capsize
chapter forty-seven | think of me once in a while, take care
YOU ONLY WOKE UP because somebody was breathing. Not up close and personal, but their soft breaths were most definitely audible in the quiet room. You caught a hint of sugar and something powdery, a perfume without a name, and thought that, by some wild change of circumstances, Sally was up earlier than usual for work. Exhaling, you scowled, blinking painfully in the dark living room to try to make sense of why she would be awake at this ungodly hour. Sure enough, sitting up, letting the covers fall to your hips, there was indeed a figure not too far away, sitting on the coffee table in front of your bed-slash-sofa. A thin slip of a thing, head bent, flipping slowly the pages of the magazine you’d been reading before you decided to to sleep.
Clearing your throat, the figure looked up, their eyes bright and wide awake. This person felt familiar, their aura something that had accompanied you in the past. You couldn’t see them, but this was a slim and shorter figure than the tall and womanly one of Sally Jackson.
You’d had nightmares like this, of waking up to an intruder in the night. It felt surreal that, at long last, your imagination had come into existence. Only difference was, the figure didn’t feel intimidating, not spiritually, so to speak. They felt familiar. Like it could have been somebody you lived with. The longer you look, the more you recognise.
Your lips part dryly, throat scratchy. “Zoe?”
Your mind blanks, throat squeezing. The wires in your brain backfire, and you’re thrown years back in time in only a matter of seconds. You see a girl—because that’s what she is, what she was—a young girl who suffered under the same rule as you have, cursed to live under the consequences of others and suffer the results, no matter her wishes or dreams or likes in the world. This young girl presented as forever fourteen sits in place on the coffee table like she belongs there, as if this is a normal early morning in her own house.
Zoe Nightshade died as a result of her elders’ terrible decisions. She is sitting in front of you.
Discomfort squirms in your stomach, when she says nothing. For half a second, the two of you stare at each other, she with a blank expression of nothing, like she’s seeing something behind you, and you, with eyes so wide it hurts, brimming with uncomfortable tears, honestly a little bit scared. Her limbs are a grim shade of moonlight white, hands small and positioned with the poise of a ballerina caught mid-practice, magazine still in hand. She might look like a normal teenage girl to anyone else. But you’re not anyone else. And she wasn’t a normal teenage girl.
Zoe doesn’t blink at all. Not once. Not in the whole time you’ve been watching her. She just stares. The scream is building, stomach to your throat. Slowly, it climbs. You feel sick. You feel unreal. Terrified, it is impossible to move from your place on the couch. Percy’s name sits on your tongue, you cry mentally to him, hoping that by some force of nature he’ll hear your call and wake up. You’re never that lucky, though. The ghostly girl before you lets the magazine fall through her fingers, it crumples on the carpet with a dull flutter. Her cheeks, hollow and bloodless. Her eyes shining but empty. A young girl sent to deliver a message.
She opens her mouth, and a gravelly voice is released. “Prepare yourself,” says Zoe. Her voice is scratchy and sore.
Silence fills the room once more. Finally, your terror cacophonies. At last, you scream.
You are a financial burden on the Jackson family. Have been, since the day you entered their apartment from the hospital. That was months ago, and the family dynamic works well, you’re a part of it now. But there are struggles as a result. You see it in the way Sally takes smaller portions at dinner time, evening out your meals. You see it when Paul walks into the city rather than driving, to save on fuel money. These things can be excused and forgiven, for nobody would see a child go hungry if they could do something about it. Or, most people would like to think so. But this? This is a financial crisis. Zoloft comes at an added expense of an extra one-hundred-fifty dollars a month. And you’re in no position, mentally, to take on work right now, lost in your own mind at all hours of the day, pulled only into reality in small doses, barely capable of handling that. Your medication comes out of the Jackson’s pockets, which you feel absolutely awful about.
“Hundred-and-fifty a month,” you sigh through your nose, head bent, turning the blue and white cardboard box between your fingers. “For thirty-one tiny white tablets.”
The wind blows your curled hair over your shoulder. Today is a good day, in the head. You feel with it, so to speak, able to contribute to society, as the doctor put it. You can hold a conversation this morning so far, able to get out of bed, not terrified to go out. The world doesn’t spin on its axis—you don’t feel like you’re literally losing your mind, not this morning. You’re not even too hot or too cold. Percy forced a scarf around your neck before you took off to the doctors early in the morning, and the expression on Percy’s face when you first woke up won’t stop replaying in your mind; cautious, hesitant to see what state you would be in for the day. Waking up early tended to make things worse. Depression is an asshole, and anxiety is not a friend. You might cope with today, so far at least, but you’re getting tired, can feel your mind growing exhausted already. The city soundscape begins to grate on your nerves slowly but surely, and the wind on your face feels like pinching.
Percy has grown in many different ways these last few months. Not just taller, or stronger, but more emotionally capable of handling life. He’s grown up, matured; it’s both refreshing and terrifying, because you feel you’re being left behind. It’s irrational to think so. Nonetheless, despite his hair growing longer and darker, his jaw sharpening and his eyes slowly getting brighter again, he is still very much Percy, determined to make you smile.
And determined to make you feel like one of the family.
“It’s worth it,” he nudges your shoulder. “For you.”
You exhale slowly through your nose. The cold air stings your airways. “See, I don’t think it is. I’m making life harder for your mom, and Paul. This should not be anybody’s problem except my own.”
For a beat, nothing happens between the two of you. Your fingers clench around the box of medication, tapping your thumb atop of your printed name fretfully. Suddenly, Percy’s tanned hand intercepts your line of sight, fingers opening and closing around your hand and the box within it. Pausing, your sore eyes lift upwards ever so slightly, to find him with tense brows, that permanent line between them, and his lips pressed together, contemplating. He doesn’t even pull away at the touch of your clammy hand.
Percy parts his lips, then closes his mouth again. Finally, he chooses carefully the words he’s been mulling over the last few seconds. “All anyone wants,” says Percy, “is for you to feel safe in your own body. Your clothes don’t fit, you hardly eat, and most days you can’t even brush your hair. You’ve done a total three-sixty, and we’re all scared. If these tiny tablets is what it’ll take for you to sleep at night and leave the house in the daytime, it’s worth it. You are worth it. It’s just money. We can make that money back.”
You know, without looking, of course, that Percy is looking down at you with that gooey, dorkey look in his eyes. He’s been looking at you that way since he dragged you back from the depths of hell (otherwise known as—limbo). You’re not sure what you think about it. It is almost intimidating, being looked at, under the heavy gaze of this boy, with nothing but adoration and devotion. It is something to be loved, and so terribly, awfully, horribly sickening.
Crispy, golden leaves rush by your feet, under the bench you sit upon. A woman walks by pushing a stroller and walking her dog in the other hand. A middle-aged man and his wife jog the park with ruby-red cheeks, and two young boys play football while their parents laze on the grass. The day feels ordinary. But you already feel yourself slipping away from the stress that is daily life. Gently, you lean into Percy’s side, pressing your forehead into his sleeve, and you close your eyes. It helps to drown out how overwhelming the park feels the longer you sit there on that bench. The box of meds slide out of your fingers on to your lap, as Percy’s fingers replace it. His chin rests on your head so softly he may as well be hovering.
You feel almost guilty. You’re about to ruin the moment. The world feels like it’s slipping sideways. Your booted foot slides under the bench you sit on, trying to subtly find a grappling hook, something to ground you to this place. You find nothing; your heart plummets.
“Take me home?” You ask in a voice so small you mightn’t have said a thing at all. Carefully, Percy leans back to wrap his free arm around you and pulls you into him, as if he can shield you from your own mind. It’s a lovely sentiment. He’s merciful and light and entirely selfless. He’d do anything for you, now, and it worries you a great deal.
Christmas arrives, you’re months into your meds, and with it comes snowfall. You’re wide awake at the window, a side effect of the medication which proves its weight in gold. The crisp, clean white droplets melt on your fingertips, arm leaning out of the living room window at midnight, when the rest of the street is asleep. The crystal flakes land on your palm and melt almost instantly. Orange streetlights streak uneven light across the room at odd angles. The apartment is silent, besides Paul’s light snores down the hall. He stays most nights of the week. It took a long time to trust him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the snide comments and frosty exterior to come following the kindness, but it never did arrive, and so slowly a trust was formed between the two of you. You know Percy felt the same after living with his former stepdad. It was a hard pill to swallow for all members of the household, learning to trust somebody again after the world had given plenty of evidence as to why you shouldn’t. But, slowly but surely, all members of the household were learning and relearning. The generational cycle of abuse three people had individually been trapped within had at last come to an end.
It feels uncertain, slightly sickening, accepting the kindness rather than pushing it away at the first hint. Learning how you should react to situations and people, instead of reacting the way you’ve learned to, is harder than it sounds like it would be. Paul recognises this, every few days, when you feel you’ve become too trusting, and so, in order to keep things steady, to let him know you take no shit from anybody, you turn frosty, out of habit, following a board game session gone down well with plenty of laughter, or when he holds the door open for you on the way out of the apartment. A part of you niggles waiting inside, telling you that showing your niceties and trusting this man will only make him prone to turning on you in the end. Once he’s got your trust, he can act any type of way. The other part of you wants to accept Paul, wants to get to know him, because you enjoy the board games, the trips to Central Park Zoo, the quiet evenings with the family when some old-timey movie plays; the world feels like it is still, trustworthy.
And the next day you’ll feel sick and ashamed of yourself for showing that side of you. How could you be so stupid? So you slam the door in Paul’s face, or run from the apartment before the movie can start or anyone can see where you’ve gone, and you don’t come back ‘til late, later than the others have stayed up.
Or do you thought, walking the streets in the dark and the baltic cold, three days before Christmas.
The front door creaks thrice. The handle clicks back in place, as you creep quietly inside the apartment. Multicolour lights glow the room up in warm, soft hues of gold, pink, blue and green. It smells like candy and cake batter, reminiscent of the evening’s activities you fled from in a haste, earlier on. The door shuts slowly on its hinges, your back pressed to it. The lock automatically throws itself into place. Everything looks fine, here; couch throws have been folded back up neatly and placed on the arms of the chairs, Sally’s slippers nestle under the coffee table for the night.
Only one thing is unusual for this time of night. Paul, at the kitchen, wiping down the table. Lone dishes reside in the sink, stacked, leaning with accuracy—Percy’s doing, no doubt. He has his pyjama shirt sleeves pulled up past his elbows and a raggedy kitchen hand towel thrown over his right shoulder. He arranges a few plates and bowls on the beechwood table with care, lightly placing them down, wrapping them over with foil.
He looks up, not surprised to see you come in. Slowly, he stands back from the table, and flicks the kettle on at the wall. It begins to boil quietly. He has a thing for midnight teas, does Paul. You keep your back pressed to the front door, palms flush against it at your sides, watching with suspicion.
Nobody ever waits up for you.
“You waited up for me?” You jut your chin subtly in his direction. The words are sharp.
The older man busies himself pulling two cups down from the shelf, one bright orange with white spots, the other your designated cup, a large white mug you always have to hold between two hands for its weight, with a print of the cartoon Alice in Wonderland on the front. Mid pouring the water, Paul looks up, and nods his head. His eyes are tired in the kitchen light, but the man manages to look soft and kind nonetheless.
“We wait up every time you come home late,” he admits, like it’s nothing at all. The weight of it slams you in the chest. “Sally’s still awake, too, she’s just now got to bed.”
Every time.
We wait up.
We wait up every time you come home late.
The words leave Paul’s mouth in a casual, quiet fashion, like it’s the only option there is. Steam rises from both cups before him, when he takes their handles with precise hands. He takes a sip from his cup, despite the boiled heat, but places yours down on the just-cleaned table between you both. He doesn’t expect you to come to him and take the cup. He puts it down where you don’t have to get too close. Your stomach twists, acknowledging the facts of the last few seconds which hit you square in the face and the feels.
“You…” you swallow the squeezing in your throat. “You wait up for me?”
Paul nods. Your stomach grumbles. You’ve missed the evening snacks tonight. At long last, you manage to separate from the front door. The wood has grown warm beneath your touch. It grows cooler the second you part from it, but something else happens as a result. You feel lighter, letting go. The footsteps you walk over to the table are, audibly, silent. But the metaphorical weight is enormous.
“Of course we do,” Paul blinks twice, as his own throat bobs. His voice catches. “It’s cold outside. You know, I’ve met kids like you before. Taught them, you know, talked to them one on one like we are now. I learned something every time I did just that; Kids like you are bright as hell, if only someone would give you the opportunity to prove it. I used to wonder, who would this kid be if somebody had just given them a chance?”
You have to press your lips together now to stop them trembling. Without realising, you’ve taken baby steps to the table. Now, the width of the table separates you from this man who shows you kindness in everything he does. Your throat begins to burn again. Only, this time, you don’t fight it. Consequently, you have to close your eyes for a second or so to stop the tears from filling.
You open them, observing Paul tiredly sipping his tea, slightly leaning on the counter.
“Kids like you, you’ve had to get used to the stressors in your life. It’s not nice, but it’s a fact.” He shrugs idly. Talking one on one like this feels…calming. Like the storm that’s been raging for days has finally begun to slow. “You run because you’re scared of what will happen when you accept the good things. It’s a learned habit. Disengaging makes simply living easier, I guess.”
He’s hit the nail on the head first try. Your fingers slowly close around the cup. Distantly, you wonder if he’s poisoned the tea.
“Teacher turned psychologist, huh?” You scoff quietly. You lift the cup. The tea tastes fucking amazing. A tear splashes in the liquid. Horrified, you stare at the cup with paused, large eyes.
Paul huffs a small laugh in response to your comment, nodding. “Something like that.” He stands straighter, and collects a cookie from the open cookie pot on the table. “All I’m saying is, you can trust us. We’re not going anywhere. We’re here for you whether you like it or not. And for the love of god, please, take a coat with you if you’re walking the streets at night. It’s too cold to be out all night without a coat. Take your tea to bed, kiddo. Tomorrow’s a better day, always. And we will always wait up until we know you’re home safe. That won’t change.”
Slowly but surely, things begin to change for the better.
It’s like crash-landing and having to, while injured, bleeding and bruised, drag yourself forward inch by inch until you leave the destroyed self behind. You can see the shoreline and the sunrise again. You know you’re safe when you can see the light. And you can see the light.
Christmas Day passes fairly swiftly. You’d love to say that you were present, mentally at least, for all of it, but you checked out somewhere around five-thirty, safe, warm and comfortable lazing on the couch. Vaguely, you recall waking up as Percy placed a light blanket over you, and again, when you stretched out your leg half-asleep and booted him in the hip. He’d groaned, tried to stifle it, but wrapped his fingers gently around your ankle to rest over his knees. His hand remained a weight which grounded you to sleep the rest of the night. Next morning, you woke to bleary sunlight through the curtains, to find Percy fast asleep on the floor, sitting up against the front of the sofa, and his hand still placed delicately around your ankle, like his second attempt at tethering you to this world, as if letting go even at rest was a failure far beyond his usual. He pressed his forehead into your knees like he was praising.
A month passes, then, another, and another, until the day arrives where you feel ready to face life in its entirety once again; March fifteenth, 2010. Coincidentally, it is the morning of your very first driving lesson. You’ve cut up a total of seven drivers, ran a red light, and became so distracted by the ease of window shopping this way that you turned your head the wrong moment in time and literally ran over an orange traffic cone.
“Okay,” the instructor set her hands one atop the other on the clipboard over her knees. “I think that’s enough for today.”
Beaming, you turn in the drivers seat. “Same time next week?”
Barbara cancelled on you and decided you were a menace to the streets of Manhattan. Nonetheless, her lack of faith in your driving abilities did not hinder your inspiration to own a shiny new Merc and shop ‘til the fuel ran out. If she wouldn’t teach you, you’d be sure that Paul would be happy to strike up a deal and steal Sally’s car.
It was, just as you’d stepped up to the front door of the apartment lobby, that a figure down the sidewalk, trapped behind two Japanese tourists with their cameras pointed at the small park just ahead. Behind them a girl walked in your direction, her honey blonde hair up in her signature high ponytail. Annabeth’s cheeks were flushed pink, likely from the warmth of this afternoon. When she saw you, she raised her hand in an excitable hey!, walking turned jog as she came closer. You met her halfway in a brief hug.
“What’re you doing here?” You asked, tucking your hair behind your ears. “Wanna get lunch?” you suggest, jabbing your thumb over your shoulder.
Annabeth tilted her head as a suspicious smile takes over her face. “I’ve got a better idea.”
Window shopping is only half as good when you’re an unemployed half-blood dodging tiny creatures in the street. Twice or thrice, small grasshopper-like creatures found their way into your hair and began untying it, thwarting your sister’s plan to actually buy things that afternoon. And by—well, buy things, the plan was to distract and run. Being jobless only gets you so much.
She stayed for dinner, though. Sally never turned away a teenager wanting food, especially one of Percy’s friends. The atmosphere felt inviting and right, like this was supposed to happen today. There have been a handful of times throughout your life when the day’s activities felt right, perfect timing and all that, and today could officially be included as one of them. Yourself, Annabeth and Percy hopped in the car with Paul to drop her back at camp around seven. Percy walked her to the entrance just as the sun was beginning to set behind the trees. You watched from the car after saying bye, surprised that a heavy presence sat upon your shoulders. Camp, it seemed, still called for you, though you’d spurned it for several months in search of healing and inner peace. It worked, you got your wish, halfway to fully healed. Nonetheless, your soul desperately longed to go back to the place where you built a section of your life, no matter how hard things were at the time. You’d slain monsters, buried friends, and mourned your old life all in the span of a few years. Your meds dulled the prick of the injury still healing around your heart.
“You’re not going with them?” Asked Paul, surprised, notching the gear into park.
You shook your head subtly. “No. Not today.” Besides, Percy was already on his way back to the car—could see him through the branches.
Something told you that you should have gone with them, at least said hello to Travis, to Chiron, your cabin mates and those you considered family. It stirred in your stomach and poked up your ribs, adamant. You pushed it down, and leaned forward to turn up the radio. Percy climbed into the back middle seat, and from there, Paul set off for home. While he and Percy waffled on about some new stereo Paul wanted for his upcoming birthday, you dropped your forehead against the glass, watching the world go by. Past the woodlands, the sacred grounds hiding a whole other world from the eyes of the ordinary, the sun still shone, the birds still spoke their song high into the evening sky, and Bette Davis Eyes crooned away on the radio.
It was by all accounts an ordinary night, in the apartment of the unordinary. You set up on the couch for bed, said goodnight to everyone, and finished the rest of Toy Story 3 with Percy. You memorised the shape of his nose and the luminosity of his eyes, that shade of sea-green that never changed after all these years. You committed the smell of the apartment to memory because something told you that you should. You felt yourself growing weary, an exhausted yawn making itself known, and lay your head down on Percy’s shoulder. By midnight the apartment had turned silent, not a sound from any of the rooms. And as you lay there in the dark, listening to nothing, your eyes slowly began to close of their own accord. Safe and sound in the Jackson apartment, halfway happy, halfway there.
Such a shame the world had to tear the rug out from under your feet.
It began as darkness. Total, complete darkness. You knew it, were aware of it, only there wasn’t anything to be done to combat it. Maybe you’d passed in your sleep. Or was this perhaps a coma you fell into and everything you knew was a big fat dream? It was a terrifying hole of nothingness, where the air was neither hot nor cold, where there was nothing beyond your stretched out fingers. You simply stayed in the darkness until it passed, when you woke with a shock.
Literally.
Your eyes crack open the tiniest bit with an audible crunch. You can’t see properly, where a film of blur covers your sight. Lying on your back, the surrounding area begins to slowly come into focus. You’re on the floor of a wooden hut, on your back, wearing nothing but a pair of leggings and chunky black lace-up boots. A thin black strappy top lays over your middle, where, still laying, you see an uncomfortable amount of bones through your clothes. You wear a navy-blue flannel shirt unbuttoned over the top, and that is all. These flimsy clothes do nothing at all to keep you warm, as you become more aware of your surroundings. There are two windows on either side of you, small but there in the walls of the hut. Ice has sparked and spread all over them, making it impossible to see outside. Your breath plumes in the air right before you, like a heavy cloud of smoke on a summers day. Sitting up slowly, you feel weak, all the energy sapped from your body. Your wrists click, holding your palms out behind you to hold yourself up. The wooden floorboards beneath your hands burns at the contact, too cold to cope.
There is nothing else in the room. Just you.
Your legs feel heavy, pulling them up underneath, as you shove with your spaghetti arms and manage to throw yourself up halfway, leaning on the wall of the cabin for support. Breath leaves your lungs frantically, trying to cope with the sudden sport. The wall creaks beside your slim weight, groaning like it’ll collapse any second now. There is no other noise besides you, the cabin, and the wind howling on the other side. You feel a deep sense of dread, a total loss of agency.
All because you have no idea where you are. Or how you got here.
Your stomach begins to rise and fall with panic, contracting, relaxing, contracting relaxing, in a predictable fashion. Eyes shutting, squeezing, you try to calm yourself and press your hand against the wall to the left, pushing to stand fully on weakening legs. Forcefully, you take in a big breath and hold it, before you slowly, shakily, exhale. You don’t know where you are but you do know that—this exercise feels like it’ll help. And you’re not sure how you know such a thing, only that it works. You do this for who knows how long. Time passes strangely.
At last, you can pry your eyes open. They feel sensitive and sore to move, to blink, but at least your sight has cleared up, finally. Mentally you begin roving over all the things you’re aware of.
One. It is freezing cold in here, unbearably so. And you’re not sure how long you’ve been out for.
Two. You don’t know how you got here. Or why you’re here.
Three. You know your first name. It sounds foreign on your tongue, whispering it to yourself. Your voice is hoarse and broken. How long has it been out of use?
And four. He will be looking for you.
Him. The almost-man, young adult with the pitch-black hair and the vivid eyes. He sits at the end of a dock with his ankles dipping in the water. You call his name, and just as you turn—
Thunder cracks in the far distance. It rumbles for near enough a minute, you count, slowly, to calm yourself. The sky isn’t the only thing in agony, as your stomach is, too. You’re starving. How long have you gone without food? You don’t need a mirror to see you’re not okay. But you do know one other, most prominent thing:
You need to get out of here.
And you need to be moving.
now.
taglist:
@bl6o6dy @embersparklz @rottenstyx @rory-cakes @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @marshmallow12354 @lantsovheiress @distinguishedmakerpandapatrol @twlsssmlaa @gayandfairycore @padsfirewhisky @emu281 @charlesswife @jessiegerl @tojismassivemantiddies @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @nothankyou138 @obxstiles @mxltifxndom @cxcilla @sp00kcanwrite @randomesthings @fratbrochrisgf @prongsflower @bugszi @tired-jaz @mitsuriscannongf @i-love-books-and-the-bible @miyakoa @prongsflower @crackerphobic @shorttstackk @luckydragontriumph @hawkeye12 @dusk-reaper @anonymouse-is-here
