The People v. Eleanor Warwick
Sporadic and Irrational

Brown eyes flutter open, revealing an unfortunately familiar view.

The ceiling of her apartment is unrecognizable at first, but within seconds Cassandra’s vision clears. Her frequent blackouts make staring up at the stucco a rather common occurrence.

It’s different this time, though. As she sits up, the wizard rubs her aching cheek and feels a dull throbbing in the back of her head. While she tries to piece together what happened from slightly blurry memories, Cassandra instinctively slides her hand into her pocket.

Sudden realization thunders in her mind upon finding her pocket empty. After feverishly searching the rest of her garments, she scrambles to all fours and scampers across the floor in a breathtaking panic.

Eyes wide in disturbed alarm, Cassandra searches every inch of the hardwood, hoping with all her might that the Stone merely fell out of her pocket and skittered into a corner.

As her hunt quickly proves futile, she has to accept reality. It’s gone. They took it from her. Tears begin to fall as her quivering hand comes to her mouth. “No. No. No. No.”

“Shut up!” she suddenly shouts at no one in particular.

“Shh. Shh. Shh. Get a hold of yourself.” Cassandra clutches a handful of her copper hair as though it’s all that’s keeping her from drowning.

“Get a hold of yourself!” she screams, springing to her feet.

Bracing herself against the island as she stumbles wearily, lightheadedness overcoming her. “Too close.” Her voice is nearly a gasp. “Too close. Can’t fail. Won’t fail Harold.”

“I’ll kill her!” With a furious sweep of her hands, every item resting upon the island or the counters beyond flies from their roosts and crash about the apartment. “I’ll kill her, Harold!”

Covering her watery eyes, Cassandra falls hard against the wall and slides back down to the cluttered floor. “I’ll kill anyone I have to for you.”

Slowly moving her hand, she stares up to the ceiling, tears streaming. “You’re right, Harold. I have to get it back. I can’t finish without it.” Suddenly, she jerks her head away. “No. No. Get a grip, Cassandra. Harold is dead. You have to think clearly. I have to think clearly.” Taking a few deep breaths, she staggers to her feet. “I have to get it back. Have to think.”

Running her fingers through her ragged hair, she considers her options as carefully as she can manage in her current state of mind. She has developed a few contingency plans in case of this very situation, but she just can’t remember them. Focus is becoming frustratingly difficult to obtain.

Her fuel, so to speak, is running dry. Her thoughts grow sporadic and irrational. Struggling with her own memories, Cassandra levels her gaze at one of her kitchen drawers. There’s something within that can help her, but damned if she can remember what.

Sliding the container open, she sifts through the contents. Nothing striking her as particularly helpful, Cassandra seizes the drawer and hurls it across the room in a fit of desperate fury.

Papers and various utensils scatter as she leans against the counter. Rubbing her temples, she struggles to resist a full panic. Just before losing it completely, movement catches her eye. She stares at a tiny sphere as if it were the face of God.

Scrambling forward, she drops down and snatches the marble up. Remembering the orb’s purpose, Cassandra nearly weeps. Instead, she pulls herself together. She picks up a knife from the scatter debris and hustles out the door.

When the elevator answers her call, she rushes inside, trying hard to overcome her increasing dizziness. The world around her is starting to blur. Lights have chasers and everything sounds slightly muffled.

She refuses to blackout. It simply is not going to happen if she has any say at all. As the doors begin to close, one of her neighbors calls out to her.

“Hold the elevator, please!” Cassandra’s arm shoots out and blocks the doors at the last second. The stainless steel slides back to its hiding place in time for the young lady with a lavender scarf to trot into the conveyance.

With a relieved exhale, the young woman adjusts her purse. “Thank...” she hesitates slightly upon getting a good look at Cassandra’s ragged hair and pale face, “you.”

Cassandra turns to her, eyes dull and heavy. The young woman steps back, eyes wide in alarm, as Cassandra presses her knife against her palm.

When the elevator reaches its destination, Cassandra steps out into the lobby. Her skin has regained its healthy complexion and her eyes are sharp and focused. Leaving a pile of dust and a lavender scarf behind, she paces out of the building.

Ignoring the bitter chill, Cassandra focuses her energies on the tiny marble. Dropping the sphere, the light blue orb bounces twice before coming to a stop. She stares down with unmasked desperation. “Come on. Come on,” she grumbles.

After a few seconds, the marble begins to roll. Guided by invisible forces, it dribbles down the street. With a heavy sigh of relief, Cassandra pops her knuckles and follows.

The marble will lead her to the Stone and when she finds it, Eleanor Warwick, or anyone else foolish enough to lay a finger on what’s her’s, are not long for this world.

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