//CLARA//
The storm had moved on, leaving behind that eerie, scrubbed-clean silence that follows a disaster. The pale, watery morning light filtering through the heavy curtains.
My head throbbed with a dull and I lay there for a long time, staring at the canopy of the bed, trying to figure out how to be myself again when I felt like a version of me that had been put through a paper shredder.
Last night happened. The truth happened.
I dragged myself out of bed, dressed with Hattie's silent, wide-eyed assistance, and made my way downstairs. My feet felt like lead.
Casimir was already there, hidden behind a copy of the New York Times issue. The smell of coffee and fried tomatoes made my stomach do a nervous somersault.
"Good morning," I said, sounding like I'd swallowed a handful of gravel.
Casimir lowered the paper. His eyes were bloodshot, the dark circles underneath them telling me he'd slept about as much as I had.
"Good morning, Eleanor," he replied.
