room, hands entwined and elbows in all the wrong places. It isn’t just your mind that remembers the pain of being stabbed to death, but your body remembers it vividly also. When you wake up in sweats, panting for oxygen, the scars on your body scream, tummy turning like a washing machine, and you have to either sprint to the bathroom or swallow the pain down. You wake often gripping your stomach, making the pain worse, coming to with a fuzzy head as the ceiling above spins in circles. One time you even woke up pressing your hands into the cold kitchen sink, icy water running over them, as Percy pulled you to his side with sleep still in his eyes, yawning.
“It hurts,” you remembered mumbling into his side. Your fingers grew numb with the cold.
“You’re better now,” he’d remind you, reaching over to turn the tap off. “Remember the hospital?”
“No,” you shook your head groggily and raised your dripping wet hands to press into your eyes. “My head hurts. Think I need a different kinda doctor.”
“I’ve got you,” he reassured. “I’m right here.”
“Feels like the world is tipping on its axis. Feels like I’m dying.”
Together, you curled up on the kitchen floor and breathed in the cold of the tiles. He must have been freezing, looking back, in his hoodie and pyjama pants, but you were boiling to the touch—you could recall the tiles steaming up beneath you.
“You’re just anxious. It’ll get better.”
It never occurred to you to ask how Percy was feeling. Not until much later, anyway. In the depths of darkness it’s difficult for a person to consider any other feelings besides their own. When the world is caving in on top of you, self-preservation becomes a number one priority whether the person realises that or not. You can’t see past that. You see only that.
Monday morning, week three, Annabeth bursts into the apartment carrying a full plastic bag and her old handbag. Her blonde locks are brushed up in the same old ponytail she always wears it as, and for once, she has style.
“Annabeth,” you tiredly drawl. “Are those flares?!” The edges of the dark-blue denim are decorated with glittery rhinestones.
“They’re yours,” she power walks across the living room, past Paul Blofis in the armchair, who raises his brows in humour. “I’ll turn the shower on. We’re dying your hair. You’ll feel better.”
Weakness has settled into your bones from all the lounging around you’ve completed these last few weeks. Your legs feel like jelly when she drags you from the sofa.
“Girl day!” Paul celebrates from his corner, flicking through the magazine in his hands. “Do you both need lunch money?”
“Thanks Ms. Jackson’s partner,” quips Annabeth, not unkindly. “But we’ll raid Percy’s piggy bank. Now, all of your makeup is in this bag, some clean clothes, and I’ll bring some more tomorrow, the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that. And I’ll keep coming by for as long as it takes for you to feel better.” She marches you to the bathroom—you feel small and gross when your sister places her hands on your shoulders. “I’m your sister. I’m here for you. And we’re going to get through whatever is troubling you, together.”
Family doesn’t have to be a blood relation. But you’re glad you have even one person you’re somewhat related to who makes you feel whole. It’s nice to have a sister who will look out for you.
“I’m glad our mom saved you,” says Annabeth thickly, not looking at you, ponytail conveniently laying in front of her face while she pulls your sparkly hairbrush from the plastic bag.
Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, you nod absentmindedly. “Me too,” you mutter, stretching out your fingers under the spray of water from the shower head. “I’m glad she saved me, too.”
Annabeth runs your sparkly hairbrush through your hair, and together you set it the perfect shade of caramel, a product of box dye you’d had hiding under your bunk for weeks. It looks good, even though it’s still drying from the wash out; it suits you. The kindness which Annabeth is showing to you causes a crack in your stomach. It splits all the way up your chest to your heart, still trying hard to beat despite the beatings it’s taken. She pulls the hairbrush through your locks, the bristles snagging on knots near the middle. You hiss quietly, a quick intake of air at the sharp pain pulling at your scalp. It pushes you over the edge. Tears spring to your eyes, hot and heavy—it forces you to press your lips together, eyes shut.
“I’m sorry!” Annabeth gushes. She sets the brush down on the side of the bathtub. “Sorry, I’m trying to be gentle. There’s just this one knot…Are you okay?”
You scoff a sodden, teary laugh and shrug your shoulders limply. “I don’t know,” your hands shake raising them to wipe your cheeks. “My brain won’t shut up, Annabeth. Ever. I need someone to knock me out. I think of Luke being in pain and the boys who died a few weeks ago, and all the…everything. It all feels so…”
Your sister perches at your side on the bath’s edge, knocking your hairbrush into the tub. Her eyes shine glassy. “Heavy?” She finishes for you. You nod along quietly, wiping your eyes. “I know how you feel. I felt it too, the first week. I stayed up all night crying into my bedsheets the first few days to get it all out. But you can’t let it consume you, you know? Life carries on with or without you; do you want to go out with the tide or take a nice walk on the beach?”
A wet laugh erupts from your throat. Looking up from your place on the closed toilet seat, Annabeth casts a weak but brave smile. Her face looks thinner, her eyes larger as a result, and heavy, exhausted. Suddenly you feel selfish for focusing only on yourself when your sister is struggling as well, and the boy who’s been doting on you night and day hasn’t seen any sight of care from you in return.
Your eyes lower to your lap, fingers absentmindedly picking at stray pieces of hair over your knees. “I don’t want to go out with the tide,” you admit, sniffling firmly. Fresh tears spring up. Your words come out all shaky. “I like the sand,” you utter gently. Annabeth nods her head slowly, mouth wobbling. She throws herself forward to you in the world’s tightest embrace. Your sister squeezes you until you can scarcely breathe.
She breathes in with a certain type of trembling bravery. There’s wet on your shoulder. This feels like closure.
Annabeth sniffles. “I like the sand too.”
The wind tousles your hair heading down a side street, coming up on Upper East. The weather is changing, October is only a day away, and the leaves sweeping past your feet are golden brown and pumpkin orange. They crickle-crackle dancing down the concrete. A group of girls walk past you pointing at something in a book, talking in hushed tones. A store doorbell chimes someplace behind you. You don’t particularly care for anything other than what you came here for. The destination up ahead on your left, the brownstone townhouse where a polished, high-end car sits just outside.
The steps are clean and free of anything at all, not even cobwebs, not even leaves. You’re the centre of attention, stomping up them one by one. You’ve practiced this, envisioned it, lying awake at night staring at the ceiling, eyes blurry, mind a million miles away. On your shoulders do your caramel curls bounce, set with a dozen layers of hairspray. It tickles your neck. The collar of your jacket smells of the hair spray and Britney Spears’s Fantasy scent.
You meet the front door with confidence and a little nervousness. You know what to say. You’ve gone over what it is you’ll say to who when they answer the door. You clench your fist and knock three times, before stepping back two steps and looking around the street. A part of you hopes that nobody will answer and you can go home and say I tried my best. But—
The door unlocks with a click and swings open. The cloy of cleaning products hits your nose, a strong synthetic smell, and somewhere in there a hint of coffee. Before you stands a tall man with such dark hair, though after such a long time it is now streaked with grey and white in parts more than you’d prepared yourself for. His forehead sports deep lines, and there are smaller ones around the corners of his eyes. He wears a quarter-zip sweater and black pants. In his right hand is a coffee cup.
For a second it is entirely silent. You decide to be the difference for the last time.
The cold air stings your nose, inhaling. The words spill from your mouth instantly.
“I don’t want to see you ever again. I don’t want to see her, but if Finney wants to contact me one day, I’m okay with that.” You can feel your throat beginning to tighten. You knew it would happen—saying goodbye was never going to be easy, no matter how much they hurt you. His icy blue eyes are still, unblinking, mouth agape like he can’t believe his eyes. “The way you treat your children is not okay. And I won’t be a part of that any longer. I’m ending it right here. It stops with me. Got it?”
He nods his head once, twice. He doesn’t say anything. In a way it hurts that he isn’t fighting for this. In another, you’re so thankful that he isn’t.
You clear your throat stiffly, refusing to look away. “I wish you all the best that life can offer you. I hope you’re all healthy and happy. But this is my final goodbye. I don’t want to see you, or know you.”
You don’t bother waiting a beat. Shoving your hands into the pockets of your jacket, you trod down the steps from whence you came and walk away from your old life. Every step you take in the opposite direction puts an end to generations of abuse and the cycle that never seemed to end. You wanted to be the difference. You became it. Your future children would not have the life you were given—you would make sure of it. And it began by walking away from what you had. You were putting a stop to all of it. You would be the difference. You can’t get better if you’re still taking poison.
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