𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐚 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡 // 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧

vii. The Pink Poodle

— PERCY AWOKE TO the sun in his face, challenging him to open his eyes. The shields of his eyelids didn't help much, if at all. He scrunched up his face and yawned loudly, propping up his body from his bed of grass and twigs. He was shaking, the remnants of cold sweat causing him to shiver. "Well," said the voice of Annabeth. "The zombie lives."

Ignoring the fear from his dream, Percy turned to Annabeth and asked: "How long was I asleep?" The blonde didn't take long to answer. "Long enough for me to cook breakfast," she said, tossing Percy a bag of corn chips. Nacho-flavoured, if he remembered correctly, from Aunty Em's snack bar.

The scattered recalls of his dream still plagued Percy. The pitch-black pit, the evil voice; all of it still rattled him. Thankfully, the sound of Annabeth managed to relax him. "And Grover went exploring. Look, he found a friend."

Percy had to rub his eyes to make sure he saw it right. Grover was sitting cross-legged on a blanket with a fuzzy mound in his lap. A dirty, unnaturally pink stuffed animal. No, that wasn't it. Percy squinted. A poodle. A pink poodle.

The dog yapped in suspicion of Percy. "No, he's not," Grover reassured. Percy blinked. "Are you... talking to that thing?" The offended poodle growled.

"This thing," Grover warned, "is our ticket west. Be nice to him." Percy furrowed his eyebrows. "You can talk to animals?" he questioned. Grover ignored it. "Percy, meet Gladiola. Gladiola, Percy."

Percy turned to Annabeth, waiting for her to crack up or break character. Surely this had to be a prank or something, right? "I'm not saying hello to a pink poodle," Percy said. "Forget it."

"Percy," said Annabeth. "I said hello to the poodle. You say hello to the poodle." The poodle growled. Percy said hello to the poodle. He wondered what Hugo would do in this situation. 'I'll ask him when we find him,' he decided.

Grover explained that he'd found the poodle in the woods and they'd struck up a conversation. Gladiola had run away from a local rich family, who'd posted a reward of two-hundred dollars for his safe return. Gladiola wasn't keen on going back, but he would if it meant he would be helping Grover.

"How does Gladiola know about the reward?" Percy asked. Grover scoffed. "He read the signs. Duh."

"Of course," said Percy. "Silly me."

Annabeth went into full strategy mode, listing out the steps of their newfound thanks to a pink poodle of all things. Percy's dreams still taunted him, like an ashy cloud that threatened to drench him with its relentless rain. "Not another bus," he said warily. Annabeth agreed. "No." She pointed downhill, towards the train tracks that Percy couldn't see the night before. "There's an Amtrak station half a mile that way. According to Gladiola, the westbound train leaves at noon."

• • •

— IT WAS SURPRISING how little monsters sought out to kill him this time. Well, in Hugo's opinion, anyway. There had only been two harpies and a few pigeons willing to sacrifice their lives for some stale sandwich bread. 'A lot of birds, huh,' he thought.

People stared at him wherever he went. On the street, the busses, the trains. He would've been back in New Jersey by now.

He was confused and sad and scared. The perplexed face of his mother haunted him. "Est-ce que je vous connais?" circling through his brain every waking minute. "Do I know you?" "Do I know you?" "Do I know you?"

"Est-ce que je vous connais?" she asked, pulling the door toward her chest. Salty water blurred his vision. There was a cork in his throat—Hugo couldn't say anything. His jaw trembled. Tears threatened to fall.

He finally managed to stutter out: "You don't.. remember me?" His voice was meek, vulnerable and shook with every syllable. Charlotte stared at him sympathetically. "You must have me confused with someone else," she said. Her accent was not as thick as it used to be. It was more of a seasonal touch than an overwhelming flavour.

Hugo's head hung low, tears falling between his filthy, red shoes. Charlotte's eyes turned sad. She placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, pushing the door away from her body. "Do you need aid?" she inquired gently. Hugo chuckled. Charlotte never used the word 'help', it was "too hard to remember".

He stood still for a moment. Charlotte never wavered. She was soft and gentle. She wasn't the same. Everything else except her was the exact same. The house, the driveway, the grass, the smell—everything.

Eventually, Hugo shook his head from left to right. "No," he whimpered. "I'm sorry for bothering you." Charlotte moved the hair from the boy's face, inspecting the bruises and scratches and dried blood. "Are you sure?" she pressed. "Are you in danger?"

"Non, Mamon-... Madame." Hugo backed away, chestnut hair shrouding his face. "Je suis sûr. Well, as safe as I can be."

Charlotte wasn't satisfied with that answer. She reached out for the boy, urging him to stay put while she ran to grab a phone. "Police will aid you," she said. "Reste ici, chéri."

The house swallowed her up, leaving Hugo alone (again). He took one last glance at his childhood home, wishing to set it ablaze. He wanted to forget this. He needed to. If it wasn't here anymore, he'd forget it. He could forget her.

He wiped his face, blood and tears staining his sleeves. He slipped his hands into his pockets, feeling around for the switchblade in his right. He still had it, good. Hugo turned his back to the house, tears streaming down his face as he hummed a small tune.

"On the road again, du du-du du..."