Chapter Text
Tomorrow. A strange word, don’t you think?
Time as measured by humans is strange. Cycles per day is regular enough, and measuring with the sun isn’t uncommon, but they don’t start a cycle with the rising of the sun, nor with the disappearance of it. No, they have a count of 24 “hours” before resetting the clock and counting again when a new day starts, and they do so in the middle of the night. Admittedly, there is another version with half as many hours, resetting in the middle of the day, but that too is a strange measurement.
Then, their years. They count not from the known start of their planet, or life on it, or life of their kind of culture on it, or their greatest development and first start to being a semi-advanced species on their way to first-stage spacefaring that they are now. No, they count from the birth of a religious figure. Very well, not all of them do, but it is the most accepted and used way of counting.
I could easily continue on the influence religions have had on their development and measurements, but I feel it would be of no use. Not only would it prolong the time it will take for you to read that which you have come for, but it would be a never-ending tale that I suspect would interest few. The impact of religion and belief on humanity’s existence is quite indescribable, and humans have proven to be quite unique in their… Storytelling capabilities. Their art, if you will.
It matters little what parts of it are or are not true, however, as this story is of something else.
This story does not start with “once upon a time”, nor will it end with a happily ever after.
This story will not be praised or believed or told to children in buildings made for that very purpose.
This story will not give new habits and festivals.
This story is not important to many, but it is important to me.
Annebeth woke up in the morning, and everything was fine. Annebeth got dressed in the morning, and everything was fine. Annebeth took me from her nightstand in the morning, and everything was fine. Annebeth went down the stairs in the morning, and everything was not fine.
“Tomorrow”, to some, is a gift and a hope. It is a promise to be there, to try. It is an acknowledgement of the passing of time, and a quiet acceptance that today doesn’t last forever. It is delaying that which is true, that which is coming.
Annebeth is human.
Annebeth isn’t a young human, anymore.
Annebeth was never going to be alright forever.
She climbed slowly down the stairs, and I will not imagine she felt her bones protest as the stairs did the same, but I would not be surprised if she did. She was slow, so slow. That does not bother me, but one should wonder if it is safe for her to live here, still, all alone, if she struggles down the stairs like this.
One would not have to wonder anymore, because she slipped, and she fell.
It was not a light fall. I will not describe the sounds, not the sensations, not the exact events, because one does not need to know how it happened step by step to know it was a painful and horrible tragedy. One that was, perhaps, unavoidable.
But such truths do not matter. The current truth, the one she lived, was one where she laid on the cold tiles of the hallway, in the dim light, in pain. And she could not get up.
She tried.
She called for help.
She attempted to crawl, but soon gave up.
I was still clutched in her hand. Her grip tighter with fear and pain, yet still quite fragile.
She called for help, again.
She called for help.
She tried not to cry
I felt cold, despite the warmth of her hand.
Tears rolled down her face, her breath hitched, but still she called for help.
I could not handle it. I Looked into the future- I needed to know when help would come-
It would be too late.
She tried to call for help, but a sob interrupted her.
It does not matter, though. I cannot let it matter, because she is nothing more than a mere mortal. It does not matter, because for every time I choose to help, to be kind, to act, there is one where I do not. One where I make a choice to be cruel, to hurt, to watch. It doesn’t matter what I choose, because every moment gives birth to a new world in which I choose otherwise.
But....
But Annebeth lies there, crying, her breath coming faster. She’s in pain, of course she is.
It does not matter, it should not matter, but...
For the first time in a long, long time, I decide to be more than a spectator.