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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"Not that death at any time isn't untimely."
New York July, 2023
PENCIL SCRATCHED AGAINST PAPER, the sound like forks scraping across metal. It echoed in her ears like a taunting voice, and Lucy found herself ever more focused on the task in front of her. Henry remained seated on his stool, his eyes tracking her every movement. Sweat trickled down the side of her forehead, her brows furrowed with concentration.
There was a gun on the tray in front of her, a small table-like thing held up by plastic legs. She was seated in her hospital bed, careful not to kick up her knee. She needed to take apart the gun without touching it, but it wasn't easy.
She knew it had been five days since she'd tried to escape the room, only because she knew each IV was administered once a day. She'd only been given five more afterwards, so it had to have only been five days. She might have miscalculated in the haziness and the pain, but the IV's weren't so bad anymore, only a warm sensation circling her body, a mild burn in the entrance wound.
"One minute." Henry stated.
Lucy winced.
She had no choice but to believe that Henry was bluffing. He was harsh, yes, just like she remembered. But the circumstances were different. He had said he wanted to save her, and if this really was the only way, then she understood. It also meant, however, that James was alive and that Tony had existed–she'd replayed the moment his death occurred enough times to know that he was. . .gone.
So she just had to push through each day, will herself to be stronger.
Henry tapped his pencil against his clipboard and Lucy forced the thoughts to dissipate. One minute had most definitely dropped to forty seconds. She let one of her hands hover over the gun, the other besides it. She twitched her fingers, before flicking them harshly. The gun tore itself apart, metal pieces flying. Black and white wisps whirled together in a consecutive strand. They danced across the metal, delicate and violent.
It was different now, the way the different hues morphed together. They were merged, tendrils moving as one. It was. . .strange, wrong, even. She wondered what had happened.
She could see all of the separated components, the molecules thrumming in the air. But there were still rugged edges, melted pieces. She slowly let the separate pieces lower on the table. She placed her hands back into her lap as Henry stood to his feet. He placed his clipboard down, before approaching.
