Phobia (A Percy Jackson AU)

Chapter Four: She Dances with the Devil

I haven't updated since last year, oops.

Oh well, hope you enjoy this chapter, I've got no excuses.

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The bile stings (was stinging? stung? stang? No that's not a word, so it can't be a tense) at her throat and the nausea tears (tearing? teared?) at her stomach. Her breathing (breaths? breathed maybe, but no, that doesn't make any sense) is short, and her mouth is (was) dry. Her skin burns (BURNING. BURNED) red, warm and flushed (flushing? flushes?)

She feels great.

Comfortably numb, her paintbrush is (was, should be) rough against the canvas. Scratching (scratched, scratches) away a design in dark oil paints, lit (lighting) up by the green emanating (emanated perhaps) from her eyes.

The outside world doesn't exist. It never has. It's just her. All by herself. All alone. Just her her her her her. Floating around in her head blissfully.

It's intense (IT IS), the feeling of inner peace she has (is, was) as she messily dips (dipping, dipped) the brush in the paint on her palette, moving (moved, moves) her heavy arm up towards (towarding? No, no, not a word. Not a tense) the canvas. Her nose is running (runs. ran. running away), dripping (drops, dropped) over her chapped lips.

The boy, (or at least she thinks (thought) it's a boy), has (had) scruffy blonde hair. She slashes (sLASHED) through it with streaks of grey, although she's almost definitely sure that he's still a teenager, but she paints (painted, painting) the grey nonetheless. His face is haggard and weary, and she paints (painting, painted) the grey undertones in his skin, pausing (PAUSED. PAUSED. PAUSED.) for a moment to rack (racked, racking) her fingers along the itchy (so, so itchy) scabs that cover (covered? covering?) her own.

Whereas her pupils, dark amongst the glowing (glowed? glows?) green, are constricted (constricts, constricting), his have disappeared (disappearing maybe) entirely. His eyes, sclera included, are burning (BURNED. BURNS.) a bright gold that she paints roughly (very rough), starting (started? starts?) to struggle with her breaths (breathing? breathed?)

She feels like she's drowning (drowned), struggling (struggles) to breath as she completes (COMPLETED) the painting with a final gash of red along his cheek.

The paintbrush falls (falling, called) from her tingling (tingles) fingers, bile bubbles (bubbling, bubbled) up in her throat and she heaves (heaving, heaved) on the ground, the acid, for she eats (eating. eated... No it's not a word. Not a tense. Can't be a tense) next to nothing, of her stomach splattering (splattered) around her feet.

She's still dancing through, even as she barely manages (managed) to stumble (stumbling, stumbled) to her cot, not feeling the rawness of her throat or the bubbling (bubbled, bubbles) of her stomach.

She's so tired. Her limbs are drooping (or already drooped?) and dragging (dragged) her down. The vision is spotty (spotted) now, leaving her all alone with the bliss that crawls every inch of her body.

She still feels (FEELS. FEELS) great, she's still (ALWAYS) dancing. Dancing and dancing and dancing.

She's always dancing with it. Dancing with death. Dancing dancing dancing dancing.

Dancing even as her vision blacks, and she flops (flopped?) onto the bed. But she's okay. She's fine. SHE'S FINE. SHE'S GREAT.

She's dancing with the Devil.

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Luke jerks awake, gasping for breath. His hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, and his stomach is churning. His head is pounding in time with his heartbeat, and he's feeling oddly lightheaded.