A Drenched Offering

A sodden, dripping prisoner lay abandoned upon the cold porcelain saucer. It was a bloated berry tea bag... drenched, lifeless, bleeding a dark crimson ring across the stark white glaze. I approached with slow, rhythmic boots, savoring the bitter, fruity aroma hanging heavy in the morning air. It didn't twitch. Raising my green weapon, I pressed the plastic tip clean into its squishy, sodden belly. A fresh, viscous puddle of maroon tea seeped outward, creeping toward the edge of the rim. Elm Street serves its dark brew early today. I left my mark pressed deep into the soaked pulp.