Percy Jackson is Awesome!!! discussion

When you need it

Aaron stood where Carly left him, then eventually made his way to his table.
Alone. The way he liked it...
A wide table in the whole mess hall and the only one at it. He eventually got up to get his food and burned the best of the warm egg-and-meat muffins.
He could probably lay flat-out on the table, taking up the whole top of it and eat his breakfast and no one would even care, but he had suspicions of slivers in the wood, so he stayed in his seat and exhausted, rested his head on the edge of it.
I should eat my breakfast.
Nah. I'm not hungry.
He turned his head just barely and opening his eyes to see if he could find Carly beyond his breakfast, but it blocked nearly all of his view.
He sighed.
Was he moping?
Good heavens...

After she tipped the best parts of her breakfast into the camp fire -the butteriest roll, the best fried egg, the most delicious looking sausage and some bean - she sat with the rest of her cabin at their pure gold table.
She dug in, because yes, being sad didn't effect her, she was just feeling really empty on the inside. She sighed, and stopped eating, which made some members of her cabin look at her strangely and ask if she was alright.
She nodded, and shrugged it off. She felt ill now for being greedy. But when she was sad... not feeling alright, she tended to eat more.
She looked behind her to try and spot Aaron, but turned around pretty quickly, deciding she didn't really want to.
She unloosed her hair, letting it fall around her like a red velvet curtain, shielding her from the rest of the world.

It all went so quickly, and started suddenly, it was like a perfect reflection of the moon right as it reaches its peak– just as one is able to see it through the trees into the smallest puddle below.
The pressure of the table on his brow was insistent of discomfort, and his lanky form was much too long for such a bent position– the table too low. The familiar sense of loss without reason welcoming him into their depths like it had never noticed he had left.
Remember Tony?
Aaron stood up abruptly, so shocked by the memory his action had been instinctive. His hand smacked down on the table, rocking the plate. He closed his eyes slowly and he lifted his hand, expression emotionless.
It was a justified memory of stinging, bleeding palms.
When he opened his eyes, they were blank as the flat metallic look of an item that had been left out far too long to be remembered.
He moved the same, but the actions were deep and too long sustained. The plate dipping to let the untouched food slide off its surface watched by blank eyes, his wrist too limp as it slowly dropped to his side. The plate's sides bobbed forward and back and it was soon slipped under many others of its same image.
The heels digging rather than stepping, arms held in an odd protective position– one holding the elbow and the other hand gingerly placed just below the shoulder. Then they dropped, knowing without noticing its helplessness.
Remember Ashley?
By then he was far out of the view of anyone, and no one could see the stinging and raw tearing of the unguarded breath. The throb and repressiveness that could only be manifest by white knuckles and fingers rigid with a war between the wreaths of the atmosphere– an acid iron orb of glass where no pressure could exempt strain in every sinew– every being without control.
A thought welcomed without permission– a physical blow to an abstract image. The skin a restraint, agony in the broken facial expression that could not be changed. The tight pain between the eyes that was somewhere between wrath and wracking sobs something so neglected its soreness could not be perceived by the collective mind of man.
A gasp was permission to show what he rejected, what he knew only permitted more accepted and dreaded torture.
Remember Thomas, Aaron? Remember your father?
That was when he fell.
With a forcefulness and torment, tears and suffering of a man upon his knees, he drove without a thought the silver lightning that only he had seen into the new tiles of his cabin floor. Secret rivulets of pain softened and hardened his sculpted face all at once.
It was the reminder, the brutal reminder of something he had banished into the crevasses of pain riddled in every familiar movement.
A broken jaw and collarbone– accidents.
Bruised ribs– friendly tussle.
This was why he dreaded sleep. It was trauma. It was torture.
Gods, it was HELL.
Unforgiving, unfiltered, personal, agonizing Hell.
Nothing swept it clean.
Not tears.
Not the empty apologies.
And he didn't want it all.
If he knew he would face rejection...
The loss without reason...
He would not have faced it head-on.

((Continued at the Nyx Cabin))

((In the above, hell is a place and is not used as a swear-word. Do not flag it. If someone is insulted, post a message.))

((I'm confused.... Did he break his jaw or someone else's in the past?))

((He told about how he was bullied, but didn't tell of the extremities. He was also abused by his father, Thomas Abinante. The broken jaw and collarbone and bruised ribs are results of getting beaten up.))