The Hate Between Us (Percabeth&Solangelo)

Chapter Seven: Pressure

Percy POV

I think I talk about what Gabe does to me too casually, or maybe sometimes I joke about it one too many times. The truth is, what he does is terrifying – who he is, it's terrifying – and, if I could afford a therapist, they'd probably tell me that the reason I joke about his verbal abuse is just a way for me to compensate for my fear. They'd probably be right, but I wouldn't outwardly agree with them because that's embarrassing.

It's not like what he does to me makes me feel like less of a man. I'm not embarrassed about that. If anything, I know that his abuse – the way he shouts at me and my Mom – makes him less of a man. Because what sort of decent human being does something like that? No. I don't feel emasculated. That's not why I'm embarrassed. I'm embarrassed because of just about everything else.

His fear that he induces in me... it controls me.

Take football, for example. I love football – I enjoy it so much. And doing well in it will get me a scholarship into one of the best universities in the world. That should be enough, right? But embarrassingly – in some fucked up, absurd, gods-I-hate-this-son-of-a-bitch-so-much kind of way, I'm actually doing football for Gabe. That bastard. Because I know that if I didn't try out for the football team, Gabe would have been annoyed. Yelling. If I hadn't gotten into the football team, Gabe would be disappointed. Screaming. If I had done badly in my first game, Gabe would be embarrassed. Crying. So I tried out for Gabe, got into the team for Gabe, won my first game for Gabe.

That's embarrassing.

I suppose that – in those moments where he calls me names, looks down on me, makes me feel worthless – there is only one thought in my head that gets me through: one day, I'm going to kill this man. And I don't mean this lightly.

See, I have it all planned. I'll go to college, do extremely well, become a rich marine biologist like my Dad... and then I'll kill Gabe. By that point in my life I would be rich enough to afford a hitman – but I want to do the job myself. Right before the act, I would give all my money to my Mom, buy her the best apartment money could afford in New York City, pay for her to finally get a college degree in art like she always wanted. I might even set her up on a date with Professor Blofis, who seemed like a decent guy and most definitely has a crush on her. And then I'll kill Gabe.

I'll make it painful. I'll make him hurt. I'll make it slow. I'll make it so that he begs for death, because I see an enjoyable irony in making him cry the same way he makes me cry. And so what if the police find me guilty afterwards? I'd gladly wear that title of Gabe's Murderer on my chest. Make it be known that I killed him – I did that. And if I go to prison, so be it. My Mom will be free of his torment, and for that I could sleep happily.

One time I made a joke to my Mom that I'll kill Gabe one day, and to my surprise she had replied: "I'll provide the knife."

We both wanted to be free of him.

So, on that night where it should have seemed like I had it all – I had won my first football game at Goode, I had played so well, the crowd was cheering my name, everyone wanted me to go to some party afterwards – I hadn't cared one bit. I just needed to get back to my Mom and make sure that I had made Gabe happy. The thought of that alone brought me so much shame.

And he was happy – not proud, just happy – not that he deserved to be. But at least that night he left me and my Mother alone, and the many nights after as Goode continued to win game after game. And yet even as Goode continued to improve and get through the season, my anxiety would only grow as I knew the stakes were getting higher – the better we did, the more pressure Gabe would put on me for doing well... the more he would yell if I messed up.