This is a personal fulfillment fic, because the only other one I've got going with this topic has it as part of an interweaving plotline, and it's a guy character. This wikia, however, is my haven for bad!fics, and so I'm posting this one. Short, sweet, and to the really screwed up point.

Just a Little Bit

She was perfect, of course. Everyone knew that and everyone said that.

At least in the mortal world they did.

In the demigod world, though, Annette Myers was just another girl. She didn't have a lot of powers; she wasn't exceptionally strong or an extremely good fighter; she wasn't even breathtakingly beautiful like some of the campers. She was just normal, old Annette. Fourteen, medium height, medium build, with a godly parent who wasn't even exciting: Demeter.

Annette knew that was what had started it.

Not being a child of Demeter, no: it was coming to Camp Half-Blood in the first place. She had been eleven, and the more she thought about it, the more she knew it had been a mistake. She had been going through enough--her step-mother had been divorcing her father (neither of them had ever paid her much attention anyway), she was about to switch schools, her first best friend had just moved away and her second had abandoned her for a differet group of friends--and without even meaning to, it had happened.

Now, Annette couldn't stop. Tears welled in her eyes as she retched, the acid burning at the back of her throat. She coughed twice, just to make sure it was all good, and wiped the tears from her eyes as she straightened her camp shirt. Strategically, Annette used the grass to cover the pile with her foot, and after a moment of kicking all that was left was an odd smell--something Annette knew from experience would fade by morning.

Without a glance behind her, Annette hurried off. It had been a terrible night with a terrible binge and a terrible purge, and she didn't need a lecture about her being out after curfew to top it off.


"Annette?" Her eyes fluttered open at the whisper of her name, the hand gently shaking her shoulder. After a moment she jerked up, head turning wildly. "Whoa, chill out." Annette relaxed: it was only Eleanor Whittle. Eleanor was the unofficial second in command in the Demeter cabin, and Annette's favorite. Likewise, Eleanor had taken a liking to Annette the moment she had come in at theage of eleven, small and fragile though perhaps not as much as she was now.

"I was just waking you up." Eleanor smiled, brushing a strand of hair out of Annette's eyes and tucking it behind her ear. "Everyone else is pretty much ready; I was surprised you managed to sleep through it all."

"Y-yeah," Annette muttered, not meeting Eleanor's eyes.

"Well, up 'en at 'em," Eleanor continued with a peppy smile as she stood up, making sure not to hit her head on the bunk. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

"El," Annette began, Eleanor's back to her. The girl spun again, curious.

"Yeah?" Annette paused. She should tell her. She should just tell her. She would tell her--

"Nevermind," Annette said with a smile. "Just don't wait for me."

It was as easy as that: the cabin was empty, Annette left behind all alone. Without other people, without food, without anything in her way to just curl up in a ball and go back to bed.


With a groan, Annette knew she shouldn't have done it. It was the morning after and her throat burned if she even attempted to talk, the muscles contracting in all sorts of painful spasms.

At least it's an excuse not to eat, a voice told her; its presence was so normal that Annette didn't even consider it an intrusive force anymore. It was simply something that was there, advice that had flitted in one day and decided her mind, of all minds, was a good place to take up residence. She had heard stories of girls and boys who had managed to dislodge it, to get the voice and the thoughts and the feelings to go away, but they had always been just that: stories. Though she hated the voice, she could think of nothing more terrifying than it leaving: even in a place where she was surrounded by those like her and those who cared for her, Annette knew she would ultimately feel alone if it was gone.

The day itself seemed to fly. She hadn't been spectacular at archery that day--never had been, probably never would be--and one of the older boys had gotten upset at her because she'd dropped her bow. Yes, she was a demigod, but the thing was heavy, and the lecture that had followed did nothing to help. She'd done pottery through lunch, alone from the crowds, and sat on the beach during the rest of the afternoon. Her cabin mates and a number of other campers (including, of course, the Poseidon children) had invited her in to swim, but she had slowly shaken her head, given a small smile, and simply revealed to them that she wasn't a very good swimmer.

That was a lie. She could swim. Not well, of course, but better than a number of the campers she saw splashing around, nearly drowning, on a day-to-day basis.

The only difference was that they could bear to actually be in something more revealing than a guy-cut camp T-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans.

Annette envied them, all of them. It didn't matter what they looked like: incredibly skinny, chubby, down right over weight, tall, short, thin. Every one of them who actually had the power to jump into the lake in something other than full clothes without having a nervous breakdown was someone to be envied in Annette's book.

It was something she could never remember having.

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