In Between The Lines Of Vice

Chapter 7: In Forgetting The Little Things

I sat down for 3 hours and forced myself to write this, oh god I'm so horrible.

Something was lost.

Something was forgotten.

Something important. Something vital. On the tip of the tongue but to never be spoken.

Somehow they forgot, but it's impossible to erase someone, something, completely.

Water was dripping, the constant pat-pat-pat from the sink made it harder to focus, what was it that she forgot? Her eyebrows furrowed and she made the movements to sit down at the kitchen table. Her train of thought was completely lost, like it crawled away while she wasn't looking and she had no chance of finding it.

Biting her lip she shook her head and resumed her task of making dinner, three pieces of chicken simmering in a pot. Three, why three? There was just her and Paul, and they never ate enough to make three pieces. Her chest heaved a sigh as she turned the chicken, age was catching up to her.

There was still something nagging at her from the back of her mind, though. It felt as if a leach had attached itself to her memory, and everything was floating away. She certainly didn't like the feeling, but shook it off. Dinner wasn't going to cook itself and she would sell her soul before she ordered takeout.

She also ignored the reflection of blue eyes in the microwave, slowly fading to brown.

His head shot off the table with a gasping breath, chest heaving shakily. It took a moment for him to remember his surroundings. Taken by a scary lady who tazered him, mistaken for a wanted criminal and then left alone in an interrogation room. A normal Tuesday really, but all of his Tuesdays were shitty, along with all the other days of the week.

But back to the plot points, as stated somewhere previously, demigod dreams fucking sucked. The son of an ice giant did something to his mother, that was an offence that required either hanging or a new French invention from three hundred years ago. No one touches his fucking mother. He needed to get the fuck out of here.

"Hey! Acronym Douchebags! I want my phone call." They better answer, he had been in this room long enough for him to wake up from being tazered, be interrogated and then have a nightmare about the Kirsten Stuart and Hitler's Lovechild™. He felt like he was forcefully snorting a kilo of cocaine with how jittery he was. Fuck demigod powers and their fucking side effects.

He sunk down in his seat and waited impatiently, tapping his foot obnoxiously loud. He could feel his nostrils flaring at the force of his exhale. He refused to have a mental breakdown in the middle of this shitty interrogation room, which, he had the feeling was intentionally shitty just to create the atmosphere of hopelessness. It was fucking working because guess fucking what? He felt pretty fucking hopeless.

"Percy, calm down." He opened his eyes to the face of the fucking scary chick. That wasn't something that made him feel better. She looked like she had much better things to do than be catering to his worthless needs, to which he didn't agree to much.

"I'm fucking calm, calm and cool as a frozen lake. This ice ain't cracking, no inexperienced ice fishers are dying today bitches." Her lip didn't twitch this time, which honestly just hurt his feelings.

"Why do you want to make a phone call? Warn your friends of questionable professions that you're currently incarcerated?" She questioned eye brows raised, something he knew was such a fucking manipulating tactic.

"Look I'm going to be frank with you because I'm really on edge right now and a bit pissed off. I just had a dream of our little friend the less slutty Gangus Khan messing with my mother. The mother that I haven't graced with my presence in a while. The point that comes real close to becoming copyright of The Book Of Mormon, the shitty things I dream are real." She stared at him for a moment before sighing and unlocking his handcuffs from the table.