Blossoms of the Dark Continued

CCVIII Selene: Sanctuary

Trigger Warning:

- PTSD

- sexual assault aftermath

I had decided to reread the PJO books before the show came out. I made its influence in this chapter very obvious. Although, nothing can top Rick Riordan's sense of humor. (There, I gave you the answer if you still cannot find the reference.)

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I wake up in a bookstore.

Antiquated, old, vintage.

But cozy.

Tall shelves made of sandalwood run up and down the store. Each one stocked with books, ranging from thin paper booklets to thick leathery tomes. It should smell like old paper and spices in this place. However, that is not the case. All sorts of fragrances and stenches permeate the space, and only when I focus on any one particular smell can I discern it. Even more strange, all of them have titles I do not recognize. The Boy Who Jumps into Dreams Tells Me I Have No Sense of Boundaries, The Squirrels Take Revenge on Us, I Get Old People Problems at a Young Age, are just a few of the names. What sort of titles is this? They remind me of Rick Riordan's hilarious chapter titles. As I move down the aisle, more ridiculous names appear. They are juxtaposed with the ambiance of the store.

But at the same time, why do they seem so familiar? I remember the boy whose dream quirk I absorbed and the subsequent argument with him. I recall an incident where one squirrel threw an acorn on a kid's head. The kid lost his mind and threw the acorn back. Later, every child at the orphanage learned why one should never make an enemy out of squirrels. Every time one of us challenged them, the squirrels would raid the walls that night, making thumping noises in the middle of the night. I remember spending countless nights unable to sleep because of them. Loathsome rodents. And the old people problems ... well, arthritis typically affects the elderly, not the youth. The more titles I read, the more memories resurface. My suspicions grow stronger, and when I reach the end of the bookshelf and stare at the placard, they turn into truth.

'The Orphanage' the sign reads. These books are memories from my time in the orphanage.

I pick up a random book at the end, just to confirm what is already known. With an orange and brown paperback cover, it has very few pages and smells distinctly of persimmons. I open it. Instantly, I watch a very young version of myself snagging delicacies from the three-tiered platter as she peeks around, hoping no one will notice her shenanigans. Upon a closer look, I notice that those are sweets. Hoshigaki. A treat prepared for the New Year with a complex preparation process. Hachiya persimmons are dried so that its natural sugar crystallizes and candies the fruit. I loved this sweet. I still do now.

I flip the pages.

Her fingers are sticky with sugar, and crumbs settle around her mouth. I cannot resist the smile tugging at my lips when little me hears a woman call out her name sternly. Little me turns around to face the woman, a hoshigaki halfway between her teeth.

"Selene, what did I say would happen if you sneaked in more desserts before dinner?"

"No more sweets for a week," the small girl answers meekly.

"And what did you do?"

The girl swallows the rest of the dried persimmon and smiles innocently. "Nothing."

The woman - the orphanage matron, I remember - rolls her eyes and holds out her hand for little me to take. Still, even the matron's eyes twinkle in amusement at the girl's antics.

This is a pleasant memory. Seeing how I can walk without difficulty in it, this must have taken place before I was diagnosed with juvenile arthritis. It leaves a bittersweet tang on my tongue instead of sugary delight as I close the book and return it to its spot. 'The Orphanage' section contains the happiest moments of my life before I met Shouto. It hurts to reminisce about them, especially when I know that young girl and her vivacity is dead.