Burned Ones

Chapter 34 (Finn)

Finn.
16 years old.

Annabeth was not okay. Cam was not okay. I was not okay. Cam's dad was not okay.

Well, Cam's dad was dead, so... He wasn't technically great or anything right now but he wasn't not great, either. He was just...Wait.

The important part was that Annabeth was not okay.

She hadn't really been okay in awhile. Not since Alex died, which was understandable. Not since we burned that Casey car and she shot the Dacosta member, which was understandable. Not since she thought I was missing and found me in her father's torture chamber, which was less understandable but still a fact. Not since her father decorated her back with a hot iron rod, which made me want to kill a man a little bit.

Each time something traumatizing happened, she got quiet. I used to think it was because she didn't like me but she let me help her with her back and if there ever was a time she could've ignored me, that was it. So then I thought it was just the pain that kept her quiet (also understandable). But then the quiet got longer and longer each time and now... now, whatever was worse than "not okay", that was her.

The only time she really spoke right after Alex died was when she was yelling at Cam. But Annabeth couldn't yell at Cam right now without raising questions because every Casey member in existence seemed to be in this house and running around and panicking and asking "why?" and "how?" and "what now?". Well, except for Jay, who was focusing instead on asking things like "what's wrong with Annabeth?" and "is she alright?".

Did she fucking look alright? Did she look like she was goddamn okay? Did she look like the portrait of a woman not having a mental breakdown deep enough to rip her soul out? Because the Annabeth we both knew wasn't in the house with every other Casey. If Jay stopped running his moronic mouth for two seconds, maybe he could use his eyes and see that she was very far from okay and didn't need him in her business right now.

But I didn't say any of that. I didn't even threaten to light his shoes on fire.

Because Annabeth was not okay and she was what was important.

I stood in her room with her as I grabbed the go bags we'd packed and stashed under her bed. I slung one over my shoulder and hesitated while holding hers out to her.

Her eyes were on my shoes. I stepped to the left and she tracked the movement but her eyes were distant like she was looking but not seeing. There, but not. If I gave her this bag would she hold onto it or would it fall out of her hand, like I was handing it to a ghost? I stepped back from her a few steps and just like every time before and the whole way up to her bedroom, she watched my feet and copied me, taking the few steps necessary to get closer to me.

Without warning, her eyes snapped to mine and suddenly, Annabeth was Annabeth again. Every bone in my body jolted at the shift.

She glanced around. Did she know we were in her room? Was she here now? Or gone?

She looked at her hand and then at me. "Where did my drink go?"

I didn't want to deal with this.

That wasn't accurate.

I did want to deal with this because it was Annabeth and I would deal with anything for her. I would deal with all of her baggage and insane family and boundaries and words that came with spikes and friends with illegal hobbies and crippling nightmares and insistence that she didn't feel things. Annabeth looked at me and said stay. She said, come with me while we create a home.