Do You Trust Me?

It usually happened when Clara was alone. Often during her ritual of applying thick layers of concealer, covering the aches and pains of yet another failed conversation. It unsettled him, seeing her battered by his hands. She worked quickly to cover up the damage. Luckily, the yellow tinge of her makeup performed miracles, and effectively masked the angry blues and purples that grew at her temples down to her cheek. It was when he was gone, and she was faced with nothing but her bruised reflection, that it would start. It was like a gun loading in her gut, reaching out to shoot. It would bubble and burn in her stomach, rising up her throat, until the bullet spluttered out like venom. She would claw at her neck, longing to scream, but there was never any sound, just a sizzling anger that made her  writhe and thrash around. The Fury, as she liked to call it, only ever lasted a few minutes. It tainted the air in sudden bursts. She hated how it strained her lungs, bulged her eyes, making her sweat and cry at once. Hated how red her face would get, and how she would clutch her stomach, falling to her knees as everything around her seemed to shake. Her shouts breathless, quiet from years of compliance and worry. But, what she hated most, is how alive it made her feel. In this glum house, she walked in a thick haze, her mind murky and misplaced. It was the Fury that shook her awake, albeit painfully. Yet the worry persisted, she was afraid he would find her like this. If so, he would have another reason to call her freak and keep her here. Once all her blood cooled, and she being a blubbering, tearful mess; she would stop and breathe, just as she did now. Her knuckles white, clutching the vanity, and breathing shallow quick breaths. In fact, the Fury was the most normal part of her sordid life. Thank fuck, she was alone. He could never catch her like this.

Because you're scared you'd kill him.

A familiar voice whispered in the pinks of her brain. She pushed it away, shaking her head and continued applying her makeup in soft pats.

Let me in.

No, she didn’t have time for this. Swallowing heavily, she shook her head as if to physically silence the voice within her. He would do something worse than keep her trapped. She had to wait, she couldn’t risk upsetting him further. Her face ached in painful thuds, while her mind started to roll away from her. Her movements sluggish and slow, despite trying to will herself to move. The Fury, although painful, provided brief moments of clarity. It cleared her thoughts, and in some ways the pain made her feel alive. Present. Maybe there was a small part of her that yearned for  the bursts of rage; it reminded her that she still had some fight in her, even if it was not long lasting. Maybe there was a tiny part that wished he would witness it. Be the one to flinch at her presence. Be the one to hurt. Be the one to hold her after the fact, while she cried and begged for forgiveness, the words falling like bricks in his stomach. But, it didn’t matter. It happened when she was alone. And it was a terrible pain, she didn’t know if she could bear it for more than a few minutes. Plus, it often worsened the side effects of the pills, making the hallucinations feel more vivid and cruel. He’d kept her here for so long, her body has grown accustomed to the routine. She would be losing it any second now, she had to be on her last legs. A psychological breakdown would pair nicely with the physical distress, wouldn’t it? Then maybe she would be at ease at last. Maybe her mind needed to break in half, so that she could truly fade away. Last night’s argument had been a blimp in her performance.  A brutal mistake which she paid for tenfold. The banging in her head was testament enough. The Fury wasn’t helping anyone, and it was encouraging bad behaviours. She should have never spoke back. He hadn’t reacted well to her normal sensitivities and another fight would make the damage harder to disguise. Not that she had anyone to hide it from anymore, especially since she was confined to this godforsaken house. She sighed, holding the side of her cheek that was still sore and pulsing. She couldn't risk upsetting him, no, she couldn’t. It didn't help that she was having her Visions again. He definitely couldn’t know that. Fucking freak, you disgust me. He’d say, practically hissing at her through clenched teeth.  It was a recent development, the Visions, that is. They flooded back into her a few months ago, in the midst of one of their disagreements. He had his hand wrapped around her neck, and harshly shoved her face against the kitchen table, forcing her to eat. Eating was an act she used to adore. Her passions lied in baking, and the sheer smell of warm bread used to feel like sunlight. But now, eating meant sustenance and nourishment, and Clara was tired of all the living. The wood had splintered under his force, and cut her eyebrow, the blood pooling next to the stale bread. The smell wretched and rotten in her nose. She had kept her gaze fixed on the corridor while he continued to beat her against the table, eventually thrusting the atrocity down her throat, until she choked on swallows and sobs. It tasted of chalk and ash. After he his tantrum, he resigned to the bedroom, leaving her collapsed on top of the hard wood counter. Through watery eyes, she could make out peculiar shapes lurking in the corridor, swirling and shifting sporadically. She remained fixed for what felt like hours, until the shapes took form of two small children, curled up on the floor, calmly playing a game of cards. She could have laughed at the sight, at the innocence before her. That’s when she knew they were back. The Visions. It was lovely company. Every now and again, in the blissful moments he was away, she stumbled upon her Visions and welcomed them. One time she found a woman clutching her stomach, riddled in bullet wounds, screaming about a war that had long passed in the living room. She had told Clara what it felt like to survive an ambush, and Clara had held her in her arms for a long while. The next day, she watched a man catch fire in the kitchen because of an unfortunate omelet incident. Ah yes, glimpses of the in-between, her mother would say, flippantly as if it were a normal occurrences and an inconvenience to explain. Her mother’s side had this connection to the souls stuck in a limbo state. She claimed it had to do with her great grandma, Alma Flores, drowning in a lake and resurrecting because she touched a spirit lost in the In-between.  It granted the women in her family the Visions, which manifested differently for each one. Whatever that meant anyway. Her mother, Alma Maria, hadn’t been one for descriptions or general conversations for that matter. And Clara was the only one left. As she sat holding her face, she thought about how she wished she was also called Alma; and felt like she was missing out of something greater. Alma meaning Soul in Spanish, perhaps she didn’t have one, and therefore, deserved this fate, deserved the exclusion. In any case, she saw the souls in the In-between, wandering about and, if they wanted to, she talked with them, but they were usually looped in their deaths and had few sentences to share. The man in flames was particularly exhausting, talking for hours about the best free range eggs. She nodded and listened enthusiastically, and pretended not to wince at the thought of a freshly cooked meal. It had been a while since she last ate something fresh. She liked to call the lost souls Wanderers. Her mother seemed disappointment that Clara didn’t develop anymore abilities other than the Visions. She sighed, her face stinging, of course, she regretted telling him any of this. Either way, for all her connection to the In-between, it hadn’t helped her at all.

But this was new, her Fury, it was different. It was definitely still in its infancy, and she felt lost in understanding what good it was doing her. She worried that it had nothing to do with the In-between, and instead she was just truly losing her sanity. When it subsided, it made the side effects of the medication. It seemed to clear and cloud her mind all at once, which was not fun at all. She shook her head again, setting down her makeup brush, and caught sight of her reflection, her heart breaking in two. Fuck, here we go. Her eyes were the colour of ash. Grey and dry, bloodshot and desperate. But she knew it wasn’t herself staring back at her. It was a hallucination, fueled by her medicated haze. Her reflection smiled on its own accord, and slowly dragged down her eyelids until the grey exploded with blood and flesh, cracking the mirror in two. Just breathe. When this happened, she would do what any sane person would do, and list her favourite desserts. Tres Leches. Eclairs. Cinamon Rolls. Breathing in and out. Natilla. Cheesecake. Blueberry muffins. It passed quickly, and relief settled like a warm embrace. Sometimes, when she was sleeping, his arm an iron rod against her waist, she wondered if the Wanderers would take her. She yearned for their cold hands, praying they would grab her by the legs, and drag her out into the abyss. She would pretend to scream, but she wouldn’t do much else. Once in the abyss, she imagined drowning, like her great grandma Alma Flores, and wondered if the air in her lungs would clench like a fist. Squeezing and squeezing until she was no more. Then, when the nothingness melted her away, she would wake up in her mother’s arms, and they would speak about all things they couldn’t say when she was alive. The last four years would be a sick, sad dream from a sick, sad girl. Other times she fantasied opening a bakery in the heart of the abyss, she would sell croissants and other baked goods to travelling Wanderers down on their luck. She would remember that she used to love the smell of bread, the feel of dough sticky in her palms. But that couldn’t happen, the abyss wouldn't have her.  The medication saw to that.

But the Visions are back.

The Fury. A flame, a spark.

She couldn’t make up good recipe in this state. And her mother was long gone from this world, and not one for talking. She doubted they would have much to say in the afterlife. They wouldn’t be in the In-between or the Abyss. Thoughts like these belonged to someone else who could afford to dream.

He was all she had left. 

“He wasn't always like this.”  She defended suddenly, the sound a strained whisper, falling into her hands like dust.

Neither were you.

The familiar voice said, leaving her to slump further into her chair and hold onto her throbbing face.

Eventually, she dragged herself out the bedroom, limping through the dark corridor, passed the kitchen and into the heart of the living room. She held herself up by the walls, tracing her fingertips on the moldy wallpaper that cracked and peeled under her touch. The floral print dusty and abandoned, revealing the grey walls underneath. Once at the front door, she tried the handle with the little strength she had. Locked. The windows. Locked. The shutters tightly closed, and rattled slightly under her attempts. The only light streaming through the house was confined to dim lightbulbs in gaudy chandeliers. It was an old house, its bones rich in history but not taste. Everything was locked shut. Why was she surprised? She pulled herself away, trying the windows in the kitchen and bathroom just for safe measure. Locked again. She stumbled back into the kitchen, her breath catching in her throat. A single piece of bread sat on the dreaded, mahogany counter. Flecks of blood still fresh on the surface. She regretted yelling at him; if she hadn’t, maybe he would have left something sweet. Why not a fucking muffin? An exhaustion consumed her, making her knees weak and back ache. She stumbled, falling into it, her legs buckling under her weight, as she lied against the floor. The cold kitchen tiles felt like kisses of ice on her cheek. Her temples and cheek pulsed like a protruding vein.

At the start, he seemed safe enough, and more than willing to put up with her sensitivities to the world beyond. He wasn't scared when she first told him that she saw things she couldn't explain. That she felt a pull towards something that lived outside mundane understandings of the world around them. In fact, he seemed impressed and, most importantly, he believed her. Or so she thought. Somehow he convinced her that her mother was manipulative, and didn’t believe in her craft. This was easy to do as Clara wore her insecurity on her sleeve. His love was soft and consistent, and voice like melted butter on warm toast. The type made on a Sunday morning, no responsibilities and stresses. Golden and crunchy on their tongues. It was a sweet and easy love, so plush and full of life. Why wouldn’t she believe him? Her mother was a bitter woman of few words, she often spoke in code, and shared little with Clara about her talents. Instead, he showered her with kisses and praises, ate all her experimental recipes; laughed at all her bad jokes, and asked her questions. He watched her with adoration while she spoke to Wanderers nearby and even ate cakes with ingredients he hated. Her gaze lazily lifted up, her eyelids heavy with each blink, the bread fixed on the kitchen counter. Oh, yes, she was on the floor still. The cold tingled at her lips. The first time she baked him something it was in this house, and she was a fit of nerves. She fumbled about with the oven, desperately running from one place to another, hoping to impress him. She settled on a fig pie topped with a honey glazed crust. Figs being his favourite, and honey being hers. He took a bite and wrinkled his nose, trying to smile, and said.

"Firstly, you're amazing and beautiful,”

“Oh no, it’s BAD!” she cried, throwing the hand towel on then polished counter and cupped her face in shock. He giggled, and put two gentle hands on her shoulders.

“Wait, hear me out, and this looks delicious by the way, but it's definitely out there.” He looked behind her, and laughed, “Wait a second is that-" his voice honey in her ears, as he grabbed the salt she’d mistaken for sugar, laughing even harder. The heat blushed red on her ears and cheeks, as she failed her arms helplessly against him.

"No! Lemme see that!” she yelled, grabbing the salt from his hands in disbelief. His laughter carried through the halls like a hymn.  

"The taste? I'd say adventurous, innovative even. You're a trend-setter, babe, for-" before he could continue teasing her, she tackled him to the ground and they descended into a fit of giggles and yelps. He pinned her down, and stared at her, his eyes darkening while he held her in place. At the time, she thought it lust and molded into him, feeling the heat from her face travel south. When his mouth finally fell on hers, it was satin and silk against her lips. She remembered wanting it to last centuries. They rolled around, sticky and soft like dough. She never knew love like that before. She never knew love point blank. Her mother kept to herself, and her father passed before she could walk. She had no siblings to share the struggle of the Vision, and the few friends she did have she cut out on account of her weird talents. Partners were few and far between, often freaking out when she mentioned the Wanderers. She had always craved normalcy, someone that made her feel more than a freak who saw things go bump at night. Her mother was a stubborn woman, who’s temper would get the best of her. Clara would normally try to amend things, but he told her not too, told her to stop trying when her mother would get into her moods. Toxically co-dependent, babe. You don’t need her negativity. Now, she could never call her again. She almost laughed at herself, but if she did she'd probably start crying, and what would that do now. So stupid. Soon, they eloped, and travelled for a bit. Joined bank accounts, moved into together. He was wealthy and eager to love her. He was a doctor for fucks sake. A noble vocation. And she wasn't used to much, so couldn't help but fall into the rush and thrill. He said he wanted to help people, and she longed to be taken care of. She was young, and he was older and stable. He saved lives every day. A doctor in love with a baker. How fun and innocent. It rolled off her tongue nicely. But they were just pretty words, not a fist or punch. She tried to lift herself up from the floor, managing clumsily to lean back against the crumpled wallpaper, it crunched under her weight. Her eyes fell onto the bread again, her stomach protested, grumbling and moaning for sustenance. She used to work at the local bakery, but this was when she could go outside. She missed the act of making bread, the patience and craft, the way it felt to knead the dough and make something out of nothing. She loved waking up before the sunrise, hearing the soft tweets of birds before the sounds became songs. She reveled in chatting to the old man with the broken neck, who sat outside the storefront. His name was Billy, a Wanderer who worked in construction in the 60s and loved eating a butter croissant, she was delighted to serve. She wondered if he missed her, but figured he probably, if anything, missed the croissant more. Either way, she held onto the memory of Broken Neck Billy on days like these. Finally, she slowly stood up, her mind and body swaying like a pendulum, trying to gather her strength to move to away from the table. She stopped taking the pills for a long while, but that didn’t matter anyway, it was laced in the food. She spat at the accursed item, and made her way to the bathroom.

She should have seen it coming. It started like most things do, slowly and then all at once. He said he wanted her all to himself and she hated that she loved the possessiveness. Craved it even. He wants me, only me. I'm special. They talked at length of their hopes and dreams; how she would open her own bakery and he would taste everything on the menu. He’d nurture people to health, and she would nurture their appetite. When she would see a figure in the rain walking towards them or a two-headed cat on their windowpane, meowing and nuzzling between their legs, he would listen and laugh. So, she called her friends less, and moved to a city far away. He made friends quickly, and she realised too late that she didn't really like them much. They laughed with him and stopped whenever she would walk into a room. Almost as abrupt as the move, he started talking over her and ignoring her at parties. When she did speak, he would shush her or wave his hand in her front of her face. Subtle, quick moments of annoyance would flash behind his eyes. She often felt like a scolded child, and would settle on being quiet whenever they met new people to avoid the embarrassment. Before she knew it, she was alone with just the Wanderers to keep her company. She hadn’t predicted he would keep her in this god forsaken house though, let alone medicate her senseless. This was a new development and complicated things greatly. In bed, when his arms didn’t feel like steel bars, he had complained that work required a lot more commitment than he expected, and implied she should stay home. Help and do something meaningful. She couldn’t protest, he was busy at the hospital and she was happy to assist in any way she could. His voice velvet, saying that he wanted to save for her own bakery, and that she should focus on trying new recipes and searching for a place to make that dream a reality.  Then, he started to make comments on her grief, her mother’s passing had weighed on her, and it was true that she hadn’t processed it. But then again how do you process grief? She would have thought a doctor would be more understanding, or did the seeing death make him numb? Or was he always this cruel, and she was too dumb, too blinded by security and comfort to see it. He was right in small ways, her mood was in fact strange and Visions stronger and intense. She felt low, tired and alone. He offered to ease her pain, just some pretty little pills to help her sleep and dull the In-between. She accepted, this was her first mistake of many. No gut feelings or Wanderer to warn her. A few weeks became months, and every time he came home later and later, her mind felt slower and slower. The doors, windows started to lock, and Clara didn’t even notice it at first. Even if they weren’t, she was losing her strength. When she did tell him about the plans for her own place, Clara's Cakes and Treats, and he laughed, a bitter one. He said it was stupid name, that the grief had made her dumb and short-sighted. The velvet of his voice became bile and venom.

No one would invest in that.

You’re such a fucking freak.

I want you, I love you.

Take the fucking pills or else.

You’re mine.

How long had it been? She felt dizzy every time he snickered at her, telling her to stay home and focus on being sane. She protested at first of course, but he made it clear that she didn’t have a choice. Her mother was gone. She had no money, no way of leaving without him. Her mind drifted to their recent dispute, the bruise blooming at her temples, beating like an open heart. She threatened to leave; a thought that she hadn’t voiced until recently. He looked shocked and hurt. They screamed and fought for hours, the world trembling beneath them. He crashed into her, slamming her head against the wall, seething with hate. He confessed he had documented her talking to herself, and the stories of the things she seen. He was a respectable doctor after all. And she was young, unemployed and crazy. Digging his nails into her scalp, he slammed her repeatedly against the wall, spots of obsidian clouding her sight, making her sore and sleepy. When she woke up, battered and blue on the floor, he cried in her arms, apologizing and begging for forgiveness.

I love you. I’m sorry, I love you.

She had fought down the sick crawling up her throat, and  comforted him between shaky breaths; everything in her breaking. This wasn’t the first time anyway, but it felt different. She was stuck, truly stuck. Looped the fate of her own making, not a Wanderer or dead, but something much worse. Why did she think this time would be different? Why had she held on hope? What good is it to see the lost souls drift through the In-between, but be stuck here, helpless?

Let me guide you.

The voice again, clawed at her synapses, but she pushed it away. He had connections; she didn't. It all felt strange in her mouth like how burnt toast. The medication was in her food, that she figured out, he knew too and had stopped leaving the pills for her to take. She made it to the bathroom, her arms scratching the walls as she pushed open the door. She knew everything was locked shut, but couldn’t help but try for the third and fourth time. This took all the energy she had, and she felt herself sinking to the bathroom floor. Slightly anchoring herself on the sink, her knees wobbling, almost touching the ground. She shook her head, her copper hair falling to her face. When he used to take her outside, his hand clasped around hers stung like barbed wire. It became apparent early in their marriage that he never believed her. This hurt more than she liked to admit. He loved the game, the chase. Her loved the teasing and then the hurting. Maybe he thought she was easy; that the Visions were a way in. A sad, sick, broken girl willing to give herself to him. He was right. It worked like a charm. She fell so deeply and quickly. She was his and nothing more.

That’s not true. You have me.

Clara felt her eyes close, each blink a weight on her already burdened soul. She thought of her mother, and how her laugh was hoarse and dry. She could smell cigarettes and sage, wafting up the sink. Her hands slipping.

Stay with me. Let me guide you.

What was the time? She wondered if Broken Neck Billy would be upset that she was late. How long had it been since the last time? Months? Years? She needed to make more croissants tonight, to have enough. She was definitely going to be late.

Please, let me in.

The Fury started to buzz, she felt her fingers go numb and lips tingle. Then a small nudge in her ribs jolted her awake. She clung onto the sink, wobbling and shifting awkwardly on her feet. A girl stood beside her, no more than 6 years old. Her hair long and black, in two midnight braids tied with red string. She would have thought she was alive had it not been for the large gash on her throat, that dripped onto the floor in crimson drops. The girl gave Clara a knowing look, understanding deep in her eyes, and ran out of the bathroom. He would be home soon. She didn’t want to be caught in the bathroom like this, he could get ideas that made her stomach lurch. She hauled herself up, looking in the bathroom mirror, staring into her pale eyes. Clara was limp and sweaty. Her copper hair clung to her skull, damp and matted. Her once brown skin, now sallow and skeletal. She found herself turning the faucet, water spilling out in sharp jabs, until the Fury made its way up her gut. The gun locking and loading in place.

He’ll be home any minute. He could kill me.

White knuckled, she clutched the sink harder, hearing the water flush out while the voice whispered.

 You’re already dead.

She didn't push it away this time. She found herself welcoming it, breathing it in like the steam from a hot tea, the scent of chamomile spun around her, coaxing her to take a sip. Her veins creaked, pumping blue and purple under her yellowed skin, and her heart painfully knocked against her chest. Pain flared at her temples and cheek, but she set it aside. The Fury crackled like fire in her palms, white and hot.

Let me hold you.

She reached for the tap, blasting the cold drops on her face. It sizzled to the touch. She willed herself to stop, to pause and breathe, and think clearly. But, something in her knew it was time. It was this or die. Nothing else.

A sudden click of several locks and the clang of a metal chain. He was back. His voice cut through the house like knives scratching plates.

"Hi babe,” his feet hitting the hardwood floor in loud thuds, “hope you had time to reflect." He mused, the words light on his forked tongue.

“Come down, let’s talk,” silence filled the air. He was pacing, his steps slamming into the ground, “don’t fucking keep me waiting, bitch!”

Clara gripped the sink again for balance, the noise of the water hammering out the tap shook her awake, willed her to fall into the fire burning her hands

Do you trust me?

She hadn’t realized she closed her eyes, until she blinked them open, seeing that she was not the only one there. She half expected the girl with the midnight braids to be beside, but she was long gone. Instead, it was something else, someone else. Her reflection doubled, and standing beside her, was another version of herself. Other Clara, she thought, is it you I’ve been hearing? Other Clara nodded; she had a loving look on her face with kind and soft eyes. Her hair a vibrant copper, tied up in a messy ponytail, and she was covered in flour and icing sugar. Her smile was small but sweet and made Clara’s own muscles ache with longing. The Fury bubbled and stung, but not in a painful way. It felt like a light pinches keeping her awake, almost as if to say wake up, stay with me, you’re almost there. She could have sworn she heard the words. She found herself moving, shuffling towards her other self, dragging her limbs, and hesitated as she got closer. She regarded her cautiously, watching her dust the flour from her hands, in two quick claps. Until the Other Clara, reached out suddenly and pulled her into an embrace. The familiar voice lifted to her ears and it felt like a pray.

It's not your fault. You couldn't have known.

I should have known.

It’s not your fault.

They held each other for a while. Tears silently cascading down their cheeks. The Fury tickled and pinched her fingertips. She breathed in the smell of freshly baked Cinnamon rolls and butter croissants that lingered in Other Clara’s hair. When they broke away, she firmly held her hand. His voice broke them apart, the noise tearing through the air.

“YOU FREAK! COME NOW.” He yelled, his voice agitated and unsteady but Clara almost wanted to laugh. She closed her eyes and let the Fury take her. It rippled through her veins, heating her skin, the flush of life warming her cheeks. Other Clara guided her to the door, keeping her close as she buzzed and hummed under the fire that coursed through her. They walked through the looming corridors, making their way to the belly of the beast. The girl from before ran passed them, giggling and nodding her head, before vanishing in the dark corners of the living room. It dawned to Clara, that she was never truly alone. She just needed to open her eyes and let them in. The Fury pulsed out of her, and sent shock waves through the house, rattling the windows and shutters until they cracked open with sudden bang. Exposing the night sky, the wind howled through the space, splintering the wood beneath their feet as they stepped towards him. The windows started to rattle and the glass began to crack. The air was thick and heavy. Clara found herself at peace, whirlwinds of broken furniture swarming around them while she breathed, Tres Leches. Eclairs. Cinamon Rolls. 

The Calm was sweet on her tongue; it tasted of buttercream.

"WHAT THE FUCK-" He managed to squeal, before being pushed back by a sheer force of winds, collapsing onto the ground with a loud thud. He shook his head, clutching onto the walls as he stared at them in horror. Clara smiled, he looked so small. The glass shattered around them, an explosion of sound, slicing skin. Small cuts of red blossomed on his arms and cheek. He was screaming now, audibly wailing and slobbering on the ground.

“Please, babe, I’m so sorry,” he wobbled to his knees, “I’ll do anything. I love you, babe, I love you.” He begged, crawling closer to her, his hand wrapping tightly around her ankle. Before she could react, Other Clara kicked him in the face. A sinister crack filled the room, and he was holding his jaw in place to keep it from dislocating entirely. She winked at Clara before lifting up a broken table leg and swinging it a few times in the air as if it were a bat. Clara laughed, even though it hurt her ribs. She couldn’t help it, she felt giddy. The newfound Calm gave her enough strength to pull away, and head towards the door. Before she could reach the handle, she turned to her mirror self, and said,

"Come with me." the air around them rolled in uncontrollable waves, the wallpaper and carpets peeled incessantly. Other Clara smiled, an addictive grin with all her teeth.

“No, I can’t,” she said, holding the table leg close to her chest, her eyes watering, “you need to go.”

“But-”

An aggravating sound wailed again in the wake of the spirals of wind and broken furniture.

“Cla-rah, puh-puh”

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Clara screamed, sending a swarm of large glass his way, pinning his pathetic frame in place. He choked on his spit and blood, his cries but a silent whimper.

“You should go. Get as far away from this place as you can. Don’t worry about the rest, I’ll handle it.”

“But, are you sure you’ll be ok? I don’t want to leave you alone.” Clara said, feeling her feet clamp in place, her heart heavy in her chest. Other Clara looked at her, the universe in the deep blacks of her pupils, and said,

“Do you trust me?”

“With all my heart.”

“Then, go. Plus, I have a few more things I need to get out of my system.” She smirked, swinging the broken piece of wood.

Clara giggled, nodding slightly, and stepping back to face the door. The winds glided around her, lightly nudging her towards freedom. She had been longing to leave for so long and suddenly the fog was lifting. Her mind was sharp and crisps. The Fury, the Calm, didn’t burn at all, it felt like electricity, it felt like life coursing through her veins. She walked out the door, the fresh air caressing her face. She placed one foot before the other, digging her toes into the dirt. She made it a few more clumsy steps, until she turned back, watching her other self wave at her. The house seemed to breathe in a big gulp of air, the walls closing in, before crumbling into the earth, leaving nothing in its wake. The sounds of screams and laughter lingered in the air after the fact, like the scent of roasted almonds on an open flame. Clara suck in the bright cold, and let it settle in her lungs, for world was bathed in moonlight and at her feet. The in-between glistened around her like a silver mist. It shone against the flush greenery and night sky of the living.

I’m gifted.

I’m alive.

I’m free.

Without wasting another moment, she did what most free people do. She ran and didn’t look back.