Milk

It is alive, growing, moving, changing. Filled with potential both good and bad. Green and blue, the smell is rancid, raised to his lips he tries not to inhale but he knows that it is coming. Holding the rim just a breath from his lower lip, now curling back as if to escape the inevitable. He closes his eyes in the hopes that it would make the experience somewhat less foul.

“Drink it.”

The ghost of the turquoise sludge bolts from the vessel and launches itself up his nose and attaches directly to his brain.

“Drink it now!”

“I can’t.”