How To Save A Life

I remember that day when I first told Nico about the death of his sister. Never had I seen such a strong bond between two people, and never had I seen how violently such a bond could be broken.

He had taken it quietly. I guess the silence was something of a foreshadow for what would come, how he'd be like in a few years. Noiseless but with a destructive dark power that I feared would consume his young, innocent soul forever.

He sits next to me now, stiff as a board as he stares straight ahead with dry eyes. In silence he took the death of his first sister, and in silence he took the death of his second. The blazing flames reflecting in his eyes are alit with anger, fear, and self-blame. He shouldn't blame himself; he wouldn't have been able to prevent her death anyway. But no matter what I say, he doesn't listen.

He's become so distant, so bitter, so broken since Tartarus. I wonder if I could have been able to prevent that. Maybe if he'd grown up in the camp instead of literal hell, the mental demons wouldn't have taken such a tight hold on his fragile mind.

I've tried to reason with him many times, but he never accepts my offers. He has a chance to have everything he wants –– a home, friends, a family –– but each time he turns them down. No one wants him, he says. No one wants a broken boy.

I try everything. I even have my mom and Annabeth try to persuade him a few times, but he never hears. So we no longer try.

I almost hate myself for what I did to him. No, I hate everyone else for what they've done to him. They've exalted the Seven as heroes and never thought to honor the Eighth, the one who risked nearly everything –– his safety, his sanity, his life –– and only a few people thought to thank him. And those few now avoid him as they see what he has become, what has happened to him and his broken mind.

Most of the times I have tried to talk to him are unsuccessful. They all end with him yelling, then sometimes crying shortly after.

He hates himself now, hates what he is. Not who, what. He tries and tries to hold on, he really does, but he knows that he's slipping away and that no one, no matter how much they care for him, will be able to catch him and comfort him back to the health that is now only a memory.

Other times, he begs. He begs me for help or at least something to ease his pain, desperation written on his deathly pale and deathly thin face. He isn't what he used to be and wants to go back, even though he knows he can't. I never have an answer for him.

He's stuck between his two warring sides, the side that wants help and the side that won't take it. He's being torn, he once told me, and soon the last thread will be cut and he will be gone. If he was referring to the metaphorical thread of his sanity or the thread of his life that the Fates held above the shears or possibly both, I do not know.

He's losing it, and he knows it. It's the worst kind of death, the slowest and most painful kind. It starts with the deaths of those around you, then it's the drawn-out, merciless death of your mind, and then finally corrupts your body so badly that there's no point in trying to salvage you anymore.

He's almost there.

The little kid with the Mythomagic cards is gone. And soon, the solemnly smiling son of Hades who helped us in the Battle of Manhattan will be too.

And no one will be able to save him from himself.

I only wish I owned PJO, HTSAL, and the awesome cover art. Those belong to Rick Riordan, The Fray, and viria. (Check out her tumblr –– it's awesome. Seriously.)

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