𝐂œ𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐬é𝐬 [Percy Jackson]

1

Something was watching him as he wandered through the graveyard. Something? Someone? Something that used to be someone? He wasn't sure. The dead were restless that evening, they watched from their gravestones as the boy made a beeline to the new grave.

He wasn't sure why he was there in the first place but he forced himself to walk. It was too late to turn back now that he was already here. He willed his legs to move. One foot in front of the other. As long as he was moving, it felt like he was doing something right.

The flowers in his hands, pressed to his chest, had broken stems. He'd crushed them accidentally, clutched the stalks too hard in his fist. White chrysanthemums. "chrysanthèmes blancs"

He never really had any family to mourn on all saints day "la toussaint". But within a few weeks his life had turned upside down, and here he was- completely disoriented with no idea what to do.

One step in front of the other, that's it. Just take it one step at a time. That's what the counsellor had said. That's what everyone had been saying.

He hated them.

Hated their fake sympathy and sad smiles. Because they were just that: fake. None of these adults gave two shits about him, never had and never would.

If they were going to pretend to care, the least they could do was get good at lying.

He was so fucking sick of it. So sick of all their "kind" words. He felt like he was drowning in it.

'Oh, you poor boy. Only thirteen and suffering so much?'

'You have to be strong now, you're a smart boy Hadrian'

'Do you have any other family? Oh you poor thing'

He gripped the stems of the flowers harder in his hands.

He was going to throw up.

When had they ever cared about him? The counselor who told him he was making things up about his mother's abuse. The neighbors who heard the yells and screams but did nothing. The "friends" who didn't give two shits about him.

And now that she was gone, they just expected him to love her? Bullshit.

His hands were shaking. Why were his hands shaking?

He felt so completely out of his depth, like he was drowning in the sea, but he didn't know which way was up. All he knew was that his lungs were screaming at him, begging for relief and his head was pounding. It was a never ending cycle of- please please help me, I don't know what to do. Please someone, anyone help me. I don't want to drown.

But no one came to help.

Grief doesn't look the same for everyone. There were days when he hated her with every fiber of his being. And there were days when he missed her so much he wondered why he ever hated her.

He wanted to kick a stone, to punch a tree. Something, anything to prove that he was hurting, that he was angry.

"Maman" He breathed out, "I don't know why I'm here for la toussaint"

He let the flowers fall from his hands onto the grave. Weeks. It had been weeks. Why could he still picture her face in exact detail? Why could he still picture her eyes as she slipped into the realm of the dead? Why could he still picture the blood perfectly? Why could he still feel the guilt hollowing him from within?

Life goes on. He told himself. He would get over this. He always did get over everything else.

But how long would it take? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? Decades?