Scum. Thug.

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Scum. Thug.

Post by Morgan on Sat Jan 18, 2014 4:42 am

"Scram! Clear off, I said!" she yelled.

The people in the Mess Hall started glancing at them, but Chiara didn't care. Nathan didn't move, looking at her calmly, which infuriated her. She hated calm people when she was so angry.

"Haven't you seen enough? And stop looking at me like that, you didn't listen, you didn't get it, what do I have to say so you fucking take it in?"

Her green eyes flashed anger, intensified by her black eyeliner and mascara.

"Listen, dickhead, I'm not a good person, I'm a filthy beast, a gas bottle in the chimney and I'm gonna blow up into your face if you step too close, like it did with the others!"

"You're not a filthy beast, Chiara," Nathan replied with calm. His tone was surprisingly clear-cut for somebody who was usually so cocky. "If you think that way about yourself, then you're wrong."

"You don't know what you're talking about," she growled. "People don't change, people never change. Nah, believe me, you don't want me to continue because at best it'll keep you from sleeping and at worst it will make you wanna spit on my face, so clear off already, shun me like pest!"

"No."

There was something in his hazel eyes, a tint, a nuance she couldn't identify, and it made her raging mad. She wanted Nathan to stand up, shout at her and insult her, like they usually did when they argued -- well, before two nights ago. Baring her teeth, she tried to use one of her powers, the one that made people around her angry and combative, but she was destabilized and it didn't work. The energy wouldn't spread past her ribcage, like it normally did.

"I've done enough things I regret," she said. "Enough to think about them all the time. I could give you one million good reasons for people to catch me, break my knees and kick me down."

She turned to Michael, a guy from the Apollo cabin, who had just talked to her in a snapping, arrogant way.

"Sorry? You want me quiet down? Ah, we're disturbing you, fuck. (Her voice rose) Well if we disturb you, then you just clear off, or you shut the hell up, you look at your plate and you leave us alone five minutes, the time for me to finish, can you do that?"

Michael shot her a surprised and angered glance before standing up.

"What is it?" Chiara asked, her voice still loud. "Does it bother you to get cornered in public? Yeah, I understand, it's a pain, buddy, but you know what, you're lucky! You're well-born, you're solid, you're coherent, you don't make anybody ill at ease in restaurants; you sleep well every night, you're a good little American, yeah, you're pretty, you're cool, like a deco magazine or a show house! Those things don't happen to you, now do they?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Chiara, calm down," Nathan told her. Everybody in the Mess Hall was staring at them, even Chiron and Dionysus at the principal table.

"No, I won't calm down! I won't!" she yelled. "He doesn't know what it's like!"

"Chiara, you might want to continue this somewhere else," Nathan said and put a hand on her arm.

She turned to him, her green eyes gleaming more than normal.
You don't know yourself what it's like, she thought. To look into the mirror, watch your reflection and see your own disgust and culpability.

"Get off me," she growled and shook herself free.

She got up and left the Mess Hall, not bothering to take the path as she walked between the columns and down the grassy hill, her black tank top printed with the words 'Trolls gonna hate' clinging to her small bust, thin waist and wide hips. Her olive camo pants retraced the lines of her muscled thighs and calves while her heavy combat boots hit the ground with every step.

She passed past the cabins, reached inside her pocket and drew her black cylinder, pulling on both ends. Her carbon fibre olympic bow unfolded and her quiver appeared on her thigh.

When she was angry like that, only one thing helped. Killing.
Either people on Call of Duty, or monsters in the woods, depending on her level of anger.

As she headed towards the north side of the woods, which were the most dangerous parts, she realized how shaky her breath was. Even her wrists were trembling; she felt like her bones had softened into chewing-gum.
The fresh yet acid smell of wood, sap and pine needles filled her pointed, freckled nose as she entered the forest, branches cracking under her combat boots. In a swift motion, she drew two arrows from her quiver and notched them; the string was tense against her fingers.
She dove between the trees, her senses as acute as possible; she turned around every few seconds to keep an eye on everything, advancing like a panther. She must have walked for not even ten minutes when the trees cleared and she arrived at Zeus's fist.
She may have been a Camper ever since she was eight, but she could still get lost here. The dryades had changing moods. Trees moved. Paths changed. It was pretty easy to loose your way, follow a path and end up in a completely unexpected place.

Suddenly, the bush behind her rustled; Chiara spun around in a fraction of seconds and shot her arrows at the bush, baring her canines in an angry way.
A dracaena stumbled forward on her snake-body legs, one arrow sticking out of her shoulder, the other one in her ribcage. She hissed helplessly and fell forward, dissolving in green flames.

Another hiss echoed just behind her; Chiara jerked about, but she was too slow. The claws came down on her throat with the speed of light.
And exploded in green fire, pushing Chiara against the boulders of Zeus's fist.
Something clattered on the ground and she saw it was an arrow. It wasn't hers, but she yet recognized it.
She looked away.

"How can you think you care about me, when I don't even care about myself?" she asked, then looked down.

The grass at her feet was smoldering slowly, melting away in an acrid, greenish smoke. She watched its veils unravel through the air.

"How can you say you love me, when I hate myself," she whispered. "Why are you here? Why do you stay?"

Nathan lowered his bow.

"This dracaena could have killed you, or wounded you very badly."

"So? I have ambrosia."

"Wouldn't have been enough."

Chiara still didn't look at him. She slung her bow on her shoulder, turned her heels and went back into the forest.

"Hey!" Nathan called. "Chiara!.... Wait!"

"Leave me alone, please," she said in a low voice.

"I'm staying with you," Nathan said in a soft voice. "Come. Let's go back."

"No, not tonight. Leave me alone, I don't want to go back, I don't to go home and sleep, and most of all, I don't want to talk." She stopped walking and faced him. "Tonight, I need to scream, Nathan. I need to let everything out, drop everything. "

"Scream what, Chiara?"

She locked eyes with him and realized that if she couldn't tell Nathan, she couldn't tell anybody. He knew about her father. On the one hand she was afraid of showing him more of herself, more of her flaws, more of her emotional fragility.... more of that frailty she tried to hide. She wanted to tell him to scram. Wasn't his business. Just fuck off.
On the other hand, she yearned to tell somebody, to finally get all this stuff off her ribcage where it was weighing, heavy like a suitcase, for one year now. One year... that's terrible, she realized.
She had to decide now.
Now or never.
If she pulled away now, she would never achieve it. She'd always run away, always flee from talking to others.
She was impulsive.
It had to be now, before she lost her courage.
Chiara looked away, trying to hide her gleaming eyes.
Then, very slowly, she parted her lips, and in a breath, delicate, almost impalpable breath, she steeled herself.
Come on, Chiara.

"Scream out my fear of abandonment... my search for attention, my permanent need for affection, like a dog for caresses.... (she breathed hard) ....my absence of courage, my cruelty,... my dangerous  zeal, my dumb reflexes, my fits of anger, my culpability..."

She breathed hard again and sat down on a stump, her arms on her legs, looking down, her fingers an inch from her face, trembling.

"Scream my irrational fear of others, my snide stinginess... my regrets.. my mistakes.... my neurosis, my obsessions, my meta-obsessions... my phobia of pain, of loss, of suicide... of depression."

She put her hands on her face, not bothering about smearing her make-up on her face. Nathan put a hand on her shoulder, kneeling down next to her in the dead leaves.

"I told you I could give you one million good reasons for people to catch me, break my knees and kick me down," she whispered in another shaky breath, her lips dry. "I have done so many things I regret.... so many things I think about every day... But before people get me, I want you to know that I got it.. that I sometimes can't sleep, at night. But I'm gonna fight, re-build something new.... and I don't care if it takes a whole lifetime."

Morgan
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