A Kiss To Build A Dream On - Season 2: Bridge

The Wanderer's Blues - Stagger Lee

Compared to Henry's castle of decadence and cold luxury for the sake of luxury, the Prendergast residence was warm and inviting. It was specifically designed to entertain guests, one of Clara's favorite pastimes. 

From the beige brick exterior with stained-glass windows to the wood-paneled walls with soft creams furniture on the inside, it was by far the crown jewel of the neighborhood. In contrast to the narrow hallways of Henry's home, Murray had opted for an open concept. Nothing to hide, wide open for all to see.

A matron couch sat on top of a beige rug with green and burgundy stamps, overlooking a plasma television. On each side of the couch, soft green armchairs laid side to side in a semicircle, filled with all sorts of pillows and cushions. Behind the whole setup was one of Zizi's earliest paintings: a tall brunette woman with a red gown, holding a bouquet of daisies under a starry night.

The only thing that was not in harmony with the room was Murray, who was vomiting spit and foam onto the carpet between ragged breaths.

"Please don't leave me..." cried Clara, sobbing like she hadn't since Zizi's death. "I can't lose you too... not now...don't leave me!"

She didn't know what to do. She was on top of Murray, pounding his chest with her closed fist. With every punch to his chest, a torrent of milky-white fluid pumped out of Murray's mouth and nose. Every time he tried talking or moving, more foam would exit his lips. Trickles of tears trailed from his bloodshot and panicked eyes, watching with cold fear how Clara slowly descended into hopelessness.

"I can't-I can't be alone! I'm not ready!"

She threw another punch into his chest, making him release one final gargle before stopping altogether. He was no longer breathing. His eyes were still and tranquil.

"No...no...no, no, no, no! I'm not ready! I'm not ready! You're not going to leave me and Zacky alone, you bastard!"

With every yell, Clara pounded his chest with both hands like a sledgehammer.

"I'm not ready! Not yet! Not now! You're not going to die on my watch!"

She threw one last punch, straight in the middle of his ribs.

Murray immediately gagged, bringing a chill of electricity down his spine, jolting his eyes open with newly renewed panic.

Clara saw as Murray wiggled and flopped on the floor like a fish out of water while scratching his throat raw. She placed her mouth on top of Murray's, pinching his nose between her fingers. With all her strength, she sucked on his mouth, sucking the bile up. A mouthful of spittle and mucus seeped into her mouth which she spat besides her, repeating it over and over again. She wanted to puke. It tasted slimy and incredibly salty, but she knew that if she stopped pumping, Murray was going to choke.

With every mouthful of air, her lungs filled with the taste of tobacco and bile. Bitter, like charcoal. With one last lungful, she managed to clear Murray's throat, signaled by him gasping for air.

She vomited her entire lunch on the carpet. She wanted to thank God, or Buddah, or whatever entity was reading her thoughts and decided to intervene, but she could only get a few gulps of oxygen before vomiting half-digested mashed potatoes and beef. Murray, on the other hand, hurled a ball of solid mucus the size of a ping-pong ball out of his throat.

"Well...that was an...interesting experience " said Murray between breaths. "I need a drink, want anything?" he said with a smirk full of bile and snot.

At some point during her breakdown, Clara curled into a ball, crying like an infant. Her sobs were high pitched and desperate, each one making her hug herself in comfort.