Warning: Throughout the story, hints at substance abuse. The story's meant to be dark, come on guys…

Spoilers: I doubt it. Not in this chapter.

Rating: T. For now.

Reason? Everyone seems to be writing "dark" stories, so I'd like to give it a try.

Welcome to my mind.

Exposure

Corruption. Silence. Insomnia and amnesia. Despair. Pain.

Exposure.

It's when you reveal what you shouldn't, when you expose the coward behind the curtain, the hidden corruption and the deadly silence that seems to follow every moment of torture, pure despair. It's painful, but acceptance. That's hard to come by.

Percy should have known that, he should have known; he should have known…

But he didn't and it couldn't matter either way as to what he had caused, what he had done, what people like him still do. People like him. What type of people? The ones that didn't deserve life, that didn't deserve the very breaths they had, the very heart pounding in their chest.

At least, that's what he thought of people such as himself.

Horror. Failure. Heartache and brokenness. Anticipation. Pain.

And exposure. The cause of everything. Getting caught, becoming discovered by the ripping away of the covers that hid what shouldn't have seen daylight. The skeletons in the closet.

The ghosts of his past.

But it was the past; he had pushed it so far into the corners of his mind and walked forward with such weakness he thought he might have fainted. But as he went, he grew stronger, every step becoming firmer, set perfectly in every foothold.

Percy leaned back, both arms draped along the back of the couch so casually; no one could have noticed anything wrong with him. He was the picture of genuine lightness, of freedom from any worries.

The television flickered and he narrowed eyes; the response was a clearer picture of the pre-recorded game and every pixel folding together, as if from the weight of his glare. He nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied. The boy sitting on the reclining chair chuckled to himself and swirled the acidic liquid in his bottle.

"Man, Percy," he grinned. "It's like an animal. How do you do it?"

"Lots of training," he sniffed arrogantly, feinting a smile. "Took a few treats, but the set finally understood." They cracked a smile at each other and their attention turned to the television set with grim determination.

"You know you're going to lose," Nico Di Angelo, a boy with incredibly pale skin and raven hair of silk, two ink stains as his pupils, turned to cast him a sideways glance. "Right?"

"Not a chance," Percy leaned on his elbows patiently. "Man, the Steelers will take the game without a single problem."

Nico shook his head and sipped his drink. "What makes you so sure? I didn't even think you were a Steelers fan."

"I'm not," he shrugged casually. A clatter came from the kitchen just beyond the wall to his left and he rolled his eyes. "Grover. You alright, man?"

A muffled response, something along the line of cursing silverware and an ability to accent the power of gravity, and then he called back. "Yeah; all is good," he cursed again. "My enchilada!"

Grover Underwood was a nature-activist, a vegetarian, a mountain hiker, a best friend. He was merely a year older than Percy and had so many more fears, all irrational. He didn't like being underground, or disgusting smells. He seemed to prefer just sitting in a patch of woods, in actuality. And despite his age, he wasn't near as toned as his best friend. The starts of a wispy goatee cluttered his acne ridden face, curly brown hair popping from his head unceremoniously. He was cursed with a muscle disorder and bound to crutches that hugged his arms in the brace, but the young man could run. He loved to run.

Percy wasn't an average man, either. He wasn't incredibly handsome like an actor, nor was he concentrated so much on being in the spotlight. He could, however, be passed as one of the handsomest normal males of the species, for he didn't need the lighting or the makeup to retain an awestruck beauty, with a dim tan and eyes that captured the tide, masked with his unruly black hair.

Nico was the only one that protruded, like a black sweater in a field of midriff pink tank tops. He enjoyed spending his time in the background, hidden by the shadows, watching everything unfold before him. He did happen to have his own sense of humor, and it was easy to say that no one else possessed it. It was dark and crude and could be suggestive at times.

As it was about to reveal itself:

"What'd she do to it this time?"

Percy couldn't contain his snort, glancing from Nico to the boy that had just presented himself from the kitchen with a nasty sauce stain on his white, long sleeve shirt.

"Not funny," Grover narrowed his eyes. He didn't appreciate what some others thought was genius in its own mischievous way.

Nico gave the satisfaction of a small smirk, and turned his attention to Percy who had been reaching across the small coffee table to pop the top of his soda can. "Got any more beer?"

The arm froze, a fizzing erupting from the can, and he took in a short-tempered breath. "You know I don't."

"You used to always—"

"I—don't have any."

Nico stared down into his now empty bottle with remorse. "Man, what happened to you?"

Percy shrugged and sipped from his Coke can as if nothing had just passed between them, as casually as he could. "Got a new perspective," he admitted. Maybe he had always thought of it as he did then, but he had a strong feeling that it wouldn't have been brought to his attention until the events leading to where he was. He'd been clean for almost three years, now only twenty-three.

"I think Nico needs that perspective," Grover muttered scornfully, eyeing the youngest of the companions gathered on a lowly Super Bowl Sunday. "Tell him, Perce. Give him every detail."

Percy had used his story—his testimony—as his building block to realizing what he was meant to do in accordance to a girl he had once known. He was meant to share it with people like himself, the problematic misfits that had caused him so much grief. But sharing with one of his best friends—how could he ever? It was so embarrassing when he drew to the ending that started him fresh, because he couldn't hold himself; he knew he couldn't.

His mouth had only opened a miniscule amount when the quiet patter of socks tumbled into the room and yawn broke what had been a moment's silence.

"Daddy," a quiet voice, groggy and near muted. "I can't sleep."

Percy turned around on the couch to his small daughter—just peaking the age of four. Her honey-blond hair tumbled down her back in waves, fogged green eyes blinking over at him. She held out her arms in a silent plea—come tuck me in; tell me a story.

He shifted his weight on the bed, the little girl sitting in front him, her comforter pulled onto her lap. She sighed as he parted her hair and dropped it on either side of her shoulders. He proceeded to braid one side, gently and slowly weaving one clump around the other and smoothing down any bumps in the silk.

His mother had taught him a thing or two, okay?

"And there was a little princess," he continued quietly, the only light coming from the lamp on her bedside table. He tightened the braid upon stumbling over the halfway point, and then moved his hands fluidly through the unruly remains, combing his fingers through the knots.

"A warrior," she corrected.

"What?"

"There was a little warrior," she told him stubbornly, her eyes roaming as in attempts to look at him. "She was a warrior, daddy, not a princess."

"Right," he agreed. "A warrior. Her name was... uh…" he racked his mind for a suitable name. He had never been the greatest of storytellers.

"Annabeth," the girl supplied.

Percy froze, the hair tie loosely hanging in her hair. He shook his head and wound it tightly around the end of the hairdo. "Yeah, Annabeth."

"And she liked to fight the town fool, Percy," his daughter added with his crooked smile she had somehow inherited. If he were to be honest, there was little resemblance between the two. She belonged solely to her mother, and he tried not to think it painful, finding it near impossible. She was his little princess.

"Who's telling the story?" he asked, her gaze turning to meet his questionable smirk.

She grinned sheepishly," Sorry, daddy."

He mumbled goodheartedly and curled her hair at the tip of the braid. "Yes, she liked beating on the town fool. But his name was the super awesome Perseus, not just Percy."

"I think you mean the egocentric," she teased, giggling to herself.

"Where on earth did you hear that word?" he asked unsoundly, giving her his best attempt of a wry look.

"Grover." They nodded with a silent understanding.

Maybe they weren't always compatible; maybe she liked her friends more often than she liked talking to him, but they had a quirky bond that somehow held them together. Perhaps his stories…

"Okay," he agreed. "Turn."

She shifted her body around until she was facing the left wall and he began to part the remnants of her hair into three sections. He sat silently for a moment, concentrating on starting his next work of art. Then he found the words and remembered his story.

"So, Sir Perseus, the Awesome," he smiled winningly for good effect, "came to her palace one day to challenge her spot as high princess warrior of the land."

"I love this part," Jay, his daughter, murmured to mostly herself, yet he heard her and smiled. He loved this part, too.

"She accepted, naturally," he told her for good measurement, making sure she would at least see him in her peripheral vision. He leaned back and smoothed the small curls popping from the braided strands. "And as soon as he went to fight her, she simply pushed him in the playground sandbox. He didn't play with sand much after that," Percy mused.

"And then, when she helped him up," Jay continued, grinning and twirling her new-found braid, "he asked her to marry him. And she said no!" She busted into a fit of laughter, her father's hands fumbling with the braid until a section had come loose.

"Ah, Jay," he groaned. "Sit still and let me finish."

She quietly apologized as he drew the story to a close and wrapped the last of the hair tie around the clump. He patted the top of her hair, the part splitting off to a diagonal, and he stood. His lips pressed to her forehead and he pulled the drawstring on the lamp, wishing her a goodnight.

"Night, daddy," she mumbled into her pillow, slowly continuing her descent into the dream world. He pulled the door to only leave a crack of light and moved back down the hallway and out to where his friends still sat.

He had only just joined them when Nico decided that he deserved an even harder time.

"Now, about that story."

I'll assume the good stuff starts next. It's late; night you guys.