Forgotten memories

cursed?

When I say I punched that metal junk for an hour, I would be lying. I punched the metal of the giant for 90 minutes, my hands where red with blood.

My fists slammed into the unyielding metal, the impact sending tremors through my entire being. The rhythmic thuds mirrored the storm of emotions inside me – a whirlwind of anger, devastation, and the heavy burden of loss. Bianca was gone, and I found myself grappling with the harsh hand that fate had dealt us.

Each punch became a way to release the overwhelming emotions surging through my veins, a desperate attempt to channel the pain etched on my soul. The metal absorbed the brunt of my fury, standing firm against the internal tempest. I winced as the sting in my knuckles mirrored the ache within.

The question "Why?" echoed in my mind, blending with the clanging of metal. Why did she have to sacrifice herself? Why were we thrust into this stupid quest?

Bianca's death stoked the flames of anger, an inferno that consumed reason and restraint. The weight of responsibility bore down on me, the realization that I couldn't shield those I cared about gnawing at my core. It was a bitter truth, propelling me into a relentless assault on the unyielding metal before me.

Amid the echoes of my punches and the weight of grief, I felt a gentle presence approach. Christine, quietly stepped into the tumultuous scene. Her footsteps, almost hesitant, resonated with a kind of understanding that went beyond words.

Without uttering a single word, she moved closer, bridging the gap between our separate battles against sorrow. Her touch was light on my shoulder, a subtle acknowledgment of the pain etched across my face. For a moment, we stood there together, a silent camaraderie forming in the midst of the chaos.

The rhythmic thuds of my fists gradually stopped as Christine's presence began to weave a different cadence into the air. It wasn't a cure for the grief, but a shared acknowledgment of its weight. She didn't try to fill the silence with hollow reassurances; instead, she let the unspoken emotions linger, connecting us in a shared moment of mourning.

At the edge of the dump, we found a tow truck so old it might've been thrown away itself. But the engine started, and it had a full tank of gas, so we decided to borrow it. Thalia drove. She didn't seem as stunned as Zoe or Christine or Grover or Percy or me.

"The skeletons are still out there," she reminded us. "We need to keep moving."

She navigated us through the desert, under clear blue skies, the sand so bright it hurt to look at. Zoe and Christine sat up front with Thalia. Grover, Percy and I sat in the pickup bed, leaning against the tow wench. The air was cool and dry, but the nice weather just seemed like an insult after losing Bianca.

My hand closed around the little figurine that had cost her life. I still couldn't even tell what god it was supposed to be. Nico would know. Oh, gods... what were we going to tell Nico? I wanted to believe that Bianca was still alive somewhere. But I had a bad feeling that she was gone for good.

"It should've been me," Percy said. "I should've gone into the giant."

"Don't say that!" Grover panicked. "It's bad enough Annabeth is gone, and now Bianca. Do you think I could stand it if..." He sniffled. "Do you think anybody else would be my best friend?"

"Ah, Grover..."

He wiped under his eyes with an oily cloth that left his face grimy, like he had on war paint.

"I'm... I'm okay."

But he wasn't okay. Ever since the encounter in New Mexico—whatever had happened when that wild wind blew through—he seemed really fragile, even more emotional than usual. I was afraid to talk to him about it, because he might start bawling. At least there's one good thing about having a friend who gets freaked out more than you do. I realized I couldn't stay depressed. I had to set aside thinking about Bianca and keep us going forward, the way Thalia was doing. I wondered what she and Zoe were talking about in the front of the truck.