my apologies in advance, my lovelies <3

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CONTRARY TO POPULAR BELIEF, Clara Shelby had not been born with tragedy. It had not run through her veins from the moment of birth nor had it been with her throughout gestation. In fact, it had been gifted to her in her youth and had been an unwanted yet faithful friend ever since. Every step of the way, it was there to loom over her and claim all things good for its own.

Quite like misery, tragedy loved company—just in its own wicked way. Tragedy was never felt alone, always projected onto the masses and destroying any bystanders so that the feeling of helplessness and devastation never truly resulted in utter loneliness. At least, that's what Clara had once tried to reassure herself, but now she wasn't quite certain if that was the truth.

Tragedy loved company but it desired solitude.

It desired certain individuals and preyed upon their woeful lives. It liked to overwhelm and burden those born to suffer because whilst Clara had not been born with tragedy, she had been born cursed. Cursed to live a life of suffering due to something as mediocre as a last name; one that was ever so bitter to the tongue. It was her ruination and would undoubtedly remain so within the constraints of time.

It would haunt her until her dying days, she was sure of it and she was sure that every day parts of her soul would wither more and more until her final departure.

The room she was brought to was cold.

It was the first thing Clara Shelby had noticed. A chill had spread throughout her body when she'd been ushered in, a nurse on either side to carry her weight as she lingered on the edge of consciousness. She noticed how the coldness had permeated the numbness of her mind and had spread across her soul. It was a sickening chill, one she could only really associate with the dark hospital she'd been taken to.

The young woman squeezed her eyes shut tight as the door squeaked open. She shouldn't have as the darkness of her eyelids brought forth the visions of the morning to cloud her surroundings.

One thing people often fail to tell you about guns is that bullets hitting flesh has a sound. Bullets had a sound when they hit their mark. It was a dull thump, a heavy one. A dark thump. When multiple bullets hit flesh, it sounded like a thunderstorm rolling over distant hills, not crashing or booming but thumping. Thump, thump, thump. Clara Shelby didn't think she'd ever be able to forget the sound. It was far too memorable.

It played over and over in her mind, an endless thrum of torturous thumps.

She heard them hit him. They'd hit him so hard with so much force. She watched their impact but the sound? The sound was what haunted her. She had heard his gunfire, she had heard the bullets hit him, she had heard his cry of sudden pain, she had heard him fall and hit the stone ground. Clara couldn't shake the stampede of noise that constantly trampled any other thought in her brain.

"Miss Shelby?"

Clara's head snapped up, her dazed eyes landing on the young and timid nurse who had perched herself in front of the hospital bed. The Shelby woman tried so hard to separate herself from her mind, separate logic and emotion from her being, yet, none of it worked. She blinked heavily as the nurse's lips moved. She tilted her head at the silence. Why was it now she couldn't hear? Why now had mysterious powers granted her the gift of ears deaf to anything but her mind?

It was cruel, too cruel.

The young woman couldn't even find it in herself to flinch as a sharp pricking feeling embedded itself into her upper arm, followed by a tight tug. Her eyes slowly drifted towards the area of sensation whilst her stomach jumped and swirled in disgust. Her arm was stained red, a soaked cotton bandage pulled down. All of the dried blood soaked into her pale skin, leaving its mark.

She couldn't tell if it was her blood or if it was Joh— his.

Pinch, pull, pinch, pull, pinch, pull.

Clara kept a straight face as she focused on the nurse's movement. It was then she allowed her eyes to flicker towards the actual wound. She'd only been shot once, the bullet going straight through with little damage. It was surprising she hadn't gotten torn apart by bullets, but he'd saved her. He'd pushed her out of the way, inevitably killing himself for her. Oh god...Clara gulped to suppress her rising vomit. She didn't want to think of it yet, not yet...not now, another hour of silence and noise, anything but the thoughts of him and his body hitting the ground or his dulled eyes or...or his trail of blood.

Clara took an unsteady breath in as the world around her narrowed. She had to stop. Her mind has to stop. She had once prided herself on her incredible mind and astonishing imagination but as of now, she hated it. Despised it even. She cursed her younger self for being a dreamer and a forward thinker. She cursed her need to be intelligent and cursed her younger self for not being more naive to the world. She had spent all of her time trying to be better but now, oh how she wished she was dull.

How she wished she had no thoughts at all. 

Perhaps then it wouldn't hurt.

Clara felt as if the world had spontaneously combusted. As if flames had ignited and consumed everything in their reach and continued to burn until nothing was left. The fire engulfed any semblance of life and destroyed anything that wasn't pain and suffering. Who cared if the world was burning? If he was gone...if her brother was gone, what would it matter? The world was simply not the world without him— at least it wasn't a world Clara wanted to be a part of.

She could feel an ache in her chest, one that appeared to be so hollow but was painstakingly full. It yanked at her remorse and begged to be unleashed. It was harmful, torturous and dangerous...but oh, it was morose. It was sad, deeply so. It was building by the minute, it had been ever since he...since he'd...

Clara swallowed harshly, her hand pressing to her chest as it compressed.

The love Clara Shelby had for her brother, John, was an uncontrollable explosion which had once been contained in the bond they'd shared but now that he was gone, her love went not given—unspent. She could feel the building feeling of this unspent love rush towards her like a freight train so out of bounds with no way of slowing down.

There was so much of it and nowhere nor no one to put it in. She was stuck with an unbearable feeling that crushed her chest-her heart. It rushed in so fast, that Clara thought her heart was giving away. It came in its most insincere forms; grief, torment and the most treacherous feeling of guilt and even though her hands were long washed and cleaned, she could feel his blood on her.

How on earth was she supposed to survive?

Without her brother, Clara would be dead, probably a hundred times over. He was the only reason she functioned like anything other than a mindless and meek lost soul in search of the light.

John had been there for her every step of the way with glue in hand, slowly and surely piecing her back together. He had tried his best to heal all of her gaping wounds, his unusually gentle hugs and reassuring words after her recurring nightmares only evidence of such. He'd sit with her, whether in silence or monologue, he wouldn't allow her to be alone in this fucked up world.

John had truly been her knight in shining armour. He was her brother and quite like any good brother would go down fighting for her, guns ablaze and a protective snarl at the ready. He would do anything for her, a hard truth for the young woman to come to grasp with after her year away.

He had gone down protecting her. He had pushed her to the floor and ensured she had lived whilst he had died.

A loud crash from the entrance to the room shocked the young woman from her thoughts as a set of voices echoed through the desolate. It was only then did she fully realise the extent of the salty wetness on her lips or the claustrophobic heat creeping up the back of her neck. She raised her good arm to feel the tears as they spilt in a disorderly manner. Clara wanted to curse herself for the tears, the sign of emotion but she didn't have the strength to muster the will to.

"Oh, Shelby...what did they do to you?"

Clara sniffed as her bleary eyes met Will's gentle gaze, the one that welcomed her in so easily with zero qualms or malcontent. Her lip trembled unable to resist the warmth of his hand as it carefully moved her short hair out of the way of her blood-splattered face. She tried to stifle her rising sob as much as she could whilst Will leaned into her, allowing her to prop her head on his shoulder as he wrapped a single arm around her to avoid her sewn-up wound.

Over Will's shoulder, Clara moved her head to lock eyes with the other voice she'd heard.

Finn was red-eyed, his blue eyes slowly melting into a sea as crystal waves threatened to crash against the flush of his cheeks. The sight alone caused her to crumble. Clara couldn't take it anymore as she released her misery from the chains of her soul, letting all the unspent love flow in the steady stream of her own tears.

A soft and unfamiliar sniffle joined the symphony of Clara's tears as Will glanced towards Finn whose head was lowered. He glanced at the youngest Shelby before gently removing himself from Clara's grasp so that there was room for her younger brother to join her. Will may have pulled away but hadn't left his friend entirely, he had simply sat beside her, his hand pressing against her lower back in reassurance as he ushered Finn forward.

The younger boy was cautious in his movements before Clara, through her struggling gasps for air, promptly pulled his body close to hers and wept into his jacket. Finn buried his face in her hair as she sobbed, her wails and hiccups trying their best to remain tame but seemed to be failing miserably. Finn wrapped his arm around her, just as Will had done and finally, his body softened and gave into the embrace, a singular tear falling first before another followed, then another and another.

"He's dead," Clara's shoulders sagged, pain twinging down her arm as she eventually allowed the band of sanity within her to snap. She sunk further into Finn's embrace and cried. The boy was hasty to hold her closer as her face pressed into his shoulder, his jacket absorbing all of her wanton tears. He tentatively placed a hand on top of her head and patted it slowly and unsurely.

He had not hugged the girl in almost two years.

You see, Finn Shelby was never good with giving comfort. He'd never truly had to give anyone comfort considering he was the youngest – it was usually him being the one comforted; the majority of the time by Clara, herself, as they maintained their 'youngest Shelby sibling pact'.

"To stick together through thick and thin," a young Clara had toothily grinned as she'd spat in her hand and shook Finn's grubby little toddler one.

He hadn't remembered the first time the pact was agreed upon but he'd remembered all of the countless times Clara had forced him to 'renew' it.

Clara had been the one to read him his silly, childhood books so that he could fall asleep with ease. She had played card games with him and had taught him all her tricks (with the occasional game rigging on her side). She had danced—if you could even call it that, around the living room with him to their mother's old records. She'd tried to teach him his schoolwork and had never yelled when he couldn't do it, she would simply pat him on the head and explain to him what to do.

Clara had been a pillar in the foundation of his growing up. She had been there for him through everything and despite the minor three-year age difference, he couldn't help but wonder if she was secretly way older than she appeared. A figure of strength and knowledge, someone who Finn thought knew the secrets to the entire world and more. She had been a loose cannon, a wild spirit, a helping hand, a flickering flame and an indomitable force. Clara was his big sister. Still is. But as the years passed, Finn realised that his older sister needed comfort just as he did. She would never ask for it but he learned to recognise the signs and he would do everything he could to help, even if at times it seemed redundant.

She was his older sister, it was time to repay her for all the good she'd done for him and if that meant putting on a brave face and holding her as she sobbed, he would gladly do so.

Clara felt her body vibrating as Finn kept her close. She wanted to scream from the rooftops so that everyone would hear and mourn. She wanted the bells to ring out, the flags to drop to half-mast, all papers to report it, all birds to flock elsewhere and spread the word so that the world would finally realise the peril it was in.

"He's dead..." She repeated through choked gasps,

"John's dead."

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THE SMELL OF DEATH OVERPOWERED ALL SENSES. She could feel its icy claws burying themselves into her flesh even beyond the dark doors ahead of her. Clara didn't know how long she had been standing in the cold and miserable hall just staring straight ahead of her. It had been hours since her arm had been stitched, wrapped and placed carefully in a white sling. It was so startling against the darkness of her clothes and the blood that flecked them. Finn had brought some of her old clothes from the house in Watery Lane.

She'd refused to take them.

They had smelled like that house, well, the house and the house's dust from being left untouched for so long. Instead of letting it boil into an argument, Will had given her his coat to cover the blood stains on her clothes. She'd tried to refuse it, but Will had quite literally shoved it around her shoulders and buttoned a singular two buttons near the top to keep it on her. He'd tried to joke that by doing so, she and her crippled arm wouldn't be able to take it off.

She had almost laughed.

A loud flurry of footsteps from doctors rushing to and fro through the hall behind her managed to snap the young woman out of her thoughts. Clara's eyes remained focused on the gold lettering on the window of the door.

Mortuary, she had read the word over and over as she stood and stared. Clara had hoped that the word would somehow miraculously change, morph into something not as morbid. Some word that would somehow reveal John to be alive and standing with his arms open and a cheeky grin across his face. She wanted to believe that the cruel world had an ounce of mercy to spare, an ounce of grace or compassion. She wanted to believe that all of this was some sick joke, one so unfunny that John had to be behind it, it was the only plausible explanation.

Clara took a staggering breath in, and before her mind could catch up and prevent her from doing so, she shoved the door to the mortuary open to reveal the dimmed room.

The stench of stale blood engulfed her as soon as her feet treaded into the room. Clara had to swallow a violent gag, her eyelids fluttering as her hand drifted towards her turning stomach.

"Miss, I'm afraid you can't be in here," A policeman approached her, his hands up but the young woman remained standing at the door. Her eyes drifted around the room skirting over one dead body before they landed on the next. Even from afar, Clara could recognise her older brother, his body still as a doctor circled him. The man put a hand on both of her shoulders, it was meant to be reassuring but Clara gasped at the touch.

Three, Sting, Repent, Silence, June...Nothing.

"You have to go," The policeman urged as she jerked away from his grasp.

"My brother is on that table," Clara finally looked towards the man. "He is dead and alone on that table, let me pass, or so help me, God..."

She stepped around the man who had gone silent in her wake, his eyes turned down to the floor as the doctor by John's body stepped to the side. The young woman's lip trembled as her slow steps carried her towards her big brother. As Clara grew closer, her heart clenched tight as if trying to prevent her from going any closer. The burst of pain caused her feet to falter in their movements while her eyes watered at the sensation.

Protect yourself, her heart whispered, it had always tried its best to protect her. You don't have to see this.

Her heart was wrong. She did have to see this. Clara had to see John. She had to ensure he was dead, that he wasn't just playing some elaborate, sick joke. Her heart cried for her to go no closer, to go back outside to Will and Finn and embrace the two like there was no tomorrow.

Go closer, her mind urged, its desire for inflicting cruelty going unmet. See what you did.

Against her heart's will, Clara found herself at the head of a porcelain slab. Her body was frozen as the smell of blood permeated the dense air. She did not yet dare to lower her eyes to the slab. She was not quite ready to meet a terrible truth just yet. Tears streamed freely now as she stood uneasily at the slab. She did not try to hide or wipe them, what would be the point? More would simply follow.

Taking a sudden breath in, her eyes dropped to the porcelain. Clara clutched her stomach with her good arm, the contents within ready to escape her body if she dared make any sudden moves. A soft cry ripped itself from her lips so perverse and against her will that her eyes widened in pure shock.

There were many a time throughout her life when Clara Shelby had felt utterly defeated. So powerless that any semblance of escape from the darkness of tragedy was reduced to ruins. A crippling feeling of defeat like such robbed her of everything; All the good, all the bad, all the in-between until she felt like a shell of her being. Just as often as she had felt the aforementioned, she had managed to be pulled out of it, a shining hope grasped her struggling soul and held it tight until nothing became something and anything became everything.

Looking down, she realised that there would be no victorious saving from this feeling of defeat. Not this time. Not even hope, in its unbreakable state, would dare traverse so deep into the trenches of Clara's defeat.

John was still and white on the porcelain table. Clara could've easily mistaken him for a doll had she not known him. Like a doll, his eyes were painted. His usual glittering irises were now dulled and full of death. They had not been closed, she did not want to begin to question as to why not. Her quivering fingers lifted and slowly shut them, the blue disappearing as he fell into an endless slumber. The paint had also travelled over his lips which were dark and purple. They were open ever so slightly as if he were trying to mumble something tiredly beneath his breath quite like he always did in the mornings.

As her eyes travelled further, she realised that the paint had spilled. Dark and violent red cascaded down his neck, it had spread over his white sleep shirt, the one Clara had often stolen as a younger child in Watery Lane. The shirt had been peeled away revealing his purpling flesh doused with holes which seeped paint. The red was all she could truly focus on as the doctor spoke about what was to happen.

She did not listen, how on earth could she?

How could she listen when her brother was lying there like an unfinished painting? A doll discarded halfway through production?

It is not paint, and he is not a doll. The young woman had to remind herself. It is not paint, it is blood and this is his body, he is dead and he is gone.

Clara could feel her knees buckling beneath her shaking figure but before she could hit the concrete, she found herself situated on a wooden stool. One she hadn't realised had been placed there by the doctor before he had moved away from the two, allowing the mourning sister to be with her brother.

Clara's good hand lifted to her neck, her throat becoming rather compressed as everything that went unsaid to John began to travel its way upwards, clawing to be free only to be forced back into its fleshy cage. She wanted to tell him she loved him, that she was grateful he had been there for her even in times when the young woman herself did not want him to be. She wanted to have another silent morning with him where everything that seemed so difficult was now rather simple.

Her unbandaged arm dropped from her neck and reached towards him, her fingers searching the cold porcelain for him. Clara gasped as her fingers wrapped around his ring-clad hand. His former welcoming warmth had been robbed from him, his familiarity seeping away with the passing seconds. Her trembling hand squeezed his as she interlocked her fingers with his, a feeble attempt to cling to the tangible remnants of the bond they once shared. She had been so stupid to ever refuse his worried gestures and open arms for her to fall into. She should've taken every opportunity presented to her instead of watching something so priceless being stolen right from under her.

That tedious edge Clara had been dangerously traipsing alongside had long disappeared and now she was falling. She was tumbling down and down and down leaving all behind. A strangled whimper filled the still air; she didn't think she made the noise, it was small and weak. It was pathetic. She didn't think that she was the one who had made the harrowing noise but who else could've done it? Perhaps, the lingering guard and doctor or the dead brother beside her? No, it was her, it had to have been. It was piteous, a sound so broken she couldn't fathom how it had mustered.

Clara lay her head on the porcelain table. The biting freeze latched onto the warmth of her cheek as her fingers curled tighter around John's. It was strange to think that a mere few hours ago the two were holding hands just like this so blissfully unaware of the horrors waiting to torment them. She wished she had not been so quick to leave that moment, even a minute more with him in the silence would be worth it. She nudged her head closer to his body, her forehead brushing against his shoulder as if his arm would outstretch and wrap itself around her.

In the dimly lit room, the air seemed to hold its breath, heavy with a profound sense of loss, broken only by the soft sobs that finally escaped Clara Shelby's lips. She sat in a hushed vigil beside her John, his presence, now a tranquil memory, stirred emotions within her that were as tumultuous as the ocean during a storm. His still form a stark contrast to the memories that raced through her mind like a kaleidoscope of emotions. As Clara's emotions cascaded like a turbulent, twisting river, a series of vivid memories of him unfolded in her mind, each one etching his presence deeper into her soul as if trying to keep him alive.

Like old photographs coming to life, scenes from their youth danced before her eyes, each of them painting an intricate picture of their unbreakable bond. One memory, vibrant as the sunlit fields that surrounded John's home, emerged from the depths of her consciousness. The memory showed her and John, carefree and innocent, playing an exhilarating game of hide and seek in their Uncle Charlie's yard.

The vivid hues of yellowed hay and an azure sky became the backdrop for their laughter, the innocence of their bond evident as John stomped around the Yard, pretending not to notice the small girl huddled between hay bales. It was a moment suspended in time, a fragment of their relationship untouched by the harsh realities of life. The echo of their gleeful laughter reverberated through her consciousness, a haunting reminder of the days when innocence and sibling camaraderie coloured their world.

Clara remembered the thrill of finding the perfect hiding spot that day and the infectious joy that spread across John's face when he discovered her 'cleverly concealed' sanctuary. She had clapped for him and praised his efforts as he rowdily dragged her out of the spot.

He always seemed to find her when they played silly games like the one on that day. She relied on him to find her, she never doubted for a second that he wouldn't.

Clara took an unsettled breath in as she squeezed her eyes shut. As her mind continued to weave its tapestry of recollections, another memory took shape, gentler in its essence. She saw herself as a small girl, smaller than she ever truly remembered, perched atop John's sturdy shoes as they danced around the living room. The soft melodies of their mother's old record played in her mind, the tune once sweet and soothing now filled with melancholy. He held her securely as they twirled around their living room, his hands cautiously gripping hers in case she toppled out of balance. Clara recalled the sensation of being lifted off the ground, the world around her melting away as they twirled in harmony.

Her brother's reassuring presence was like an anchor, grounding her in a world that often seemed confusing and overwhelming. She remembered never feeling unsafe in the sanctuary of his arms as they spun around and around, their shared laughter too alike and the comfort of his arms too much like home.

Amidst the rush of memories, Clara's senses heightened. The sharp opening of a door, the soft rustle of fabric and a gentle creak of a floorboard alerted her to a presence in the room. But she remained steadfast, her body unmoving as a man's angered voice filled the room. Her heartache was palpable, so much so that she could make no move to acknowledge the newcomer. Her presence beside John and her grip on his hand was a silent warning that screamed her reluctance to part with him.

Clara felt a warmer hand on her shoulder but didn't open her eyes. She jolted away from the touch, burying her face deeper into the clothed flesh of her brother's shoulder. She heard Arthur's muted voice cut the quiet before he stepped away from her.

Three, Sting, Repent, Silence, June...Nothing.

Another foreign muffled cry escaped her lips as remnants of John's familiar cologne began to embrace her senses. It was slowly becoming smothered by the scent of metallic blood and death. She did not want the scent to be lost to time, no, no, no, she didn't want to let it fade as he had.

Through the haze of the room, a third memory arose, vivid and exhilarating. Clara recalled the overwhelming sensation of freedom as John taught her to ride a horse when Tommy and Arthur couldn't. His unusual patient guidance had led her through the thrill of conquering fear, each of her youthful mistakes corrected with a subtle and joyful joke. She remembered the wind whipping past them, the rhythmic thud of hooves against the earth – elements that wove their connection into something deeper, something timeless.

In those moments, John was more than a brother; he had been her guide in the unknown, showing her that life's challenges could be faced with courage, a cheeky grin and a joking tease about her nearly falling off a horse. Clara wanted to smile at the memory, she probably would've if her pain had not radiated over her body. The memory had only proved just how much she needed her brother and how vital his role as a protector, a mentor, and a guiding light had truly helped her when she was a child, and that hadn't even been the half of it.

Suddenly, another creak of a door broke the silence, an abominable intrusion into the room of mourning. The sound of footsteps was cautious against the weight of the moment but soon all cautiousness was lost to the wind.

"Right, get out," the familiar voice caused the girl to freeze. "And you, OUT!" The heavy-footed guard and doctor scurried out of the room at the command. Clara remained rooted to her spot, the man that had entered the room a rising threat to her presence. His voice haunted her in her dreams from time to time. She did not like those dreams, especially given the fact they were dreams instead of nightmares. They were good and kind and a reprieve from her time there.

Dreams involving Thomas Shelby should not have been dreams at all, they should've been nightmares.

Her body tucked itself in impossibly closer to John and the porcelain table, her fingers gripping his cold skin at the thought of being taken away from him. She wouldn't put it past Tommy to do it, he'd done it once, and he could sure as hell do it again. He had sent her away to a place where suffering became her unwelcome companion for an agonizing year. The torment she endured at his hands had etched scars onto her soul, wounds that went beyond just the physical kind.

Three, Sting, Repent, Silence, June...Nothing.

"Has she been here long?"

His voice was achingly low, almost saddened. Clara swallowed fearfully, her eyes still squeezed shut as she tried to push herself away from the room where Tommy was breathing the same air as she was. On the one hand, she harboured a fierce resentment, a burning anger that seemed impossible to extinguish. He had betrayed her trust and shattered the very bonds of family that were meant to be sacrosanct. He'd ignored her pleas for help in the countless letters she had sent, she needed him and he was more than willing to let her suffer. The pain he had inflicted cut deep, a wound that refused to heal despite the extensive time she'd spent trying to remedy it. She struggled to reconcile the loving brother she once knew with the monster who had been at the root of so much pain.

However, the complexity of human emotions defied easy categorisation. Buried beneath the layers of resentment was a kernel of longing. As much as she despised him, Clara couldn't escape the truth that Tommy was her brother, a part of her history she couldn't erase. A part of her, a part that she resisted to acknowledge, missed Tommy. It was a yearning that defied logic, an echo of the days when their bond held an air of fragile innocence. Despite the rift that now separated them, she remembered moments when they laughed together, and when the world was simpler.

She remembered the days when they were just Clara and Tommy, no need for extra titles.

In the quiet hours of the night, as the world slumbered, Clara found herself haunted by memories that refused to be ignored. The majority of them stemmed from the wake of Tommy's punishment, of the time when she was whisked away but then, on those rare days, when the world seemed a slight bit brighter, she was embraced by memories of the sound of Tommy's laughter as they played together when she was a child, memories of the way he used to tousle her hair and tease her mercilessly.

They all resurfaced like ghostly whispers from the past as if to ease her present. These recollections were tinged with a bittersweet nostalgia and evoked a sense of warmth that combatted the bitterness she felt.

But now, John was dead.

John was dead and Clara wasn't.

And all good now seemed bad and all bad now seemed worse.

And Tommy Shelby who had once been bad was now despicable.

Clara felt the air around her tense, as both Arthur and Tommy approached the slab of porcelain, their words unintelligible. She could feel the pulsing of her heart in her skull, the sound striking against her brain as quickly and painfully as lightning whilst she continued to grip her older brother. Through the lightning came the awaited thunder, that crashed and boomed, allowing way for another moment to roll through her mind.

It was a memory of John, his mischievous grin on his face, as he offered her a sip of her first forbidden drink. She had been eleven when her lips had tasted the sweetness of rebellion, and though the drink itself was unimportant, the shared moment showed her that John was to be trusted, that he didn't care what she wanted as long as she had been content. John had been both protector and accomplice, the embodiment of a brother who understood her ways in a manner that no one else could. The taste of that first sip was forever intertwined with the memory of John's impish smile, the memory a token of their shared youthful recklessness and the sibling camaraderie that Clara had found to last long beyond their youth.

The memory shifted. This memory however didn't contain John at all. She could sense it as her vision blurred, these memories were worse, they always were.

In a dimly lit room shrouded in an eerie atmosphere, a girl sat alone at a long, imposing table. The air was heavy with an ominous tension, the kind that sent shivers down one's spine.

The room's walls were adorned with aged tapestries and ornate decorations and across from her, a gilded cross adorned the wall, its golden surface catching the feeble light that managed to pierce through the gloom. Clad in a stiff, black dress that seemed to absorb even the slightest glimmer of light, the girl had her short hair framing pulled back to frame her sunken cheeks. Her gaze was fixed on a distant point, but her eyes betrayed a vacant emptiness as if the weight of the world had dulled her emotions.

Amidst the eerie silence of the memory, she could hear a faint yet haunting noise that began to infiltrate the space – the distant cries of a baby intermingled with the heart-wrenching wails of a mother. The sounds seemed to emanate from the very walls, an unsettling chorus that added to the unsettling ambience. It carried through the air like an ethereal lament.

In the shadows of the recollection, a figure loomed, a silhouette that exuded authority. Her black attire and stature cast an even deeper shadow upon the sombre room. Mother Reverend, as she was known, stood over the girl, the weight of her gaze seemed to amplify the hushed ambience. Her snarled lips and angered eyes did not help to soothe the hollowness of the girl in front of her.

"Blood stains," the woman seemed to echo, her teeth bared and hands outstretched as if to grab her.

"In the bleak midwinter,"

Clara opened her heavy eyes at the words. She could feel the two men on either side of John's body. Arthur stood behind her, his hand hovering over her shoulder for a moment before it tucked itself back into his side. She raised her bleary eyes and continued to peer at her dead brother and the red that now stained her fingertips like it had before.

The young woman noticeably flinched as the doors to the mortuary were flung over. Esme had entered, and she could hear the wails and helpless screams approaching. Clara ducked her head once more, her grip tightening on John as she squeezed her eyes shut.

"You're cursed and I curse you again!" Esme shrieked as she lunged at Tommy, hitting him with all her might. Clara didn't have to look up to hear the echoing thumping sound, instead, she found herself slipping into another memory, finding solace in the temporary and torturing peace they provided.

The memory unfolded with a vicious clarity. The sun-dappled canal path stretches ahead, speckled shadows playing on the cobblestones. John's warm smile radiated brighter than the sinking sun, and Clara remembered the feeling of his mirrored joy. They ambled side by side, in their nicest Sunday clothes, a symphony of shared delight resonating between them.

Clara could not remember what had gotten them so happy, she could only remember the childhood bliss of it all.

In the memory, the world seemed to fade around them, leaving only their exuberance. John's contagious laughter rang out as he twirled Clara around on his sturdy, teenage back, whilst her giggles harmonised with his mirth. The steps created a rhythm that echoed off of the Canal walls as they strode to a nonsensical beat.

As they continued their walk beside the shimmering canal, Clara could remember her gaze fixated on the water's surface as John placed her back on solid ground. She had tried to capture and prolong the reflection of the cerulean sky and the gentle sway of overhanging willows into her brain. The ripples that danced across the canal's skin seemed to hold a promise of eternal tranquillity, one Clara wanted to forever bask in.

However, quite like the moment, the memory took a sharp and unexpected turn. John's boyish playfulness escalated as he suddenly pushed Clara toward the water's edge, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He hadn't realised how light she had been or how easy it was to cause her to topple.

With a lighthearted shriek, Clara remembered tumbling into the inviting embrace of the canal's embrace, her startled giggles choking on the gentle lap of water against the stone.

In the blink of an eye, the memory shifted from playful to poignant. Clara's young elation soon gave way to panic as she realised that she was, in fact, unable to swim, her small arms and legs flailing in the water. It was a heart-stopping moment, captured vividly in her mind's eye—the sensation of sinking, the rush of cold water enveloping her, and the bewildering fear that grasped her.

Yet, just as quickly, her fear was eased by John's unwavering and instinctive protective nature. In a heartbeat, he had dived in after her, his powerful strokes cutting through the water to reach her side. She remembered his strong arms pulling her close, cradling her in safety as he trod water in his finest Sunday outfit.

The memory perfectly encapsulated the tapestry of emotions that Clara seemed to carry with her, even far into her adult life. The laughter, the carefree moments, the abrupt plunge into danger, and the profound love and bonds that transcended it all. John had shown her that love as she plunged deep beneath the depths. He had pulled her to safety and held her afloat whilst she struggled in the ripples.

He hadn't allowed fate to drown her.

Clara's lip trembled as a soft click of a tongue resounded in the quiet air. The room had gone silent...she hadn't noticed. Arthur and Tommy had left and she had heard a click. The foolish part of her believed the familiar click had escaped John's tongue as it has hundreds of times to prevent startling the young woman and her peace. Both he and Esme had adapted to using clicks as a forewarning of their presence. It had helped soothe the young woman's fears.

Clara's hand grabbed at John's. Whilst she was relieved for Esme's presence, the fear of John being taken away from her was bubbling. Feeling the woman that Clara had grown to adore approach the slab, the young woman lifted her head. Esme's tears had streaked black mascara around her eyes, the wetness shining under the dim lights as she looked down at the younger woman.

"Esme," Clara's broken whisper flooded the silence. More tears fell from her eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, my darling, Clara," Esme engulfed the young woman in a tight hug, the familiarity of her arms causing the girl to sob. Her tone was motherly, one Clara had yearned to hear for so long until she'd arrived at John's. It was soothing and despite its simplicity, it spoke to the hundreds of negative thoughts in Clara's head and reassured each one of them that it wasn't her fault.

Esme's hands lifted to hold the younger woman's face, her thumb smoothing over the skin of her cheek, Clara leaned into the embrace willingly, she could feel the older woman trembling as she held her. She didn't dare mention it. She just allowed herself to sink into the feeling.

They did not say a word as Esme slowly let go and leaned over John, her tears dripping and mixing with the dried blood on his chest. Her once wild eyes filled with familiar fire had dimmed into embers of anger and bitterness. She slowly and surely removed Clara's hand from John's, placing it on the table. Clara felt empty, now. His hand hadn't fallen yet, Esme had taken it between her own and began to slide off his gold rings one by one.

"Our stuff will stay with me," Esme croaked as she lowered John's hand and moved Clara's so that the two siblings were connected once more. "Taking the children on the road to live with decent people. They'll never know the curse side of this family. We're done with them, John."

Clara froze at Esme's words. Time was moving but she was still there, mouth slightly agape as fresh tears pushed their way to the surface. The older woman's words were binding like an oath to God or a pact to the devil. The younger woman was silent as Esme removed the last of John's rings, her shaking hands clutching them to her chest. Clara's quivering fingers hooked themselves between John's, the bareness of his reminding her of the days in which his younger self would hold her hand as they walked side by side down Watery Lane. She gripped his hand more firmly now, desperate to never get that aching feeling of loneliness.

"Clara..." Esme's voice was low, her hand placed itself on her shoulder. The young woman moved away at the touch.

"No...you have to go," Clara murmured, her eyes fixated on John. "You have to leave...you have to go. I've done enough damage."

"Clara, it's not your fault,"

"I'm cursed, this family cursed," She said through shaky breaths, her lip between her teeth. Clara suddenly jumped to her feet, her hand still locked in John's. In a crazed panic, she latched onto Esme, pushing all the hurt and pain from the decision aside. "You have to go and take them, take the kids and get them away before we can hurt them...please, please."

"You are not cursed, Clara," Esme's hands cupped her face once again, her grip keeping her head in place. "You, Clara, are not cursed. You are a survivor, a person who's weathered storms and emerged stronger each time. You are the only good I see in that cursed family."

"My cursed family," Clara reiterated, "They're my cursed family, Es, their blood runs in my veins. If they are cursed, I'm damned to follow their bloody fate." She sobbed in the hold, pushing Esme away.

"Then come with us," Esme spoke suddenly, her eyes pleading, every morsel of her soul beckoning for Clara to join them. "You can help with the kids and live with us and the Lee's...we can change your name and...and we can be your family." Clara whimpered at her words, shaking her head only for Esme to rest her forehead against the younger woman's.

"Come with us, Clara, let us be your family."

☆

Lmaooo, anyways.

HELLO MY BEAUTIFUL READERS, how are you doing?

I'm so incredibly sorry for how much time I took to update but life is hectic currently, I recently got results and a job so my time has been pretty limited!

As always, I hope you enjoyed this, let me know what you thought of it!

I love you all and I'll see you all soon,

(How could I ever forget your memes?)

BYE!