Wings

24: A Disease Of The Mind

Luke POV

Track: Disturbia, Cjbeards

The mission is not good. It's all screwed up, the door won't open, I think the door might not be real. It's a part of the wall and that's why it won't open, it's all melded together, maybe the door is really just painted on and that's why when I turn the door knob I try and try and try and I never manage to go anywhere.

I have to get to the castle, have to get to the raven, the rabbit. Or the snake, whichever, somebody has to bleed, someone is going to. It was supposed to happen by morning, by dawn, the sky outside the window—if the window is real, maybe it's paint—is red. Maybe the blood spilled on the sky? Did somebody do my job for me? My mission, maybe it's all in the sky.

No, no, because the raven can't get to the sky. Can't go up. It's all blood now. The sky, too, is blood. It's everywhere, it soaks through the walls and drips onto my hands. Except no matter how hard I scrub my hands, the stains remain, it's everywhere, I think I might be made of the stuff. Ha. More than usual.

I sit on the couch and turn my knife over and over.

Tik tok tik tok tik tik tik tik tik tik tik tik tik tik tik tik tik tik tik tik. The knife gleams. Over and over and over and over.

"Luke, could you try explaining to me what happened? Did you hit your head?" says the man. Chase. They kept calling him Mr. Chase. I wonder how fast he had run to get that title. If he hunted, too. Who did he hunt? The raven? Me? Maybe.

The paint and the wall breaks open, as if the door really was real and all the criminals come spilling into the room, a flood of young treason-committers. I meet eyes with the raven. He's not really a raven anymore.

He looks tired. He's being carried. Does he know that you can use legs to walk? Maybe he used to walk on the wings.

"Oh," I realize, "My mission."

"Absolutely not," says the yellow one. He's the one carrying the raven. I wonder if they're going to try to fix the wings. Maybe if they use clay they could make new ones. No harm, no foul, just like when Hermes hits—

I flinch when I remember my father. And his punishments.

I stand up, my knife still in my hand, and repeat, "My mission."

The yellow one, Will, floats through the room and disappears behind another door, and I hear him talking to the half-bird. I guess he's not worried about the wings being lost. Maybe someone should help find them. Lost and found. Finders keepers? Maybe the doctor could sew the wings onto anyone. Make a new raven.

I approach the door—I hope this one is a real door, not a painted one like the other one—but when I try to open it, the doorknob won't turn. Painted again! Another fake door, another illusion. I wonder if there's even just one real door in this whole house.

"Go away, Luke!" calls the yellow one from inside the room.

I rattle the knob again, frustration boiling over. My mission. I need to complete my mission. Hermes will be so angry if I fail. I can't stand to fail him again, can't afford to be a worthless heir again, I have to complete this mission, and somebody has to bleed. I shake the door again and again and then I shake it some more and more and more until it's all I can do.

"Luke," Annabeth says gently, stepping between me and the door, but I shove at her so I can keep rattling it, maybe I just have to be stronger, maybe I can break through the wall, maybe the paint will peel away and the real door will be behind it. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to listen to him."

"I do," I insist, clutching my knife tighter. "It's my mission."

Before she can respond, the house shudders. It's not supposed to do that. Houses are supposed to stand still, not quake like they're about to burst open. I look around wildly, my head spinning, and see the walls bleeding again, red and thick and dripping onto the floor. Houses aren't supposed to bleed either, but somehow it makes sense today that the house would be bleeding because after all, it must be hurt that all its doors are just fake and can't actually open.

"Luke!" a voice booms, making the walls shake more violently, my world tilts so much that I struggle to remain standing—Annabeth helps keep me up. "What are you doing here?"

Hermes. King Hermes. My father. Here? Is this house in the castle? Why is he here? How? My mission isn't done. Maybe it was all an illusion, and that would explain all the blood everywhere that no one else seems concerned about. Do their houses bleed all the time? My father is generous for making the commoners' houses bleed while ours remains pristine, the commoners get to learn all about blood this way. All about blood. Education is kind.

He steps through the door, no, he steps through the wall like it isn't there, and my head pounds. He's larger than death, his presence overwhelming, his eyes staring me down, he's a snake by every definition. He sees me and his lip curls in disdain.

"Your Majesty!" booms Mr. Chase's voice. "We are honored to be in your presence. Are you injured, do you require—"

"I'm only going to say this once, so for once in your miserable life, Luke, you better fucking listen and answer honestly. Where is the Monster?" Hermes asks, and he's got a knife too but it's not the same kind as the one I grabbed from dinner. He's got a longer one, it grows as I look at it, growing and growing and stretching out toward me and never reaching me.

"The doors are painted on," I say honestly. "I can't get in."

Hermes lunges at me, and there are some shouts of surprise as Hermes gets me against the wall and he's a snake, and snakes choke you out, they wrap around your throat and lungs and squeeze until you're dead. A python, a terrible one, my lungs are constricting like snakes too.

"You had a simple mission, and you fucked it up again," Hermes says. "I had to send Clarisse to follow you to make sure you wouldn't run from the mission, and what do you know, you run away to a village and then the Guardian goes missing. This is your fault, you pathetic excuse for a son."

"I tried," I gasp, "but the doors—"

"Excuses," he snaps, striding forward. "Always excuses with you, Luke. You're fucking insane. Your mother should've let me fucking kill you ages ago."

He raises a hand, and I flinch, expecting the blow. But he doesn't hit me. Not yet. Ha. Later. Later, later, later, blood will be spilt. It's all over, anyway. 

Word count: 1186

I added in a couple of chapters, in case anyone saw my message board announcement and is wondering why the song isn't First Love/Late Spring. Coming soon!

Also sorry for the wait. Midterms. Also feeling exhausted but hopefully I'll feel better soon! Luckily it's summer so I have more time to spend resting.

Yours,
Sunny