Do You Trust Me?

It usually happened when Clara was alone. Often during her ritual of applying thick layers of concealer. Each relentless swish of her brush covered aching pains of another failed conversation. She would feel it burn at her fingertips, throb in her guts. Like today, she felt it boil, and worked quickly to distract her mind. Luckily, the makeup’s yellow tinge masked the angry blues and greens that grew at her temples down to her cheek. But sadly, it did nothing to quell the throbbing, heartless pain that beat and burnt within.  It was when he was gone, and she was faced with nothing but the memory of what they used to be, that it would start. It was like a gun loading in her chest, reaching out to shoot. It would bubble up 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 thrash. The Fury only ever lasted a few minutes. 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 and strained from years of compliance. But, what she hated most, was how alive it made her feel. In this glum house, she walked in a thick haze, her mind murky and misplaced. That made it bearable. It was the Fury that shook her awake. Hot and searing. He can never know. If so, who knows what he would do. More ammo to shoot at the crazy freak. The Fury only lasted a few minutes. Once all her blood cooled, and heart slowed, she stopped and breathed. The burning hurt but a light sizzle. Nothing more. One hand was clenched around her makeup brush, the wood creaked in her palm. Panting and sweaty, she knew he could never find her like this. It could never happen.

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 resumed applying her makeup in soft pats.

Let me in.

No, she didn’t have time for this. Swallowing heavily, she shook her entire body as if to expel the foolish thoughts of freedom. 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. The Fury, although painful, provided brief moments of clarity. It cleared her thoughts, let her see. She would be lying if there wasn’t a small part of her that liked the bursts of rage. It reminded her that she still had some fight in her, even if it was for naught. 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 to feel alive in this house. She sighed, dreading what was to come. The Fury had a cost. It worsened the side effects of whatever he was giving her, making the hallucinations more vivid and cruel. He’d kept her here for so long, her body was growing accustomed to the torture. She was different, a shadow of herself. That she knew all too well. She used to bake. The memory played in her mind like a silver mist of flour and icing sugar. Warm bread used to feel like sunlight. The crunch of crust was a golden symphony on her tongue. However, now eating meant sustenance and nourishment, and Clara was tired of all the living. She would be losing it any second now.

Come on, you’re stronger than you think.

 Last night’s argument had been a blimp in her performance. A crack in her routine, which she paid for tenfold. The banging in her head was testament enough. How had they gotten to this point, she couldn’t place the moment, the conversation. She used to love this house, the rich emerald tiles of the kitchen counters and large mahogany hallways. She used to love him. So deeply. So intensely. It felt strange in her mouth, the memory of that love. She questioned him last night, and he hadn’t reacted well. The result of that was getting harder to hide. Not that she had anyone to hide it from. She sighed again, holding her cheek that was still sore and pulsing. She couldn't risk upsetting him, no, she couldn’t. And if the Fury wasn’t bad enough; she was having her Visions again. It seemed she was on the brink of losing it, officially. She tried to hide it from him, but he caught her talking to one. You’re sick, my love. You need me. His words were steel bars that she had grown used to leaning against. Cold and unrelenting in her palms.

It was a recent development, the Visions, that is. She hadn’t seen one in a long while. They flooded into her a few months ago, in the midst of one of their disagreements. He had his hand wrapped around her neck, and the rest blurred as it always did. He wanted her to eat, and she did not. A dilemma to them both. The wood had splintered under his force, and cut her brow, the blood pooling next to the stale bread. Her meal, her life. The smell, wretched and rotten in her nose. She had kept her gaze fixed on the corridor. Eventually, tired of the theatrics she’s supposed, he settled on thrusting the atrocity down her throat. Dry and rough, she choked on swallows and sobs. It tasted like chalk and ash. After his tantrum, he resigned to the bedroom, leaving her collapsed on the 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, watching the shapes dance in the dark. Mesmerised, the shapes took form, turning into two small children. They were curled up on the floor, calmly playing a card game. Go fish? Yes, the cards were scattered across the wood. She would have thought she was dreaming if it weren’t for the fact they were both missing their jaws. The bullet wound, large and beating, as their mouths hung open, drowned in black blood. Yet they continued to play, their throats gurgling rhythmically mimicking giggles. They were back. She could see them again. The Visions. It was lovely company. He didn’t like that, though. Every now and again, when she didn’t feel the weight of the drugs, she stumbled upon her Visions and welcomed them. One time she found a woman clutching her stomach in the living room, riddled in bullet wounds, screaming about a war long passed. She had told Clara about the massacre of her people, and asked if it was over. Clara decided not to lie, and they held each other for a long while. She never did get her name. It still bothered her.

The next day, she watched a man catch fire in the kitchen, and this was quite entertaining. He had an unfortunate omelet incident. He was much less open to talking with Clara, and instead opted talking at her about what was considered a true omelet. Clara groaned, and hadn’t know there was such a thing. That was a particularly long day that she didn’t wish to dwell on. Ah yes, glimpses of the in-between, her mother would say, flippantly waving her hand in Clara’s face as if it were inconvenience to explain. Her mother’s side had a connection to the souls stuck in a limbo state. A silver thread that tied them to the In-between. She claimed it had to do with her great grandma, Alma Flores, drowning in a lake and falling so deep that she fell into the pool of lost souls. A week later, when all assumed she was dead in the water, she swam up and walked home. Gifted and changed. 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 now she was the only one left.

Clara leaned into herself, shakily pulling her knees to her chest, she thought about how she wished she was also called Alma. It felt like she was missing out on something greater. Alma meant Soul in Spanish, and perhaps she didn’t have one, and therefore, could not have the same name. And, therefore, belonged here. In any case, she saw the souls in the In-between, wandering about and, if they wanted to, she talked with them, and that was enough for now. She liked to call the lost souls Wanderers. Her mother seemed disappointment that Clara didn’t develop anymore abilities other than the Visions. She shook her head, her face stinging at the act, it was all she had. For all her connection to the In-between, it hadn’t helped her at all. In fact, it made things worse.

But this was new, her Fury, it was different. It was 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 mind. What if he was right all along?

When it subsided, it made the side effects of the medication worsen. It seemed to clear and cloud her mind all at once, which was not fun at all. She shook her head more aggressively this time, setting down the makeup brushing. She turned to the mirror, and froze. Her heart breaking in two. Fuck, here we go. Her hazel eyes were the colour of ash and stone. Grey and dry, bloodshot and desperate. She knew it wasn’t herself staring back. That it was a hallucination, a consequence of her medicated haze, but the fear remained hard as stone. The reflection bobbed its head to the left, stretching its mouth in a poor imitation of a smile. Its teeth putrid and rotten. It slowly stuck out its tongue, rancid green and forked. Her usually copper hair and brown skin, was swallow and pallid, drenched in sweat. It dragged down its eyelids, exposing flesh until it exploded with blood. Cracking the mirror in two, Clara yelped and closed her eyes. Just breathe. When this happened, she would do what any sane person did, and began listing her favourite desserts. Tres Leches. Eclairs. Cinamon Rolls. Breathing in and out. Natilla. Cheesecake. Blueberry muffins. She breathed quick, short breaths. Until, finally steeling the courage, she looked into the mirror. Her skin was still dull, eyes red with exhaustion,  and mirror broken, but it was herself. Relief settled in her blood like a warm embrace. Sometimes, when these episodes happened, she wondered if the Wanderers would intervene. She wondered if they would shake her shoulders, and scream YOU’RE GONNA BE OK! 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 away the pain, she would wake up in her mother’s arms, and they would speak about all things they never did. Her mother would be talkative and loving. She would tell her she was proud and that the last four years never happened. It was just a sick, sad dream from a sick, sad girl. They would laugh and cry; share stories about Alma Flores and everyone else she didn’t get to meet. She would make her mother butter croissants and buñuelos. 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.  He saw to that.

But the Visions are back.

She couldn’t make up good recipe in this state. And her mother was long gone from this world, and even if she was here, she wasn’t one for talking. She doubted they would have much to say in the afterlife. Thoughts like these belonged to someone who was loved. He was all she had left. He loved her in his way, and that should be enough.

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

Neither were you.

She slumped further into her chair, setting her feet on the ground, and held onto her throbbing face. By some miracle, she dragged herself out the bedroom, limping through the dark corridor, and passed the kitchen, 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 distinct print of apricot and chestnut trees, dusty and abandoned. It peeled revealing the grey stone underneath. Once at the front door, she tried the handle; shaped like a snake. Locked. The windows. Locked. The shutters tightly closed, and rattled slightly under each attempt. 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 in 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. She was going in circles. A single piece of bread sat on the wooden table. 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 fell into it, her legs buckling under her weight, as she lied against the floor. The emerald tiles felt like kisses of ice on her cheek. Her temples and cheek pulsed like a protruding vein.

In a time before all the throbbing aches and pains, he was kind and loving. He was quick to understand, and laughed at every one of her dumb jokes. He believed her. Loved her. She didn’t notice how much time he took from her; how she slowly stopped calling her friends or started doubting the words that came out her mouth. She fell into him, completely willingly. This was easy for Clara to do; she wore her insecurity on her sleeve. His love was soft and consistent. He was melted butter on toast. The type made on a Sunday morning, no responsibilities. Golden and crunchy in their mouths. It was a sweet and easy love, so plush and full of life. Her mother was a bitter woman, who often spoke in code, and didn’t like Clara much. And he liked Clara a lot. No, he loved Clara. He showered her with kisses and praises, ate all her experimental recipes;  asked her questions. He watched with adoration while she spoke to Wanderers nearby and even ate cakes with ingredients he hated. Her eyelids were heavy with memory, the bread stayed fixed on the kitchen counter. Oh, yes, she was on the floor. 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, imagine. 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 had taken a bite and instantly wrinkled his nose, forcing a smile, and said.

"Firstly, you're amazing, smart and beautiful-”

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

“Wait, hear me out, and-look at me-this, this right here, looks delicious but-” He looked behind her, and laughed, “wait a second is that-" his voice as rich as wine, 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 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-" before he could continue teasing her, she had 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. 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 quite young. When she couldn’t find him in the In-between, and Clara felt abandoned again. She had no siblings to share the struggle of the Visions, and had pushed away all her friends. Partners were few and far between, often freaking out when she mentioned the Wanderers. The story of them gave her vertigo. They eloped, travelled, moved into together. Her life became his in a blink. He was older, a doctor, a noble profession that he liked to remind her of. He said he wanted to help people, and she longed to be taken care of. He saved lives every day. She spoke to the lives that couldn’t be saved. They lived in similar words, brushed by death and hurt. He said he loved her. It rolled off his tongue nicely. But they were just pretty words then, and not clenched in a fist. The punches she could take, preferred even. They were far better than what happened when the bedroom door closed. She tried to lift herself up from the floor again, managing clumsily to lean back against the crumpled wallpaper. The apricots and chestnuts crunched under her weight. Her eyes fell onto the bread again, her stomach protested, grumbling loudly.

Clara used to work at the local bakery, but this was back 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 tweets of birds before their 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 and died in the mid ‘70s. He loved eating a butter croissant, and had incredible stories. He often spoke about his partner, Patrick, who also was partial to her eclairs. She wondered if he missed her, but figured he probably, if anything, missed the food more. Either way, she held onto the memory of Broken Neck Billy on days like these. Finally, she stood up, her mind and body swaying like a pendulum. She tried to gather her strength to move 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. In the bread. She spat at the accursed item, and made her way to the bathroom. Circling the house had become her only pastime.

She should have seen it coming. It started like most things do, slowly and then all at once. He said he wanted her 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 about 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 between their legs, he would listen and laugh. So, she called her mother less, and moved to a city far away. He made friends quickly, and she realised too late that she didn't really like them. 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 gatherings. When she did speak, he would shush her or wave his hand in her front of her face. She often felt like a scolded child, and would settle on being quiet whenever they met new people to avoid the embarrassment. Then her mother died, and 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 complicated things greatly. In bed, when his arms didn’t feel like steel bars, he had let slip that his work would become experimental. That he needed her help, needed her advice, and Clara agreed immediately. She closed the bakery, stayed home, and when she would ask about his projects, he fell silent. He grew impatient, it was more than the simple interruption. A few weeks became months, and every time he came home later and later, her mind felt slower and slower. The doors and windows started to lock. Clara was embarrassed she didn’t even notice until much later. Even if they weren’t, she was losing her strength day by day.

When he first struck her, it caught her by surprise. He had a long day at the hospital, and she had spent the little energy she had writing and drafting plans for the bakery reopening.

Clara's Cakes and Treats

He laughed, a bitter one. He said it was stupid name, that the grief had made her short-sighted and naïve. No one would invest in a bakery run by a mad woman. The velvet of his voice became bile and venom.

You’re insane, you’re sick.

I want you, I love you.

How long had it been since the tests began? She felt dizzy every time he snickered at her, telling her to stay home and focus on being sane. Shooting her up with serums, scanning her brain, monitoring her foods.

Take the fucking pills or else.

You’re mine.

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 kill herself, she didn’t mean for it to come out. He looked shocked and hurt. And that angered her. He screamed and cried for hours, but she was so tired, the world trembling beneath her feet. He crashed into her, slamming her head against the wall, seething with hate. 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, he sobbed in her arms, apologizing and begging for forgiveness.

Please, I’m sorry.

Please, we are so close to a breakthrough.

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. Shackled by a life she chose willingly. 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 was it to see the In-between and be just as lost?

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 burnt toast. The medication was in her food, she couldn’t fight back, she couldn’t do anything. 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 left. 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 on her face. When he used to take her outside, his hand clasped around hers stung like barbed wire. A sad, sick, broken girl. She was his and nothing more.

That’s not true.

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 time was it? 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 she felt a small nudge in her ribs, an elbow by her side, shoving her awake. Clara clung to the sink, wobbling and shifting awkwardly on her feet. She drifted her eyes to the persistent nudging. A girl stood beside her, no more than 6 years old. Her hair was 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. The girl gave Clara a knowing look, understanding deep in her eyes, and ran out of the bathroom. A warning. He would be home soon. She didn’t want to be caught in the bathroom like this, he would 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, skeletal and pale. She found herself turning the faucet, water spilling out in sharp jabs, until the Fury made its way up her gut. The gun locked and loaded.

He’ll be home any minute now. 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 steam from a hot herbal 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. Her heart 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. And if she was going to die, it would be on her terms.

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 my love,” 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 now, his steps slamming into the ground, “we have a new treatment plan for you.”

Clara gripped the sink again for balance, the noise of the water hammered out the tap. The fire still burning in her hands.

Do you trust me?

She hadn’t realized she closed her eyes, until she blinked them open, seeing that she was not alone. She half expected the girl with the midnight braids to be there again, 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 and strong, bright 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 sharp 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 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. Clara reached out, and hesitated. She regarded her cautiously, watching her other self dust the flour from her hands, in two loud claps. Until she reached out suddenly, the flour falling to the ground, and pulled her into an embrace. The familiar voice lifted to her ears and it felt like a prayer.

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

I should have known. I-

No, you couldn’t have.

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 bread. When they broke away, she firmly held her hand. A loud boom broke through their moment. His voice teared through the air.

“HELLO!” He said, 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, her braids swinging back and forth. A flash of red in the dark. 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 curtains and wallpaper began to burn. Ash and smoke swirling in the wind. The windows started to rattle and the glass began to crack. The air thick and heavy. Clara found herself at peace, whirlwinds of broken furniture swarmed around them, catching fire, while she breathed.

Tres Leches. Eclairs. Cinamon Rolls. 

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

"What the fu-" He managed to squeal, before being pushed back by a sheer force of winds and flame, 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. Then the burns, his flesh searing as he started rolling on the ground. He was screaming now, audibly wailing and slobbering on the ground. The fire on his sleeve put out under his thrashing and cries.

“Please, my love, let’s talk-“ he wobbled to his knees, “I love you, I’m trying to fix 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. Somehow she had enough strength to pull away, and head towards the door. The brass snake handle glimmered in the night. Before she reached it, she turned back, her words echoing in the chaos.

"Come with me." the air around them rolled in uncontrollable waves, the wallpaper and carpets burning incessantly. Prints of apricots and chestnuts exploding in thousand pieces. 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-”

“Please. You earned it.”

“I’m sorry.” Clara felt the words slip out of her, old habits were hard to beat. Other Clara laughed, loudly and brightly, her eyes glistening with hope.

“For what? You saved us.”

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.

“Nice one! But, really, you need to go. Get as far away from this place as you can. Don’t worry I won’t kill him but,” she giggled, “he’s coming with me.”

“But, are you sure you’ll be ok?” 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. I have a few more things I need to get out of my system,” she smirked, swinging the broken piece of wood, “Plus, I’ve also wanted to go to the abyss.”

Clara giggled, nodding in understanding. So, this is how this how it ends? They stared at each for a while, before she stepped back and faced the door. Its frail frame shaking in the wind, the snake coiling and turning at her will. She walked through. Her mind was sharp and crisp. The Fury, whatever it was, didn’t burn at all, it felt like electricity, it felt like life. 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, smiling. She watched Other Clara lift her hand, sending a strong current of wind that slammed the door shut. The house seemed to breathe in a big gulp of air, the walls closing in and crumbling, before collapsing into the earth. Only rubble left 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. The world was bathed in moonlight. The in-between glistened around her like a silver mist. It shone against the flush greenery and night sky of the living.

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