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CLARA SHELBY WAS TIRED. After the attack, she'd been ordered to bed rest in an attempt to allow her body to heal. It had been a week and a half since the attack and it seemed as if people still walked on eggshells around her. John had shown up the next day, his usual joking toned down as he watched over the girl. Something about seeing his sister on that couch made his stomach churn. Nobody asked twice before he offered to 'take watch'.

Another thing instituted after the attack was that the girl was not to be left alone during the day. And Clara was grateful for that— at least for the first three days. She'd tried to argue it but came to no avail. Her brother had opted to work on the books while watching the girl, allowing her to breathe for five minutes every hour as he disappeared down into the shop.

They treated her like a tower of cards as if the slightest wrong move would send her crumbling to the point of disrepair.

The entire family had been told what had happened that night. Tommy and Pol had told them each individually. Pol had told Ada through the door, the latter covering her mouth in shock, her baby clutched a little bit tighter to her chest than before. Arthur had been told, but he'd also been warned. After his little 'stunt' in the gym, large purple blotches formed around his neck. He was told to wait until they healed to go see the young girl, in fear that seeing her older brother would be the gust of wind that sends her tower of cards crumbling.

John was the one Clara saw the most. He was the one she was forced to converse with, in order to maintain her sanity. He would tell her what was happening around the place, even allowing her to read a few of the betting books as long as she didn't tell Pol or Tommy. He made it somewhat bearable, continuing on like normal, yet keeping the boundaries Pol and Tommy inflicted. He would crack jokes in attempts to make her laugh...and Clara would laugh, but her eyes wouldn't. She would laugh to appease him. She didn't even realise it was happening until he'd pointed it out.

"Y'know if you don't find them funny you should tell me," he had spoken, scribbling into the betting book. His eyes flitted towards her every few seconds. "It'll save me the pain of being an arse like Arthur."

Clara was silent, her eyes looking down at her hands which were fiddling with the top of her blanket. Maybe she should apologise for not laughing?...no, Shelby's don't apologise. She opted to stay silent as her brother cocked a brow. The girl let her head hang. It felt as if there were someone pacing in her mind, their footsteps echoing and bouncing off of her brain, causing her head to throb.

Something bubbled at the back of her throat and a question she so desperately yearned to ask wiggled to try to break free. She'd been thinking it over for days, yet she had almost been too scared to voice it. Clara gulped, swallowing air as she looked away from her brother.

"John...how'd you do it?" She suddenly asked, her serious but shaky voice causing the man to look up.

"Do what now, ey?" He smiled, tilting his head.

"How do you stop—" the girl let out a sigh of frustration. "How aren't you affected by it...by killing people?"

There was silence and Clara had pushed herself further back into her bed.

"That was stupid," she muttered, as she cursed at herself. "Don't answer that." Her brother paused his writing, clearing his throat.

"When you go to war and you're killing people by the tens and hundreds, you become used to it." John shrugged, closing his book. "We saw more dead bodies than alive ones out there and you learn to live with it."

Clara turned her head to look at her brother, "I, uh...I can't stop seeing it," she quietly admitted, looking back at her red hands once more. A surge of bile began to crawl up her throat as she tried to swallow the fear.

"Then you'll learn to live with it," John sympathetically smiled, "Just like me, just like Arthur, just like Tommy."

Just like her brothers, she thought, yet the thought held an odd amount of spitefulness.

His words had stuck with her as the days passed and people popped in and out of her room. Pol liked to check in on the daily to make her food and to check up on her wounds. Out of everyone, Pol was the one she found most insufferable. She loved her aunt, she really did, but the way the older woman fawned and doted over her made Clara live in a state of nausea. The older woman liked to push Clara, yet she nursed the girl like she was a dying patient.

Tommy tended to stop by in the evenings, (he liked to claim it wasn't every night...but, it was), sometimes Clara would greet him with a small nod, whilst other times she was already fast asleep. He seemed to think that if he didn't check, he'd wake up to her gone.

Clara's days became long and relentless, and as she reached the week-long mark, her mind became eager to escape the walls of her bedroom. A small part of her mind wished to stay wrapped up in the safety of her blankets, yet the feeling of encasement sent shivers down her spine. She hadn't slept a proper night's sleep in a week, often waking up with a gasp, her hands holding her neck. At night, she saw him. She saw him towering over her, sneering and leering as she struggled under his grip. She would hear his voice, smell the alcohol, feel the pain.

The first night, she had woken up with a bloodcurdling scream, tears running down her face. Tommy, (who had opted to sleep on the wooden chair in her room), rushed to her side, reassuring her that she was safe and sound. It was embarrassing. Her cheeks had burned scarlet as he helped her calm down and steady her rapid breathing.

The second night, Finn had insisted on sleeping beside her after he'd been told that she was hurt. "For protection" he'd explained, as he crawled into her bed. That night, Clara had jolted up with a small cry, her clothes sticking to her body as her hands gripped her neck. She had panicked, her heart had raced as she sat trying not to wake up her sleeping brother.

Her nightmares were the same thing, and each time the knife dug into her skin a bit too much and she bled out before waking with a strangled breath.

It seemed as if rumours about the youngest Shelby girl had gotten out that she'd been injured because Will had somehow found out and visited, promising to buy her a whiskey when she recovered. He'd told her he'd been told by John, but knowing that people were whispering about the young Shelby girl who had last been seen covered in blood and limping down Watery Lane almost two weeks ago, made the girl shift in discomfort.

As expected, her injuries were healing well. The bruises on her neck and face had faded into an array of faint green, whilst the ones across her ribs shone a nasty yellow. Her body no longer ached as it had. She was getting better but her tolerance for her family was slowly becoming worse and worse. They acted as if she were a porcelain doll, scared that the slightest drop or wrong move would result in her being shattered. They looked at her as if she was a wounded puppy, their eyes swimming with sympathy...she hated it. They made her seem weak.

Shelby's weren't weak.

There was a loud knock at her door, whipping her out of her thoughts and causing her head to flicker up from her book. Her tired eyes watched as Tommy entered the room, closing it behind him. He entered silently, pulling out the chair and wordlessly moving it closer to the bed.

"Whatcha doing here?" She finally mumbled, watching as he lit a cigarette.

"Came to check on you," he shrugged, picking up the book she was reading. His cigarette dangled from his lips, as he scanned the book. "Great Expectations?"

"I've already read it," Clara dismissed, folding her arms, wincing as she shifted, the bruises on her spine sending a dull pain shooting straight to her skull. "I've run out of things to read."

"So you've said," he nodded, raising his brows, leaning back on the chair.

"I'm bored up here," she muttered bitterly, "There's nothing to do."

The truth is if she had to spend one more minute within the confines of these walls, replaying the attack in her mind she was going to go insane. She couldn't handle having to watch it over and over again.

"You're to stay here until you're completely better," Tommy ordered, "You know what both Pol and I have told you."

"That's not fair..."

"Clara, you almost got killed and then you killed a man," Tommy leaned forward, his voice blunt and his face now rather serious. "Fair is off the table." Clara furled her lip, the mere mention of the killing stirring something inside of her.

She was silent, staring at her blankets, strands of her hair falling into her face as she sniffed. "Where's John? He's usually up here during the day." She asked, wanting to get rid of her older brother.

"John's working,"

"Right," Clara swallowed, her fingers reaching out to grab her book from the edge of the bed before she was stopped.

"Pol said I shouldn't talk to you about that night," Tommy started, taking a puff of his cigarette. "But I'm going to...because I know you can handle it."

Clara most definitely could not handle it, but god forbid, she was going to tell him to stop talking.

"I took care of it, just like I said I would." He continued, "—but I want to know exactly what happened. I need to know what happened."

"I already told you-"

"You told me you walked the canal, and he attacked you there."

"That's what happened."

"There's more to it,"

Clara gritted her teeth pushing back her tears. She would not show her fear. She would not show her sadness. "He attacked me, he was drunk, he had a knife." She slowly said, her gaze on the wall beside her bed. "That's all that happened."

Her eyes swore they saw hands sticking out from the wall, their fingers curling and reaching to grab her. She squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn't by the canal. She didn't taste the metallic tang of blood. She couldn't feel the blood running down her face.

"He didn't...?" Tommy couldn't finish his question. He didn't have to. The girl understood what he was trying to say and with a shake of her head, he let out a small breath of relief. There was silence as he pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a sharp, melancholic chuckle.

"Scared the shit out of me, you did." Clara looked down, her heart racing as he continued to speak. "When I saw you at that door I thought you died as soon as you fell."

"But, I didn't." She whispered.

"No, you didn't." Tommy chuckled, taking a drag of his cigarette. "But it looked like you did," Clara said nothing, leaving her brother to do all the speaking. "And I never want to see you like that again."

"Which is why I'm giving you this." She watched as he reached into his jacket, placing a small, handheld pistol on her blankets. "You're old enough now and it'll give us all peace of mind,"

The girl could feel the weight next to her, the metal glinting under the light. She refused to look at it. Tommy's eyes scanned her for any reaction before he continued.

"Pol may kill us if she finds out we gave it to you, but Arthur, John and I talked and we want you to carry it."

"I know you don't know how to shoot one, but John said he's happy to help you learn." Tommy carried on, exhaling a load of smoke. "He'd be happy to get out of work most likely, but happy nevertheless."

Clara was silent, her eyes refusing to meet the metal of the gun. She refused to acknowledge it. She refused to show any weakness in front of him. She'd done it once and she wouldn't do it again. The girl ignored his prying eyes as she narrowed her own at the design on the blanket.

"He can bring you down to the Yard and set up targets for you to shoot...

Thankfully John's voice drifted up from downstairs, calling for Tommy, interrupting her older brother's words. The girl didn't look up as her brother left, opting to shift away from the gun. She heard talking from downstairs and then two sets of footsteps climbing the stairs. John poked his head into the room, glancing behind him.

"Do you know a...two seconds–" He pulled away, and he could be heard asking the person for their name. "Do you know, uh, Penny Crawford?" Clara straightened up in bed, her eyes wide as she quickly brushed her straggly hair behind her ears.

"Yeah...I do." She nodded, quickly throwing part of her blanket over the gun so it was hidden from view. The girl wiped at her eyes before watching as John disappeared and the blonde girl replaced him at the door. "Hi."

"Can I come in?" Her dainty voice filled the room causing Clara to nod. Penny slipped into the bedroom, her hands clutched around a red and white paper bag and her blonde hair tied back with a small blue ribbon. She watched as the blonde girl lingered at the end of her bed, unsure what to do.

"You can sit down if you want?" Clara spoke up, gesturing to the wooden seat which Tommy had once occupied. Penny nodded, her wide eyes fixed on the girl in bed as she sat down.

"I hope it's okay that I'm here, "The blonde said nervously, "I ran into Will and he let it slip that you were bedridden. If it helps, I brought you some pear drops?" She shook the paper bag, with a sheepish grin.

"It helps a lot," Clara smiled slightly, taking the bag and placing it onto the bed. Penny's eyes locked onto Clara's, her sympathy radiating off of her. The Shelby girl popped a pear drop into her mouth before offering it to the blonde who shook her head.

"I haven't seen you around the sweetshop for a few days and got worried," Penny joked, although there was a certain sad disposition behind her words.

"Yeah? Well, I got a bit caught up in things." And for the first time in a week, Clara let out a small, yet short laugh.

"Does it hurt?"

"Only if you don't enjoy pain,"

"And you do?"

"Of course not, this hurts...bad." Clara scrunched her nose up, holding her hand to her ribs as she moved. Unconsciously, she reached up to scratch her cheek.

"Well, this is definitely not your best look," Penny remarked, earning another laugh from the girl.

"I'm going to let that one slide, Crawford," The girl pointed weakly, eating another pear drop, before tossing one in the other girl's direction. Penny caught it and ate the sweet happily.

The Shelby girl's lips quirked up before a small trickle of blood streaked down her cheek from where she had scratched it. She froze, her chest tightening and locking into place as her eyes glazed over.

The blood.

The knife.

The inability to breathe.

Clara felt a soft hand wrap around hers, while Penny's worried, blue eyes bore into her as she squeezed her eyes shut.

No.

She wasn't there.

She felt a cloth pressing against her cheek and with heavy eyes, Clara looked up at an anxious Penny who had pressed a strip of material from the dresser against the girl's cheek. She was now sitting on the bed, inches away from the gun, leaning over Clara to reach the wound.

The blonde locked eyes with her, her teeth biting into her lip in concentration as she attempted to stop the bleeding. Clara looked away, trying to push down the heat rising to her cheeks, yet her eyes found themselves drawn back to the blonde as she dabbed at the cut, waiting for the wound to clot. Penny's hand unlinked from Clara's as she brought it to the other side of the girls face, tilting it so she could see the cut better.

The Shelby girl watched as the blonde scrunched her eyebrows together in concentration. Penny's fingers lightly traced around the healing cut, her wondrous eyes slowly traipsing their way towards Clara's eyes.

"It stopped bleeding," Penny spoke, her voice quiet and restrained as she looked down at the brunette. The two were quiet and remained in their position, with Penny's hands lingering on either side of Clara's face until a loud knock startled the two.

Penny pulled away, sitting back down on the wooden chair as Clara shifted awkwardly. "Yeah?" She called out, looking towards the door. Finn peeked around the open door, a grin plastered across his face. "Whatcha want, Finn?"

"Pol told me to tell you that dinner's ready." He explained, rocking on his heels as he spoke. He was quick to run out of the room once he was finished speaking, leaving Clara and Penny to sit in silence. 

"I guess I should go," Penny mumbled, standing up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Clara moved the blankets to get up, revealing the gun for a split second before she quickly covered it back up.

"I'll come with ya," Clara sniffed, grabbing a jumper from her wardrobe and lazily throwing it on over her shirt. She opened her door, walking Penny out of the house before tiredly turning to face Pol who was watching her.

The girl sat down at the table beside Finn, who was rapidly eating his meal. The girl picked away at the food, yet her thoughts of Penny lingered along with the girl's ghostly touch.

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HELLO!

I want to address something here before people rush to conclusions.

Clara killed a man and it will stick with her so I don't want anyone saying 'oh she moved on so quickly, she's recovering so fast'. Most bruises and cuts last a week — two weeks at most. This event has damaged her mentally and how she chooses to cope may vary in different ways.

Also sorry, this chapter is probably the shortest I've written for this book so my bad...

Anyways, how is everyone?

IM SORRY, THIS IS SO LATE, BUT ENJOY THE MEME!

LOVE YA!