Chapter Text
The Blood In Your Eyes
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Riptide cuts through your skin easily, blood quickly seeping out and staining your skin red. It stings. It hurts.
(It doesn’t hurt enough.)
You make another cut, this one deeper, bloodier. Painful. It is still not enough.
You are not satisfied.
(You are not forgiven.)
Riptide is covered in blood and small specks of torn-off skin. You should clean it before it dries.
Instead, you bring it back to your forearm and watch the blood drip onto the floor. You apply more pressure, the pain rising from a stinging sensation to a sharp pain.
Now, you are satisfied.
Now, a voice says, you are worse.
You do not listen to the voice as you clean the blood from Riptide, arm still stained with crimson. Seeing the blood alleviates the pain, you do not want to clear your eyes of it yet.
You do not remember when this habit started.
Yes, you do, the voice insists.
It just… happened, one day.
(No, it didn’t.)
It was sudden, there wasn’t any build-up.
Yes, there was.
Maybe you should’ve asked for help before you yielded.
(And admit your shame? No. That isn’t any fun. That isn’t forgiveness.)
No. It wouldn’t have been forgiveness.
You move to make another cut on your arm, ignoring how a part of you shrivels at the sight of the blood.
It helps, you insist.
No. No, it doesn’t.
Blood drips onto the floor.
—
You do not know when you first had thoughts of it. They were just… there, one day.
And they never left.
And suddenly, you found yourself actually doing it. Afterwards, you couldn’t stop.
It occupied your thoughts; blocking off your throat, infesting your lungs. It got harder and harder to resist; the urge, the need to cut, cut, cut. Cut away everything, destroy it all until all that remained was blood and gore. You needed to stain the floor, your skin, with red, with blood.
(As if you are not already stained, Destroyer Of Her Life.)
It is a powerful urge, a powerful temptation, and you are horrified by how easily you fall to it.
You don’t even know why you feel this way, why you do this to yourself in the first place. But you practically crave it with how strong the urge is. It drives you mad, it’s terrible, you hate it, you don’t want to feel this way anymore, you just want to be happy again—
(Shut up.)
You shut up.
—
(You monster.)
You hadn’t meant for all this to happen. How were you supposed to know that you were bound to a prophecy, one that could destroy all of Olympus?
( How fitting your name is, destroyer.)
How many people will die because of you? How many people have died because of you? How could you be so foolish, so selfish?
(Monster.)
You feel your breath catch in your lungs. You can’t breathe. You grab the towel beside you and hold it against your mouth, muffling your gasps and sobs.
Your parents cannot hear you. They won’t hear you.
(Destroyer.)
You don’t know what you’d do if they did.
Blood drips and gathers on the floor. Pain lances through your arm, stinging and sharp.
It is not enough.
You need more.
—
You stare at the blood staining the floor until your mother knocks on the door, concerned.
You say that you merely feel a little nauseous.
(Lies.)
—
“Percy,” your father, Perseus, asks when you leave the bathroom. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” you say, voice hoarse from crying.
He stares at you.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” he asks. “I’m always here for you.”
(Don’t say a thing.)
“I know,” you lie. “I’ll tell you if something’s wrong.”
You walk away then, pretending to not notice his disappointment.
—
Later that night, you are laying on your bed, facing away from your dads. They are not paying attention to you, occupied with whatever they are quietly discussing.
They think you are asleep.
You are not.
You run your hand over the cuts on your arm, your fingers bumping over each scabbed, swollen cut, the dried blood rubbing off and sticking under your nails.
It is satisfying.
(It tempts you further.)
You stop.
You feel sick.
Talk to him, something whispers to you; the quiet, tired part of your mind. It is kind, hopeful. He’ll understand. Dad always understands.
(Dad cannot help.)
He can. You have to let him.
(No.)
Yes. Tell him.
You do not tell him. You go to sleep, the voices silent as you ignore the tears pricking at your eyes.
Coward, the voice sneers, no longer kind.
That is fine. You do not deserve its kindness.
—
Another day passes. Shamefully, you find yourself holed up in the bathroom again, Riptide in your right hand. Blood drips down your arm, cuts stinging; they’ll scar.
You want them to.
It’ll get worse, the voice whispers to you. It’s getting worse.
It’ll be fine.
(No. It won’t be. But you already know that, don’t you?)
—
You open the door and leave the bathroom, your gaze staring down at the floor. Your arms ache and sting. You resent the pain, but you find yourself unable to function without it.
You turn away from the floor and glance up.
You are greeted by your father’s dead eyes.