I pull out a glass and a bottle of wine and slam both on the counter. Disgust and guilt thrum through my bloodstream as I pour the red liquid into the glass and eye it critically.
Is this really what makes people forget about their problems?
The translucent liqiud refracts the sunlight, projecting a red tinted light onto the ceiling like a bloodstain. The world seems to still as I take a second to consider what I'm doing. And then -
"El, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" I don't turn around when I hear his agitated voice, because I know that he could stop me from doing it if he asked.
"Isn't it obvious or are you just a fucking idiot?"
"Don't do this to yourself, El. You'll regret it when your mind has cleared."
But I regret everything I do. What difference could this even make?
I sigh. I just want a switch that can turn off my feelings so I don't have to constantly ask myself whether there's something I could've done or I should've done. And alcohol is that switch, isn't it?
The glass is banged down onto the counter so hard that it shatters, and I watch in morbid fascination as dots of blood mingle in with the alcohol. The sharp shards don't bother me, so I don't pull them out. Maybe they'll make a scar to match the vertical one on my forearm.
The glass in my palm is oddly pretty, like some twisted modern art.
"El. El, your bleeding."
"No shit."
I know without turning that he's right behind me, watching with the concern you would have when your favorite Barbie doll gets broken. "Give me your hand."
I do it, because he's asking me to, but also because it's what I've been doing since the day we first met. I wince as he pulls a shard out of my palm. Pulling out seems to be more painful than putting in.
"Levi and I broke up," I say, unabashedly admiring the sharpness of his cheekbones as he bends over my hand.
"That's not why you're upset, though, is it?"
He is right, as usual. Sure, I felt like shit when I told him that our relationship wasn't fair to him and that he needed someone who wasn't concentrating on leaving this hellhole once I get my diploma. I felt even shittier when he said, "They say if you truly love someone, you'll let them go, but I'll wait for you as long as you need, Addie," but feeling shitty isn't a new emotion.
What was really bothering me was the look Cara gave me, like she expected as much. "I knew that you would break his heart, given that you probably don't even know how to love someone. But with a home like yours, how could you?" When I looked at her in astonishment, she had laughed and said, "Don't think that we don't know that you're so focused on scholarships because that is the only way that you will ever be able to afford med school."
And that had bothered be because it set off a chain of questions. Who made me weak? Was it Phoebus? Greysia? My father? Or had I been born like this, ever since Athena had abandoned me?
"What's wrong?" he asks, watching the emotions flit across my face intently.
How could you ever understand when you're part of the problem?
"Nothing. Everything's fine. We live in a beautiful world, don't we?" A sardonic sneer makes its way across my face. "Get the fuck out of my way, or I swear on all that is holy that I will make you."
He grabs my elbow as I try to brush past him, spinning me around so that I'm forced to look into his familiar sky blue eyes and all my anger dissipates.
"Talk to me, El. Haven't I always helped you solve your problems?"
And that's when I burst into tears.
This isn't some solvable problem like not having anywhere to go or not understanding why my stepmother hates me so much or even not being able to talk to my dead father.
Because how do you stop the solar system from being heliocentric?
He has look of concern in his eyes when he steps forward and takes me into his arms, letting me cry into his chest. Which, of course, only makes the crying worse because he's so tantalizingly close but so impossible to reach.
I let the tears flow until my eyes hurt and my head aches and there are still tears left to cry. I wonder if these are all the unshed tears I've had over the years and they're catching up to me like bad karma because that's the only reason Phoebus's shirt is soaked with my tears.
"It'll be okay, El," he murmurs in my ear. "You'll be okay."
I know he says it because that's how he knows to comfort me. Telling me that I'll be okay and that he won't let anything bad happen to me, but I realize that's how I put my hands over my ears and refuse to listen to the bells that are tolling our demise.
I feel his arms behind my knees and then he's carrying me to my bedroom. He places me down on the bed with the caution that one exercises when pulling a Jenga brick from a tower before the tower comes toppling down.
The bed smells like him because I've been insisting that he takes the bedroom and I take the couch, no matter how much it compounds the tension in my back and shoulders.
He strokes the hair out of my face with a touch light as a butterfly's wing as my tears subside and I'm left gasping for air
The sun has an uncountable amount of satellites and the earth but one. If the earth were to leave the sun's orbit, the sun would be unaffected, but the earth would lose all of its light.
And that's how gods view mortals. It's the same way we view ants. Sure, they might be helpful to us and they might be entertaining to watch, but at the end of the day, we don't truly care about the ants. We're pieces on a chessboard that they use to prove their superiority to each other.
So when he says, "I'll be here, El, whenever you need to talk," I want to scream is that the truth?
But it has to be the truth. He's always been there to catch me when I fall, but what he doesn't understand is that it's like drinking a beer in the same room as a reformed alcoholic - he's only making the problem worse.
I wake up to the sound of singing.
A small smile spreads on my face when I realize what he's singing and that I'm not supposed to be hearing this because he would never be caught dead singing Backstreet Boys.
By Poseidon's hanging right testicle, that's the closest thing to a slip up that I've ever seen.
"I don't ever want to hear you say I want it that way."
Maybe I'll let my eyes shut for a little while longer.
I forget sometimes that he's also the god of music. He's pitch prefect and his voice is so rich that I just want to swim in it. Maybe if I keep my eyes shut, I won't ever have to get up.
When it registers that I'm not on the couch, I bolt up, my eyes finally open. He's clearly startled, jumping back from where he's watching me from the bedside.
"What day is it?" I groan. "I thought you thought Backstreet Boys was the epitome of a tryhard boy band?"
His cheekbones color. "Saturday."
I let my self fall back down, mumbling "thank Fortuna almighty," only to bolt back up a second later with a "shit, I need to study."
"I think you need a break from studying."
I think I need a break from you.
"Anyway, I brought you breakfast, since you always do it for me." He genuinely looks happy that he's doing something for me as he grabs a tray of food that I usually use for him.
I look at the plate, and then at him suspiciously. "How did you find my secret Nutella stash?" I pick up the toast nonetheless. It's drowned in Nutella and I feel gratified that he's at least seen how I take my breakfast.
"You keep it in the same place you kept it in the mansion. I found it after you..."
I look away, unable to meet the reproach in his gaze. He doesn't get to reproach me like he actually cares about me beyond a vague sense of responsibility and possession.
"'Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light,'" he says quietly, reminding me that's he's the god of poetry. "I don't know what you're going through, El, but you're going to survive it."
How could you know?
I get up abruptly, pushing past him and into the living room.
For once, I ignore him when he calls my name.