WARNING: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE
Percy.
"Dear Best Friend,
Wake up, and welcome to a new beginning, a new morning, a fresh start.
I love you, I need you.
Promise me you'll never leave - pinky-promise, 'Beth. The world - it so desperately yearns for your smile, it needs your beauty; and I promise you that there are things in life worth living for... like ice-cream, and my mum's baking, and who would want to give that up before they have to?
Or the feeling when you stand at the edge of a cliff overhanging the sea, and the feeling of watching the waves lap the beach below, or watch the horses in the white of the water prance along the line of the horizon Don't forget it's beauty... and don't forget yours.
I know that there seems to be more dark than light these days... but I promise you that there is a eternally burning fire that represents the light, that will never be reduced to ashes. You will heal and maybe the healing is the aching, and the scars are just the souvenirs you picked up along the way, a symbol of proof that you lasted through a battle that so many others lost, wear them like medals.
Your head may be screaming that you are not happy, that this is not the way a human should be living, and my heart is shouting back, through the pounding in my chest that your opinion of enough is the bare minimum of mine, that you need to look around and ignore the shadows that loom in the path ahead and focus on where you are, and all the light you see surrounding your feet.
You're my superhero; no one is like you and that's your power.
Your journey is unique and your story is unfinished ...so don't write the ending now. You have so many chapters left unfinished, so many left untouched, waiting for the very fabric of their existence to pull together and create something beautiful. So please, please, don't let the credits roll and the acknowledgements to be written on the stone of your tomb, not now, not this soon.
You're my best friend, without you I'd be lost and drowning in the sea of faces that we call a home, do not let yourself compromise the standards of what we need to live for.
Don't be scared, I promise that everything you want is at the other side of fear and remember, some of the best books have torn pages and stretch mark covers, and that nobody, I mean nobody, likes a movie where everything goes right.
Your story is beautiful, and your heart is made of gold, gleaming like the first sunrise of spring, shining like glistening snow on the remote lands of Antarctica. Embrace the glorious mess that you are, because you make broken look beautiful and strong look invincible, you walk with the universe on your shoulders and make it look like a pair of wings. Yes, I used those quotes just for you.
Forever, to the moon and back, like seven times.
Love, your best friend."
That was my letter send to the blonde girl who was supposedly across the country, the one who I had been talking to for the longest time, yet never met. She, a couple days ago, had opened up to me in a cursive hand, telling me that she wanted, so desperately to die.
I was waiting, anyone of these days for there to be reports online for a girl that committed suicide because her friends were too late to stop her. But still, the monotone of the news reporter with vibrant red lips rang out through the living room, telling the cameras that the town's architect's daughter, was depressed.
Annabeth Chase.
(Also the first name of my friend)
Annabeth was a girl with curled blonde ringlets and piercing grey eyes.
An image of her flashes on screen crying, distraught, and then plays an interview.
"I'm so sorry- to everyone. I'm not in control of my stability? And I just can't take it anymore. I can't take i-" my TV shuts off.
Ugh.
Now I wait for the letter back to me, maybe she won't reply, maybe the letter back will never come, maybe I was too late for her.
I run a hand through my hair and stand, pushing myself off of my knees and walking to the kitchen. I live in one of the worst housing estates in the whole residential area, with drafts that blew through cracks in the deteriorating window insulation and creaky door hinges that need replacing.
A knock sounds throughout the house and my shoulders slump, wondering what someone could want with me, of all people. Maybe the council coming to tell me I've got twenty four hours left to leave before they would seize my belongings.
The door swings open moments before I arrive. A woman now stands at my door step, her fine brown hair pulled into a braid. She stands tall against the cold air, her tanned skin seeming to radiate heat. A smile is plastered across her face and she looks grateful.
"You, Perseus Jackson, saved my daughter from suicide."
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This is like really bad but I updated??? Deal with it.
