Chapter 2 - The Bitter Flood
A drop of the green sludge escaped the corner of Clara's mouth.
It tracked a slow, vibrant line down her pale chin.
It dripped onto the beige lace collar, sinking into the threads and leaving a permanent, toxic stain.
Clara clamped her lips together.
Her throat constricted, refusing to swallow.
The liquid pooled in the pocket of her cheek, burning the lining of her mouth like battery acid.
Eleanor applied more pressure to the jaw.
Her fingernail dug into the soft flesh under Clara’s ear.
The older woman’s breathing was entirely steady.
There was no flush on her face, no erratic heave of her chest.
She was performing a chore.
Clara’s right hand slipped from the wheelchair’s armrest.
Her fingers flew up, desperately clawing at the black fabric of Eleanor's sleeve.
She tried to find a wrist, an arm, a bone.
She only found cold, unyielding silk.
The green liquid began to coat the back of Clara's tongue.
Her chest heaved violently as a gag reflex tore through her esophagus.
The chandelier above them swayed a fraction of an inch.
The crystals clinked together.
It sounded like wind chimes in a graveyard.
Clara’s eyes flew open.
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The whites were completely bloodshot, fixed on the absolute, dead emptiness in Eleanor's dark irises.
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