who are we anymore // clara standalone

[willow .]

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No one ever told me that the world would one day come crashing down at my feet, come falling from inside out, twisting until every person was crushed under the massive weight and the heat that singed all of our arms. I believe Teddy, when he hears those awful sounds outside of our small little house. But I wish that I could really believe him, and not just pray and wish for the sky to one day come falling, like I’ve done so many times before.

Teddy’s always been like that, I still love him though, he’s my brother, my only sibling that will give a small bit of notice to me as I’m skipping over unmarked graves, or pulling the eyes out of a raccoon with blood-lust in my misty eyes, even if it isn't all that good attention, he still appreciates me. He does make fun of me, calling me weird when I do any of this, but he’s a perfect brother and he sure as damn knows it. And while they call him dumb, for believing that the world’s going to end, I cannot help but wonder if it is pure knowledge and not stupidity that causes him to think these things up. For all us mere humans know, Theodore Hartmyre may one day predict the end of the world, setting out all of our custom coffins for us, as we silently wait for the house to go up in flames; all over again.

I can’t even remember the fire, the fumes and the dying screams of my dear departed mother as she slowly flaked away into the ground, the fire pulling her apart bit-by-bit, or at least that’s how Florence describes it to me, in slow detail as she decorates a body with flowers and makeup, as she makes them come to life again, as though they never left the earth, as if they will just open their eyes again and tell us how awful we are, scold us for the things we speak of. She paints their eyebrows and brushes their faces with dusty colors to make them look healthier, to make it seem as though they are not lying dead. Her “art” it beautiful, that’s just about only one thing we share in common, this belief.

I’m the only one that doesn’t have a job, I’m not responsible for anything in the Hartmyre household, and even the laundry is done individually, making it more of a chore for everyone, at least those who have their little “jobs”. I’m awfully bored every day though, and to be honest, No one likes giving me the time of the day even to talk to me. I do have one friend though, her name is Dizzy, she’s a little mouse that sits on the shelf above my head. Sometimes I can hear her breathing in the dark, or I think I can hear her small little rat wheezing. Anyways, she used to be alive, she used to be a good pet, and she used to love me. And then she had to die, just like everything else in the world; just like everyone I’ve ever loved. Love does not exist in the Hartmyre family, not anymore. When one is surrounded by death at all times love is beyond reach, a boundary that is truly impossible to cross unless you run away, and you never come back.

Sometimes I do get a little jealous, I will admit. When I’m in my room and I can hear the steady hammering – bam,bam,bam – as Teddy methodically hits nails into wood, the slight humming of Florence as she paints those cold faces, the chanting as Beatrice sits and plays at her little games. It’s all a daily thing, even Esther has a place, she’s the ghost, the forgotten one, the little girl with no soul. Whenever someone talks to me though, it’s always ”Clara, you can’t do that you little pest!” or ”Clara, you’re getting in the way.” And sometimes it can become hard, to know that your sister who nearly burned down the house, that she’s treated better than you; the one that believes herself to be dead, they treat her normal. And you, with your small little life and stupid little hobbies, they treat you like an outsider.

The world is not fair though, Teddy once told me that with a wavering smile and small bright eyes, tucking a piece of raven black hair behind my cheek as I sat, crying, sad that I wasn’t allowed to be with all my other siblings, that I wasn’t considered one of them. They accept me a bit more now and maybe one day, I’ll even get a job of sorts, a small little thing, even to be an entertainer and dance for the dead, the ones that can no longer see as they wait in their graves, as they sit there and watch their bodies slowly deteriorate and all of the flesh slip away. They will love me, they will applaud.

And finally I’ll be famous, that little girl that could dance to hell and back, Clara Hartmyre.

( oh my god, these run-on sentences are awful but enjoy because I had some clara muse and I needed to just suddenly write whatever was in my head. c: )

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