Cordelia was standing near the stage, waiting to step up and accept the gift for her children. There was a stoic expression on her face, and she downed the vodka in her glass. Being in a room full of people so soon after Aiden’s death was twisting up her insides, making her feel like she was going to throw up. What if his murderer was among them? Her paranoia was worsening with each passing day, and she had no idea who she could trust anymore. She looked up at the huge clock on the wall -- it was about to strike twelve. As she lifted the hem of her dress to step onto the stage, someone came over to her and whispered in her ear. Andrew was dead. No, this couldn’t be true. No, no, no. She pulled out her phone to try and call him, but there was no answer. She pushed people aside, searching for Joelle. When she saw her on the phone with someone, she locked eyes with her, and the look on her face said it all.
“This can’t be happening,” she said, the room now spinning as she struggled for air. The glass in her hand fell to the floor, smashing into tiny pieces around her feet. She reached out, grabbing the person nearest to her to steady herself. Her fingertips dug into the flesh of their arm, and she breathed in and out, deep and slow, trying to compose herself.
( @eclatantstart )
