Work Text:
November 14th, 1:47 PM (Sweeney Todd, intermission)
>Hey, Mom
>I'm sorry to ask but I just threw up in a trash can for the 3rd time :(
>can you talk to dad for me?
>I feel worse than I did last night
>I don't think I can play like this and if I talk to him myself he'll just get mad
>you know how he is
>Annabeth can tell, she's been finding excuses to put her arm around me when we're onstage
>I already got dizzy once and she was the only reason my knees didn't give out
>I just feel really awful. something's wrong.
—
November 15, 2 AM
I can't sleep.
This is all my fault. I want to throttle my useless husband. I can't look at myself in the mirror. Thalia's voice is still ringing in my head.
The problem is, she's completely correct. This happened because I failed him. I wasn't there when he needed me. I was weak, and because of my weakness my baby almost died.
It would be the fourth time I'd killed a child I claimed as mine. Maybe it really is me. Maybe that bitch carrying him kept him from being poisoned by the nuclear waste inside me.
He's alive. I'm sure he is. T, as angry as she was when I left, has kept her promise and sent me a picture every 3 hours on the dot. The most recent one was 2 hours ago, and Jason was fast asleep with his stuffed wolf toy in his arms. He looked about twelve years old. I cried until I had a blinding headache. 5 glasses of cab so far. Headache gone, will come back worse, don't care.
The house is silent in a way I haven't heard in years.
Jason is so quiet, but he's never silent. He's always here, even if he's in the periphery. I never realized how much I rely on his presence, how sharply it would wound to know he's gone.
He looked like death. He had no color in his face at all, no warmth to his cheeks, no spark in his eyes. I almost didn't realize what was happening at first, because I'm so used to looking for a towheaded player among the sea of purple.
He got up. Number twelve. He took a step, stumbled, and collapsed, coughing on vomit as Percy Jackson screamed for the medic and doused him in ice water.
No one has ever glared at me like P did when they were loading into the ambulance. I felt like I was moving in slow motion as I ran down the bleachers to his side, but P looked at me like a lion protecting his cub. I had absolutely no doubt in that moment that if I touched Jason, Percy would have torn my hand clean off. That's how enraged he was.
I deserved it. I deserve every bit of shame I'm feeling now. I should have put my foot down the minute I got Jason's text and I CERTAINLY shouldn't have let R see it. Part of me wants to leave, to grab Jason from his sister's apartment and take him with me to Milan, but I know I have no claim over him. I should have fought harder when his father talked me out of adopting him.
I keep staring at the pictures T sent me. Jason looks so small and frail in that bed, with tubes in both arms and huge circles under his eyes and that horrible dye job his sister did.
I want nothing more than to hold him and soothe his pain. I poison everything I touch. If I don't stand between him and his father, his sister will eventually break or lose in a show of force. He needs me, I know he needs me, but every mark I leave on him bleeds.
I'm no Mary. I'm no Merrhoe. I'm Jezebel, just like my father said. The whore of Babylon. Wicked. Beyond salvation. I don't know why I ever thought I could stroke his beautiful angel wings without soiling his feathers like petroleum drowning a seabird.
—
November 15th, 9 AM
>Just checking in
>Thalia's finally asleep, she's been awake since yesterday :(
>anyway I'm doing ok, they said I can go home today or tomorrow
>I'll be at T's for about 6 weeks. You should come by for breakfast sometime.
>(I'll talk to her first. I know she's mad, but I think she'll understand if I explain. You're both just trying to protect me, and I think she knows that.)
>Anyway. Thanks for trying. I hope Dad didn't blow up at you because of me.
>There's sugar-free gatorade in the garage, the waffles I made from sourdough starter in the freezer and naproxen in my med cabinet. Stay hydrated and away from tylenol today, ok?
>And try a plain waffle right out of the freezer if your stomach feels funky.
>Always works for me when it's not, y'know, sepsis. ^_^;
[a photo of Jason in his hospital bed, still looking pale but slightly less pallid. There's a whisper of color returning to his face and he has enough energy to smile, albeit tiredly. He is using one hand to lift Lupa the Second's paw in a wave.]
—
November 15th, 11 AM
I have many regrets.
I barely remember what happened. There are three empty bottles of wine in the sink and an open one on the counter. I think I threw a glass at my husband. I think I called him a murderer. I'm pretty sure he slapped me, but I think I deserved it, and I must have hit back since he has a bruised cheek and won't speak to me. (I think he deserved it too. My husband and I deserve each other, really.)
My poor little Moses knew somehow that I got lost in vino last night. When we lived in California and his father was still screwing his PA, I used to bring Jason with me on tastings. He would charm the staff by talking about the different cheeses, and I would skip the bucket while he had their attention.
He'd call a car and hold my arm and let me lean on him as we went inside. He'd make me a cool cloth and some rice, like M. taught him, and keep me hydrated and medicated until I slept it off.
It's been years since I embarrassed myself like that. Still, he knew. Like always, he didn't judge me or insult me or call me names or accuse me of humiliating him; he just made sure I was okay as best as he was able.
I was in my car with my keys in my hand before I remembered Thalia threatening me with a custody battle to keep me from going anywhere near him until she gives the okay.
I hate her. If it got that far, she'd win no matter how good Julie is in court. Thalia is the Mary to Jason's Christlike goodness— the frightened young woman who sheltered that sweet little boy as he grew into a glowing, golden hero. All she'd have to do is look at the judge the way she looked at me: shaking with fury, but teary-eyed from the kind of fear that can only be born out of agape. The purest, highest form of love.
She'd win the case before I even walked through the door, and I would have nothing left to buoy me through the waters of my own shame.