Chapter 7 - The Orange Pool
Clara lay flat on her back.
Her face was turned toward the baseboards.
Her eyes were half-open, staring blankly at the intricate grain of the wood.
The pupils were dilated, swallowing the iris.
She did not move.
Her chest did not rise.
Her fingers were curled loosely on the floor, the knuckles resting against the cold stone.
The beige lace dress was torn at the hem.
Silence rushed back into the hallway, heavy and absolute.
The spinning wheel on the overturned chair slowed.
Tick... tick... tick...
Then, a new sound.
A slow, rhythmic dripping.
From beneath the heavy layers of the beige lace, a thick liquid began to seep out.
It wasn't red.
It was a vibrant, unnatural, fluorescent orange.
It crept across the white veins of the marble floor.
It pooled around the broken metal footrest of the wheelchair.
It touched the tip of Clara’s pale, lifeless finger.
The orange liquid reflected the light of the crystal chandelier, turning the floor into a toxic, glowing mirror.
Eleanor took one step forward.
Her black leather shoe made no sound on the rug.
She stared down the long hallway at the broken woman and the expanding neon puddle.
May you like
She did not blink.
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