Demira drank from the vial labeled 16: a viscous, blue concoction. It slipped down her throat.
“It tastes like … springtime,” she said. “A new lover. An aftertaste of heartbreak.”
She frowned, sipped some water, and moved down the line. This flask read 26. The contents were red, with an iridescent sheen. It burned her tongue.
“This one is floral-forward, with notes of quiet desperation.”
Today, on the eve of her birthday, Demira picked up the final decanter: 34. The liquid was jet black. No light pierced it. She put it to her lips as a tear slid down her cheek.
Deidre loves tabletop RPGs, parrots, and coffee. She is actually three birds in a trench coat.