Puke: Left to Wither Alone

5: Percy

5: Percy

It's all your fault.

Percy sat beside Grover's cot in Apollo cabin. He was going to be fine, according to every single medic. He was going to be fine. He was going to be fine.

He almost died because of you.

Percy shoved that thought away as quickly as he could, but it persisted.

Do you even care?

He. Was. Going. To. Be. Okay. Percy argued.

You're a terrible person.

He looked at the freshly bandaged gash at Grover's ribs, the one that almost cost him his life.

But that wasn't the cut he feared. On Grover's forearm sat another wrap of gauze, obstructing Percy's view from the thing that tormented his dreams.

Just like what happened to Luke.

He couldn't help but think that there was something wrong with him. Why else would everyone he loved be taken away? Was there anything allowed to be good in his life?

The door creaked open to reveal Annabeth, clothes soiled from battle. She quickly appraised him and turned to Grover, before saying, "You know Percy, he's going to be fine."

"It's all my fault"

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"Why would it be your fault?"

"Because-" his voice broke, tears welling in his eyes. "Because- I did it."

He could remember it with perfect clarity. The way Clarisse kept taunting him. The way the army cornered them. How she made his stupid temper rise. The way she had said....

"You need any help there, Asswipe?" Clarisse said.

"Not a chance Clarisse! I can handle them myself," he remarked as he took down another soldier.

"I bet you can't take them all down!!" She taunted, sauntering over to him while he struggled to fend their attackers off.

We'll see about that, Percy had thought. With no time to reply to her, he did the only thing he could do, and exploded the water pipes beneath them.

Water exploded, shrapnel flying everywhere around Percy.

A feeling of pride burst in Percy's chest as he saw the destruction he had caused. An entire rank of the attacking Romans was on the ground, bloody from the shrapnel that had erupted from the pipes.

Looking around, he searched for Clarisse's ugly face. Instead, he saw Grover's, on the ground, a deep cut in his arm and chest, barely conscious, looking like- looking exactly like....

And then he wasn't there anymore. He wasn't at Camp Half-Blood. Cold marble floor pressed against his wounds.

A cut. An arm. But this- this wasn't Grover. Was- was it?

He looked down.

Blood. Blood. On- on his hands.

Who's was it?

He couldn't save him.

Who couldn't he save?

It's all his fault.

All his fault.

All his-

All his-