The Torn Portrait

The sharp, sterile scent of rubbing alcohol filled the quiet bedroom. Celine held her breath, gripping a soaked cotton swab as she dabbed at the angry, raw scrapes crossing Clara’s tiny palms. Thankfully, Greta had gone back to Lumina for the weekend to handle a family emergency. If the older woman, who loved Clara like her own flesh and blood, saw these injuries, she would be devastated.

Clara’s