Percy Jackson: Gods' Bane (DARK PERCY)

ʜᴀᴠᴇɴ'ᴛ ɪ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ?

(Percy's POV)

I've heard that trying to distract yourself from grief makes it easier to manage.

I'm not so sure that's true.

After the battle with Gaea I quested. I killed the monsters that were stupid enough to not be in hiding. I killed most of ones in hiding too.

After a month of that I was so exhausted that I went home and collapsed, convinced I could lay in bed for months. And I did.

But neither being on the run or lazing around felt better. Laying in bed sure was easier, though. And I'd rather cry in my warm bed than over a dead monster in the middle of nowhere.

But today I'm going out. I need to sort some things out without concerned looks from mom or spastic pep talks from Paul.

So I find some crumpled pants off my floor and a navy blue hoodie from my closet. But I leave my camp necklace on my nightstand, where it's sat unworn for months.

I slip out of my room. My mom, who's writing at the table, sees me and smiles. "Where are you going looking so nice!" She says it brightly, if a little forced.

I chuckle for her sake. "It's a hoodie and a dirty pair of cargo pants, mom. And I'm just going out to walk around."

"Well you fixed your hair at least," she laughs.
But she gets a little more serious when she says, "Please be careful Perce. Don't put yourself in danger or go on any tangents with the gods. Paul will be home and have dinner ready at six so please be home by then.
I love you and I'm proud of you."

I tell her I'll be home and that I love her too.

* * *

As I walk down the sidewalk parents herd their children out of my walking path.

People cross the streets to avoid me. The few people that do walk past me are either drunk or too busy to notice me.

They could be avoiding me because of the, probably grotesque, scars covering my body and face, but I don't think that's the only reason.

Someone I knew used to tell me I was scary when I wasn't happy. I just had that sort of face. And after training with Lupa I guess my resting face got worse.

I wasn't often happy now and mix that with supposedly terrifying scars and a genuine could-care-less attitude and you get the perfect mix for a scary New Yorker who looks like he may or may not kill you and your children.

That what I've heard at least.

Still, despite the looks and treatment that I've grown accustomed to, a small part of me hopes that it's not true.

Maybe that's why I fear my own reflection.

I eventually make my way to an ice cream shop a mile or two from home and go in.

I haven't been here for a while but I know some of the workers and figured it they would be a little more chill than other places.

When I go up to the counter I greet the manager's son, I think his name is John.

He turns around and jumps a little when he sees me. "Hey John," I say trying not to wince at his spooked face.