Her cell phone slipped out of nerveless fingers and fell to the floor with a soft tinkle of plastic. The sound of her phone breaking brought Ophelia back to reality long enough to slide off the bed and go after it, but the pieces were becoming difficult to see as tears flooded her eyes. “No!” she howled. Ophelia pounded the plastic shards, heedless of the fact that she was drawing blood. “NO!” The woman dissolved into a blaze of languages that sound like neither Irish nor Spanish. She opened her mouth to punctuate this with a lung-jarring scream; but her stomach churned and Ophelia found herself scrambling toward the bathroom on her hands and knees. ~*~ “Are you going to be okay?” A murmur brought Ophelia out of her nauseated reverie and she realized that someone was holding her hair back as she maintained a death-grip on the toilet. “Eduardo?” “No.” The voice was a little clearer this time. “David. How did this happen?” “Hang on…” Ophelia leaned over the bowl a second time, but her stomach was already empty.
