Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson
Status: Incomplete
A/N: I don't know where I'm going to place this in the story, it's been so long since I've read this fandom.
{Let us begin, for time waits for no one.}
Mother liked to pack me up and off, and whirl me away where no one could see me any longer. She would come home one day from work, her green eyes shining, and I'd know it was time.
When I was younger, it was easier. Her voice was her weapon; smooth, and alluring, and oh so clever. Her eyes, so green they shone, would brighten when she spoke, and the tapestry of trickery would wrap itself around my mind and I'd smile, and grin, and let out a little giggle of excitement.
Then again, everything was easier when I was younger.
The places weren't as memorable, and I forgot about small kindnesses in local playgrounds, forgot about tentative friendships formed in science class, the wisp of burnt in the air. I forgot about Rosie Evans, who helped me get sand out of my eyes when I tripped and fell. I forgot about Ethan Brooke who slid his paper over in a spelling test and blushed when I thanked him quietly.
Everything was easier when I couldn't remember.
But I got older.
And I remembered kind Lola-Jude Thompson who taught me how to dance the salsa in a fifth-grade playground, my laughter coloring the air. And I remembered the image of Jameson Watts smiling down at me from the top of slide, as I fumed and stomped my feet down, down, down. And I remembered places with people, and names that tasted like smoke on my tongue, and thought of what-could-have-beens and what-ifs.
I remembered soft hands in my hair, and whispered secrets, and pinky promises on forever despite imminent goodbyes. I remembered playing Princess in the backyard, where all my teddy bears stood in a line, and I made them bow to me like the faithful generals they were. I remembered playground barters, where I swindled seventh graders like unlucky gamblers and paid them with a smile, hiding the gold behind my teeth.
And then, one day, Mother would come home, green eyes shining like gemstones, and her mouth would curve into a brilliant smile, and I'd know.
"Topolina," she'd grin and I was on top of the world when she looked at me like that, "It's time to go."
*Topolina means little mouse in Italian.