BOOK 3 of the ORPHIC Series
CHURLISH
/ˈCHərliSH/
marked by a lack of civility.
~~~~~
Lucille 'Lucy' Opal Baker finds herself in the 21 century sporting the title of Aunt while lugging along h...
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"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear."
Bucharest, Romania March, 2016
"MORNING, LOVE. I KNOW you're a busy woman, nowadays."
Rain trickled against the window, the soft rumble of thunder echoing through the once still air. Droplets of water dipped low, soft lights reflecting across its bulbous surface. It settled against the wood, seeping between the minuscule cracks. The rain was cold, its pitter patters tapping against her ears, like a drum, thumping rhythmically.
There's the sound of something crashing.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
A flash of lightning, a crack of thunder.
"The nurse, such a sweetheart, had to give me the news yesterday. They said I only have a few days so I thought I'd call to talk to you one last time. But, I know you're a busy woman, nowadays."
She repeated the same phrase.
It was a Starkphone, the one that blared on the table. The screen flowed a hue of white, lighting up the room. There's another sound mixed with the rain, the voice. It's a grating sound, ear-splitting scrapes. Nails against the floorboard, rubbing—no clawing—at the ground. Desperation overcame pain as wood cut through her skin.
Where was it? Where was it? Where the fuck was it?
There was a breathy chuckle.
"I remember that I've been forgetting a lot. I'll forget that too, soon. Lucy, I know you're busy, that's why I want you to stay home. I don't want you to see my face in that casket."
Rough hands—one warm, and the other, artificial with glinting metal plates—wrapped around her palms. He was shouting at her, telling her to stop, stop you're hurting yourself—
She couldn't hear him.
Just the nurse, just the spy, just the friend.
"You know how much I hate seeing that lovely face of yours fill with tears." A pause. "That's not the only reason, Lucy. HYDRA knows how important I am to you, and whatever leftover crawling ants there are will be at my funeral. Isn't that just awful? They'd come to my funeral and disturb you as you mourn. I can't force that on you."
She shook as she shoved James—Winte—Asset?—out of the way. He hit the wall, wincing as his shoulder collided with the aging wallpaper. He spoke again, soft, but she couldn't hear him. She clawed at the floor again, before finally snapping, slamming her fist into the wood. It caved in, revealing the two survival bags they had packed.
