¹Pocket Full of Posies.

𝐎. grave mistake

pocket full of posies
❛ o. grave mistakes ❜

━━━━━ HER GREATEST FEAR was making a mistake. Josephine's eyes burned with tears every time she did something wrong; she would have to swallow back sobs and whimpers, trying her best to nod along as whoever reprimanded her. It was unfortunate for her that she seemed incapable of doing anything right.

The only thing she seemed to do right was have horrific dreams. Dreams of things she thought she had left behind.

The man, Beau, shivered in front of her. He clutched his head, his dark hair sticking on end as if he had just experienced an electric shock. He pulled at the shirt on his back, like it was burning his skin.

Josephine shuddered, knowing what was about to happen. She had lived through this, many nights.

"Dad ...?" she said hesitantly, stepping closer.

The cold tile floor of their apartment sent shockwaves up her body. Josephine pressed forward, swallowing heavily as her father shivered and cradled his head. It was like he had been driven mad, but only during the night. Whatever was infecting him only came out at night, driven away during the day by the sunlight.

"Dad," she repeated. "You need to get back to bed."

"Nine," Beau croaked.

"It's not nine o'clock, Dad," Josephine corrected. "It's eleven. I have school tomorrow. You have work. C'mon—"

"The ground." Beau rocked back on forth on bare feet. Josephine stepped away hesitantly. "Sun. Madness. Darkness. Plagues."

"Dad—" Josephine's voice broke. "Dad, come on, you need to sleep."

Beau's calloused hands grabbed her wrist. His dark eyes were wild, like a cornered animal. Josephine's eyes filled with tears—from terror and pain. Beau squeezed her wrist tightly, the moonlight streaming inside making his face look gaunt with death.

"Plagues," he insisted. "Sickness. Madness. It will infect. You must stay wary. Do not let your guard down. You will suffer! It's prophecied—it is a part of her bigger plan!"

He squeezed her wrist tighter. Josephine started pleading, her tears streaking her face. It felt like his fingers were burning her skin. She wasn't sure how long it was until she was torn out of her dream with people leaning over her. They were all yelling—something about brightness.

"Josephine!" a blond boy shouted to her. "Hey—Josephine! C'mon, wake up!"

It was Luke Castellan, Cabin Eleven's counselor.

"What the hell, Josephine?" one of the Stoll brothers demanded.

Josephine sat up in her sleeping bag, rubbing her watery eyes. "What is it?" she croaked, her voice raw with emotions.

She hadn't been imagining it while waking up. It was incredibly—almost stupidly—bright inside the cabin. That shouldn't have been possible. It was the dead of night. A month into Josephine's stay at Camp Half-Blood. Still, shadows danced around the room—it was almost like the sun was hovering above them all in the cabin, as if it was in the room with them.

The door to Cabin Eleven slammed open. An upset voice demanded, "Luke, it was your idea for the no-lights rule! Turn that light out!"