Percy stood outside the Castellan house. It looked the same as it had all those years ago. A two story house with white paint that was peeling off, and a swing tire in the front yard. A feeling of heaviness was weighing Percy down. The guilt of Luke’s death kept him awake most nights.
Luke had called him a friend. Even when his sword was colliding against Percy’s, Luke had thought he would understand.
Percy took a step forward, scanning the stuffed bean bag animals. Most were broken with various plants growing through them.
He shivered and the cold wind blew, making the wind chimes on the porch grow as well as his dread. If he didn’t go inside now he never would.
Percy forced himself to walk forward, gripping his pocket to make sure his riptide was still there.
It always was, yet it had became a habit of the forbidden child. Percy always felt safer with it, even when he didn’t know how to protect himself.
He climbed the rickety stairs and started at the rusted turquoise door. Castellan was written in Greek and English, Percy lifted his hand and knocked.
The door opened under his weight. Another wave of unease rolled through his body. The same smell from all those years ago filled his nose. Burnt cookies and peanut butter.
A wave of regret strong then the unease passed through him. May Castellan had never stopped making food for the son that never came home.
“Hello?” Percy called out, walking inside the door, and scanning the various mirrors in the house. “Ms. Castellan?”
Percy kept walking. The old building creaked under his weight. Percy turned the corner, tupperware boxes were scattered everywhere. Percy didn’t need to look in them to know that there were peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in them.
He entered the kitchen, clenching his riptide. “May?”
A woman was hunched over the kitchen, white hair swept in a rats nest above her head. She was humming softly, placing burnt cookies in one of the many tupperware containers. There were various cool aid pitchers stacked as high as the ceiling.
A lump filled in Percy throat and he whispered, “May?”
May Castellan’s head swiveled around. Her cloudy, gray eyes were wide and unfocused, looking for something, or someone that wasn’t there.
“Luke!” She muttered, voice croaky and aged. “My baby, have you come home?”
Percy’s throat closed. His reply died down in his throat as May Castellan hugged him tightly.
“Yes.” He muttered unable to say anything else. He needed to get rid of the feeling of guilt that followed him everywhere. “Mom, I have to tell you something, something important.”
May pulled back from him, her cloudy eyes tried to focus on his face but failed. She rested her hands on his shoulders. “Oh, how you have grown! Go ahead Luke, what did you need to tell me? I have sandwiches and cookies waiting for when you are done!”
Percy felt that same sadness as he had when he had stood on May Castellan’s doorstep. “Mom…”
He couldn’t do it. He steadied himself, he had too. His mother would want to know what happened to him. Percy would hope one of his friends would do the same for him as he was doing for Luke.
“I’m dead, mom.” He could barely speak above a whisper, but May Castellan heard him. Her old face twisted in sadness.
“Am I seeing you like I see your father?” Percy was taken aback. May must have seen his expression because she continued. “I dream of him, I hope he comes, yet he never does. Am I dreaming Luke?”
“Yes.” Percy took a step backwards. “You need to accept I’m gone mom, you need to clean up. I have enough sandwiches and enough cookies. I swear it.”
“On the River Styx?” May Castellan asked, voice wobbling in her grief.
“On the River Styx.” Percy reassured. He took another step backwards in the hallway.
May Castellan look at him for a moment before saying one last thing. “You were always meant to be a hero, Luke. I’m glad you died as one.”
Percy walked out of the house, the sound of tupperware being moved was loud. He scrubbed the tears out of his eyes and started at the Hermes statue he hadn’t realized was in the yard.
“It was your fault.” He whispered. Percy didn’t know who he was trying to blame. Hermes or the reflection staring back at him from the shiny marble.
He never saw May Castellan again.
