YEPSEN – (v) to cup one's hands to form a dish for water
Phylis took water up in her hand and ran it down the dead woman's face, trying to wash away the blood. Zakaree was out in the living room, cursing at himself for not checking the house better when they first moved in. The Spitter tried not to drool on her sister, knowing very well that her acid would eat away at the lifeless skin. Water drizzled through her fingers as she froze, a single tear cascading down her face.
She knew something would happen. Jenn always got the bad end of the deal. When they were younger, if she got a cough, her older sister was bed-ridden with the flu for weeks. If Phylis had an itch, Jenn had chicken pox or poison ivy. Phylis would scrape her knee, and Jenn would effectively break a bone or dislocate a joint or tear a tendon, and on one occasion, all three. It was a miracle that time had turned the hands of fate. Jenn survived the plane crash with a concussion. She remained Immune. She got better, and now…
"Lissi…" came the voice of her husband. He didn't sound much better.
"I'm almost done," the Spitter whispered, rising slowly from the floor. She draped a towel over the body and whispered a Latin prayer for her sister.
"Réquiem ætérnam dona eis, Dómine,/et lux perpétua lúceat eis./Requiéscant in pace. /Amen."*
With that, she left, body determined to be strong but will breaking. Oh how such hell was thrown upon them. How it took away what she loved most. Such evil, such damned evil was perched on her shoulder, smiling like a tabby with a tail between its teeth. She didn't know when it would all end, but she knew the ending would come.
*Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord,/and let perpetual light shine upon them./May they rest in peace. Amen.