¹POCKET FULL OF POSIES. p. jackson

iii. The Forbidden Son

chapter three
❛ the forbidden son ❜

━━━━━ THE DREAMS WERE becoming worse. Josephine didn't believe it to be possible, and yet, she was waking up in a film of sweat and rapid breathing every morning just as the sun started to rise. She was used to it — but not every day. Those kinds of dreams would happen maybe twice a week, but hardly even once; maybe even a couple times a month. But the volume of dreams dramatically increased, starting from the night Percy Jackson fought the Minotaur. Starting from that night, she's had a dream every time she has laid her head down to sleep.

And the dreams were changing, too. She often dreamt of the past — Beau Pascual, those fitful nights with him, or some twisted version of the very last night in D.C.. The night Josephine received horrible news of Mrs. Hall. She would even dream of past demigods; of the daughter of Zeus who had the remaining amount of her lifeforce woven into a pine tree (though, Josephine never brought that dream up, especially not around Annabeth or Luke).

Now, her dreams were conjuring up places that didn't physically exist. She wasn't dreaming of the past, hardly dreaming of the present, and now was dreaming of ... she didn't know what.

Josephine's throat was tight tears tears. "I — I don't understand."

Admittedly, she hadn't expected a response. However, a cold voice drawled, In time.

Every inch of her skin prickled with unease. This voice, the one speaking to her in this dream, was different from the one who spoke in her mind as she spoke with her half-brothers. Maybe you like being by yourself so you don't mess anything else up, that voice (the one while she was awake) had told her. Unfortunately, that second voice wasn't wrong. Josephine never told anyone about the dreams; she was too afraid of what they would say or think. She knew the way people who were honest about their dreams had been treated — Cassandra, a woman cursed by Apollo to never be believed because she rejected him. Josephine was afraid of what speaking out would do to her — Would she never be believed the way Cassandra wasn't? Or would Josephine be forced to become blind in exchange for the gift, like Tiresias?

She looked around wildly, everything around her was dead — wilted plants, perishing trees, crushed flowerbeds, and a crumbling house. It was like the scene was falling apart around her. Even if she hadn't seen herself do it, Josephine knew she was at fault. She just knew. That prickle underneath her skin, that burn at her fingertips — like something was boiling, shimmering underneath her skin.

Her voice wavered, but Josephine managed to ask; "In time what?"

In time, the cold voice repeated. In time, you will understand.

Josephine looked around, looking over each shoulder. However, nothing was behind her. "I ... I don't —"

The more she looked around, the colder it became. It was her own imagination, of course, but she started to recognize everything — the street that was barren, the cracked sidewalks, the houses lined side-by-side. It was her old neighborhood; the small suburb she lived in with Beau just outside of D.C., where Mrs. Hall was only a couple of houses down. And the house in front of her, the one that looked the most dilapidated, was the Pascual home. Josephine's childhood home that was built on the outskirts of Washington D.C. On the rotting front porch were the wilted yellow blooms she remembered her father trying so hard for years to keep alive. It felt like the thing he cared about most — those stupid little yellow flowers. He even cared more for them than his music. Josephine could see the yellow petals curling into themselves.