The Lightning Thief (Argo/hbh's Version)

Home. Just not the one I like..

Anathea's POV

Trigger warning: Abuse, blood, screaming, pain, depressing thoughts . If you can't handle that you can just skip the chapter as it doesn't really have anything important to the story except for the last paragraph.

I had a scythe now, Heja told me. She said the scythe turned into a bead, and then she put it on my necklace. 

The way back to camp was quite a blur, you'd have to ask Margo or Heja or Luke for the details. Maybe because most of of the rit I was passed out and in pain and only the last day of traveling I was awake. My very long dream brought me to a very long flashback:

I was alone. I felt like the only person in the world. I was in the living room. If you walked out of the hallway the kitchen was on my right and the TV on my left. Behind me was the door, left of the door the stairs. I first walked to the kitchen. I looked at the cupboards and was astonished at how small they actually were. How'd I ever fit in them when I had to hide from my drunken dad again? I really didn't know how any goddess would fall in love with him. Maybe he used to be a different person...

I walked away, up the stairs to my room. It looked neat, as always. People say your room is a reflection of your soul. My messy brain definitely does not fit that. But the part where I was forced to do stuff and act in certain ways was in some sort was reflected in my room. It wasn't like me and still it was there.

I walked to my bed and sat on it. It immediately faced my door, so each time I slept it gave me a sense of unsafeness. I looked at the mirror on my wall. I remember looking at my arms through the mirror, wondering how to hide the wounds I'd gotten that morning from Heja. I somehow always succeeded, always looked like I was living in a normal household like Heja did.

I looked from my mirror to my desk. It was just a table, a singular drawer to store my stuff in. My stuff: paper, an etui filled with the basic things and a little notebook. Then there were of course my clothes and school stuff but there was nothing... How do I say it? Nothing 'special'. Dad never allowed it. The only thing that was really mine was my mp3 player. Once, when dad was really angry he threw kt at the wall, breaking it. I was devastated. It took me weeks to get the scrappy thirty bucks to buy a new one.

I shook my head. I should not have been devastated over 30 bucks. I remembered Heja once breaking her hearing aids. I didn't know the exact prize but I knew her family had to pay at least a good 30k for new ones. 30 bucks was nothing compared to that.

Still.. I shook my head again. No.

I laid down on my bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to get my thoughts elsewhere. I saw the small stain I never really managed to clean away, the small bit of beige in my otherwise neat, white prison. I turned to my side. A meter or so away was the wall. Another dirty trick of my dad. The sides of my bed weren't against a wall. It was really uncomfortable. When I was little I once moved my bed to the corner, but when I got back from school it was moved back and my dad was angry. Really angry. And no one but me knew what that ended in. I looked at my arms, the scars that were present. I always wore long sleeves and jeans to hide them, despite how hot it was. I remember some kids making fun of me once for that. I wouldn't meet Heja for the first time for another year (I was in second grade, I'd meet Heja in third) and I was too scared to do something myself, as I assumed everyone I'd make mad would act like my dad. I think I was seven at the time. They tried to move my sleeves up, and I tried to resist. A wound opened and soon a red stain was visible. I scared the kids away and then continued to skip school for the rest of the day. No one questioned it. No one bothered to look where I was. I was on my own.