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by Chiara loved the way Namir laughed. It was so full and hearty it quickly got contagious, and often, both of them couldn't stop for quite some time.
Just seeing her laugh was heart warming even if it was on the screen of a computer, like now. Chiara was sitting with her back to the wall, her feet on the desk in front of her; she had been Skyping with Namir for over an hour now and she felt almost like she was back at Camp Half-Blood. She had left, what, two weeks ago. First she had been with her stepfather in Corsica, but then her mother had called out of the blue and asked her to come over for a short week at hers in Brittany. So now she was stuck here in her mother's small flat in St Brieuc, with nothing to do except exchange a couple of words here and there, go out to the port, perhaps rent a catamaran for an hour or so, go for a walk between the megaliths, etc, but that was pretty much it. Even in her room, she had not much to do.
She would come here generally once or twice a year but didn't really take the time to decorate or anything. There was a small folding bed in one corner, a closet integrated into the wall with sliding doors, and a shelf in which she had stored her old shojen mangas: Beyblade, Blue Exorcist, Soul Eater, etc. She had a better collection in Corsica, where she'd read One Piece or Death Note or Attack on Titan (hehehe punny title) for hours on end.
Yes, she does read.
Sometimes.
Anyhow, moving on.
At least she had her computer with her so she could hang out on Facebook a bit, play some games, stream a movie and of course Skype with her friends. Namir was just telling her how she had thrown a Coke bottle with mentos into the Dionysus cabin when Chiara's mother entered the room.
"Shut that down, Chiara, I need to talk to you," she abruptly said in French.
"Can't it wait a bit? I'm with my sister."
"No."
Sighing and rolling her eyes, Chiara pretended to close the Skype call but in fact only muted it then pushed the computer away slightly and looked up at her mother.
"What? Get on with it."
When she talked, Chiara didn't hear what she said. All she felt was that sudden, intense sensation deep in her ribcage, as if her heart was being flayed. And the feeling of clinging on to It's wrong. It's just a joke. It didn't happen.
**
Now Chiara was sitting inside the small kitchen, staring down at a plate of spaghetti all'arrabiata, her favorite sort.
"Eat."
She didn't reply. There was no need either way. Why should she eat, there was no point to it. And if she was hungry, she didn't feel it, no -- all she felt was that mad pain raging around inside of her, that anger, that sorrow and that feeling of utter, complete powerlessness. She had fought in Manhattan because she sure hated the Titans and their whole crew, but most importantly because she wanted to protect the persons who mattered to her: her siblings, her friends, but of course her mortal family, especially her stepfather and her cousin. And she had succeeded, but she hadn't been there... she hadn't been able to do something, anything at all... nothing...
"Don't let yourself starve. Eat," her mother repeated. "How are you going to keep fighting if you don't have your strength?"
Fighting? Chiara thought bitterly. "There's nothing left for me to fight for. My friends can take care of themselves and of Camp Half-Blood, Thiago is more than capable of handling himself. There was only one person I needed to protect, and just when he needed my help, you got me over here."
"Don't be a bloody fool, Chiara, you can't blame me for that and you know it," her mother cut in with a sharp voice, before crossing her arms. "Fight for yourself, then. You need to live. You need to stand up, go out there and show what you've got."
"Haven't I already showed that like, last month? Last year? Every freaking second where I'm fighting for my life and the life of others?" She pushed the plate of hot spaghetti away. "Quit acting like you know sh!t about my life. I have nothing worthwhile to fight for."
"What a bloody coward you are," the beefy woman said in a dangerous tone. "One misfortune and you pathetically wimp out like that?"
Chiara looked up at her mother's face. That face she had learned to hate, with the close cropped red hair, the small green eyes a shade lighter than her own framed by red eyelashes, one of her eyes glassy because of a wound she got there years ago, the square, prominent jawline, the big nose and thin lips, everything contributing to make her look like a big, angry bull, the effect only slightly balanced out by the pale freckles powdered across her face, arms and bust.
"A... misfortune?" Her voice was starting to get venomous.
"You lost your stepfather. You just got a taste, a small taste of the real world. The world where people have important things taken from them and there is no way they can get them back. And what do you do? You wine and cry and mope like a b!tch on the way back."
Normally, she wouldn't flinch under the insult; her mother cussed her out, and so did she, and in the end they had both grown accustomed to it. But now, every inch of sorrow and grief she felt inside of her turned to a seething, maddening rage. She jumped up, grabbed the still hot fraying pan behind her where here mother had cooked the all'arrabiata sauce and flung it across her head, once, twice. Greasy patches of red sauce clung to her short hair and beefy face, a droplet of blood trickled down her temple. Then her mother stood up. She was a tall, strong woman with iron muscles gained by years of working out, now gazing down at her short daughter who was still holding the pan in her hand with bared teeth.
"That's right, stand up, try to threaten me, I'm so scared. You know how many monsters I killed? You know how big they were? I can squash you under my boots like the f*cking bug you are," she spat.
"Do that all you want, I'm the only parent figure you got left. And things are gonna change once you move in with me."
"You think you have some kind of right to act like a parent? You lost your rights to that ten years ago, during a f*cking trial. I'm not going anywhere with you in tow, sh!t on that. You're not my mother, you never were and I f*ck anything that has to do with you!"
Her mother looked suddenly pained, but that wasn't her mother's expression. The bulky woman turned into a bald man who looked at her reproachfully.
**
Chiara tasted blood in her mouth. The Ares cabin was dark but hot, she was sweating like mad. Everything stuck to her, her cover, the blankets, her night shirt and cotton shorts, even her hair. She tasted blood again and realized she had bitten her cheek hard enough to get some flesh loose.
But that wasn't bothering her. She felt like her ribcage had been cut open, she felt exactly the same way she had felt one year ago. The recollections and nightmares would pop up randomly and they were always different, as if there was some kind deity having fun showing her every angle of the situation.
And she was choking. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get her lungs an inch of oxygen.
Trying not to make any sound, Chiara stumbled down the rope ladder from her bunk bed to the ground. She only quickly grabbed the pair of camo trousers she had worn the day before, her army jacket and combat boots before rushing out of the cabin into the fresh night air. It must be about three in the morning or so. Everything was quiet.
Stuffing her knuckles into her mouth to keep herself from doing any sound, Chiara made her way to the forest, where she knew she could cry without anyone really noticing. It took her about ten minutes to find her usual spot, next to a torrent where she could pretend she had just been washing her face a bit if someone came by and happened to think she might be crying.
Chiara dropped on a boulder and hugged her clothes, pulling them on slowly. When she cried, it wasn't how the girls cried in the movies, when they got a bit pale and only one or two tears elegantly and dramatically rolled down their cheeks. When she cried, Chiara's eyes got red and puffy, her nose became runny and she screwed her face up.
Which was what she did right now. She didn't even know why the dream had affected her so much. Most of the time she got dreams where she saw Laurent's car plummeting down the cliffs which she just couldn't get out of her head. But it wasn't that much the dream, it was the emotions that came with it. The anger, the grief, the scorching pain. She had started to shake a bit, trying to keep her sobs in, telling herself it was just a dream. What if Laurent saw you like that, huh? What would he think? Get a f*cking grip, man.
Chiara kicked herself. Why couldn't she just listen to that voice inside her head and pull herself together? She pressed her fists on her eyes and forced herself to calm down, but her breathing was hacked, she was still trying to get air and all she could think of was how pathetic she was acting.
Just seeing her laugh was heart warming even if it was on the screen of a computer, like now. Chiara was sitting with her back to the wall, her feet on the desk in front of her; she had been Skyping with Namir for over an hour now and she felt almost like she was back at Camp Half-Blood. She had left, what, two weeks ago. First she had been with her stepfather in Corsica, but then her mother had called out of the blue and asked her to come over for a short week at hers in Brittany. So now she was stuck here in her mother's small flat in St Brieuc, with nothing to do except exchange a couple of words here and there, go out to the port, perhaps rent a catamaran for an hour or so, go for a walk between the megaliths, etc, but that was pretty much it. Even in her room, she had not much to do.
She would come here generally once or twice a year but didn't really take the time to decorate or anything. There was a small folding bed in one corner, a closet integrated into the wall with sliding doors, and a shelf in which she had stored her old shojen mangas: Beyblade, Blue Exorcist, Soul Eater, etc. She had a better collection in Corsica, where she'd read One Piece or Death Note or Attack on Titan (hehehe punny title) for hours on end.
Yes, she does read.
Sometimes.
Anyhow, moving on.
At least she had her computer with her so she could hang out on Facebook a bit, play some games, stream a movie and of course Skype with her friends. Namir was just telling her how she had thrown a Coke bottle with mentos into the Dionysus cabin when Chiara's mother entered the room.
"Shut that down, Chiara, I need to talk to you," she abruptly said in French.
"Can't it wait a bit? I'm with my sister."
"No."
Sighing and rolling her eyes, Chiara pretended to close the Skype call but in fact only muted it then pushed the computer away slightly and looked up at her mother.
"What? Get on with it."
When she talked, Chiara didn't hear what she said. All she felt was that sudden, intense sensation deep in her ribcage, as if her heart was being flayed. And the feeling of clinging on to It's wrong. It's just a joke. It didn't happen.
**
Now Chiara was sitting inside the small kitchen, staring down at a plate of spaghetti all'arrabiata, her favorite sort.
"Eat."
She didn't reply. There was no need either way. Why should she eat, there was no point to it. And if she was hungry, she didn't feel it, no -- all she felt was that mad pain raging around inside of her, that anger, that sorrow and that feeling of utter, complete powerlessness. She had fought in Manhattan because she sure hated the Titans and their whole crew, but most importantly because she wanted to protect the persons who mattered to her: her siblings, her friends, but of course her mortal family, especially her stepfather and her cousin. And she had succeeded, but she hadn't been there... she hadn't been able to do something, anything at all... nothing...
"Don't let yourself starve. Eat," her mother repeated. "How are you going to keep fighting if you don't have your strength?"
Fighting? Chiara thought bitterly. "There's nothing left for me to fight for. My friends can take care of themselves and of Camp Half-Blood, Thiago is more than capable of handling himself. There was only one person I needed to protect, and just when he needed my help, you got me over here."
"Don't be a bloody fool, Chiara, you can't blame me for that and you know it," her mother cut in with a sharp voice, before crossing her arms. "Fight for yourself, then. You need to live. You need to stand up, go out there and show what you've got."
"Haven't I already showed that like, last month? Last year? Every freaking second where I'm fighting for my life and the life of others?" She pushed the plate of hot spaghetti away. "Quit acting like you know sh!t about my life. I have nothing worthwhile to fight for."
"What a bloody coward you are," the beefy woman said in a dangerous tone. "One misfortune and you pathetically wimp out like that?"
Chiara looked up at her mother's face. That face she had learned to hate, with the close cropped red hair, the small green eyes a shade lighter than her own framed by red eyelashes, one of her eyes glassy because of a wound she got there years ago, the square, prominent jawline, the big nose and thin lips, everything contributing to make her look like a big, angry bull, the effect only slightly balanced out by the pale freckles powdered across her face, arms and bust.
"A... misfortune?" Her voice was starting to get venomous.
"You lost your stepfather. You just got a taste, a small taste of the real world. The world where people have important things taken from them and there is no way they can get them back. And what do you do? You wine and cry and mope like a b!tch on the way back."
Normally, she wouldn't flinch under the insult; her mother cussed her out, and so did she, and in the end they had both grown accustomed to it. But now, every inch of sorrow and grief she felt inside of her turned to a seething, maddening rage. She jumped up, grabbed the still hot fraying pan behind her where here mother had cooked the all'arrabiata sauce and flung it across her head, once, twice. Greasy patches of red sauce clung to her short hair and beefy face, a droplet of blood trickled down her temple. Then her mother stood up. She was a tall, strong woman with iron muscles gained by years of working out, now gazing down at her short daughter who was still holding the pan in her hand with bared teeth.
"That's right, stand up, try to threaten me, I'm so scared. You know how many monsters I killed? You know how big they were? I can squash you under my boots like the f*cking bug you are," she spat.
"Do that all you want, I'm the only parent figure you got left. And things are gonna change once you move in with me."
"You think you have some kind of right to act like a parent? You lost your rights to that ten years ago, during a f*cking trial. I'm not going anywhere with you in tow, sh!t on that. You're not my mother, you never were and I f*ck anything that has to do with you!"
Her mother looked suddenly pained, but that wasn't her mother's expression. The bulky woman turned into a bald man who looked at her reproachfully.
**
Chiara tasted blood in her mouth. The Ares cabin was dark but hot, she was sweating like mad. Everything stuck to her, her cover, the blankets, her night shirt and cotton shorts, even her hair. She tasted blood again and realized she had bitten her cheek hard enough to get some flesh loose.
But that wasn't bothering her. She felt like her ribcage had been cut open, she felt exactly the same way she had felt one year ago. The recollections and nightmares would pop up randomly and they were always different, as if there was some kind deity having fun showing her every angle of the situation.
And she was choking. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get her lungs an inch of oxygen.
Trying not to make any sound, Chiara stumbled down the rope ladder from her bunk bed to the ground. She only quickly grabbed the pair of camo trousers she had worn the day before, her army jacket and combat boots before rushing out of the cabin into the fresh night air. It must be about three in the morning or so. Everything was quiet.
Stuffing her knuckles into her mouth to keep herself from doing any sound, Chiara made her way to the forest, where she knew she could cry without anyone really noticing. It took her about ten minutes to find her usual spot, next to a torrent where she could pretend she had just been washing her face a bit if someone came by and happened to think she might be crying.
Chiara dropped on a boulder and hugged her clothes, pulling them on slowly. When she cried, it wasn't how the girls cried in the movies, when they got a bit pale and only one or two tears elegantly and dramatically rolled down their cheeks. When she cried, Chiara's eyes got red and puffy, her nose became runny and she screwed her face up.
Which was what she did right now. She didn't even know why the dream had affected her so much. Most of the time she got dreams where she saw Laurent's car plummeting down the cliffs which she just couldn't get out of her head. But it wasn't that much the dream, it was the emotions that came with it. The anger, the grief, the scorching pain. She had started to shake a bit, trying to keep her sobs in, telling herself it was just a dream. What if Laurent saw you like that, huh? What would he think? Get a f*cking grip, man.
Chiara kicked herself. Why couldn't she just listen to that voice inside her head and pull herself together? She pressed her fists on her eyes and forced herself to calm down, but her breathing was hacked, she was still trying to get air and all she could think of was how pathetic she was acting.
