June rolled over and heaved until her stomach hurt. Mouth sour, the aches from lying on the polished wooden floor seeping into her hip until her spine twinged.
“Wha’?” she mumbled, and flattened onto her back. The pain stabbed through her head, but her hand flopped into her face with an awkward thump onto gritty eyes.
She forced them open, and regretted it. The room wasn’t merely content to waver, but cavorted merrily around with Olympic-qualifying synchronized swimming. The staircase she could have sworn was in the back of the townhouse had moved to the front, and the ceiling dripped previously plain white pain with venomous acid onto her prone form.
“Ugh.” She closed her eyes again, and the room grew still with blessed darkness. If not for the galloping herd of cattle catching her brain with their horns during a stampede, she’d have been content to continue her increasingly cold fugue.
Her fingers clenched, on the hand not currently holding her hair. A sharp pebble beneath her fingertips broke the moment along with her skin. June’s eyes popped open.
This time, her gaze was exceptionally clear, even as she shivered in the chill breeze. Shattered glass scattered across her godfather’s sofa, coffee table, and onto the floor. Blood dripped onto the shards as she stared uncomprehendingly at the broken front window.
Beside her, soaking into a Persian rug assuredly authentic in every hand-tied silk thread, was a pool of black, caffeinated liquid, topped with the scattered remnants of a chocolate-chip cookie. And from the innocent confection rose a taunting miasma of black magic that swirled around the room and left her shaking.
***
This week’s MOTE prompt came from Leigh Kimmel, who offered this challenge: The stairway is in the back — but you’re sure you remember it having been in the middle of the house.
Mine went to Cedar Sanderson: The cat hefted her hammer and blew out a breath that perturbed her whiskers.
