Billy wedged himself as deep into the narrow crevice as he could, sweating, shaking. The beast couldn’t get him here. But it tried, testing his sanctuary with a swipe of paw and extended claw, making his heart clatter.
Fibrous ropes of drool hung from its jaws and slid from its yellowing teeth. A cloud of damp breath rolled over him and he gagged at the smell of rotten meat. He felt wretched, and stupid.
Drink me, the label had said.
“Just a sip.” Alice had cautioned.
He should have listened. He should have shut Cheshire in the kitchen, at least.
(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)