Demi-Goddess (Percy Jackson Fanfiction)

A Good Night's Sleep

Clare

The smell of alcohol consumed Clare's senses. It was a scent she was all too familiar with. A scent that she grew up with, and only she knew what it meant.

I'm...home?

Opening her eyes, she was back home, in her old kitchen. The drawers and cabinets were still stained by liquid splatters, and a wide array of heavy alcohol was made available along the counter next to the sink.

This can't be real.

But she found herself in the same plastered seat across the dining table, where she spent years eating in fear.

Her small hands began to shake. The kitchen was empty, only the dim lightbulb to keep her company. The table was vacant except for Clare seated at the end with a single platter of food and a fork.

She knew the process, but she didn't want to relive it. She didn't want the same thing to happen over, and over, and over again.
But it did.

Clare picked the fork up, and her father stumbled through the front door of her home.

Dad?

Clare called out, but her voice was unrecognizable. It was softer, vulnerable, and higher.
She looked down at herself and noticed her un-aged body, and her old shirt and banged haircut from when she was younger.

I'm reliving the past.

Her drunken father appeared through the doorway to the kitchen. If possible, the smell of alcohol became stronger, stinging Clare's nose and forced tears in her eyes.

"Why're you...still up?" Her father leaned against the doorway. His blonde hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his black eyes were wide but confused. His hands vibrated, and Clare tilted her head to the side, examining him.

"I was going to sleep. I thought...I thought I'd wait for you..." Her voice squeaked. She was vulnerable in her younger body, shaking with fear.

I remember telling him that. I remember this.

Caught off guard, her father approached her. He tipped her dinner plate off the table, and the sound of it hitting the floor startled Clare out of her seat.

"Goodnight, goodnight." Her young self tried to make a quick escape toward her bedroom.

She didn't get far.

Her father grabbed her shirt and tugged her toward him.

"You cost me...a fortune." He hissed, and Clare felt tears drop down her chubby face.

This can't be real. This isn't happening.
She tried to shake herself out of it, but it was reality.

His long arms whacked her back into the table, her small body hitting the ground harshly. She recognized a tight pain in her chest. She knew it was how she had broken one of her ribs, which still bothered her during archery practice at camp.

Then she remembered the worst part of that night.

"HELP!" Her little cries went unheard as her father went on his usual torment. Slamming the table, breaking new holes into the worn out windows, and throwing bottles. All while spewing drunken words that young Clare couldn't understand.