• Different-ish
    Clara sat in the tall grass, completely hidden. The cool grass reached up over her head shading her from the summer sun, the shorter blades tickled her bare feet. She hunched over her crossed legs and gently pulled out the thorns stuck in the many scratches which came from running barefoot through the brambles. Diving into the patch of grass and wriggling to the longest patch had shaken off most of the mud but a thick layer still coated the bottom of her scratched feet. Her white summer dress brushed softly against her skinny thighs, the smooth cotton stained with mud, grass and blood, crimson trickled from her face, from her back and seeped weakly from her ankles. The lump on her head and the sluggish blend of blues settled into black-purple bruises throbbing in random patches of her skin. She trickled blood from the split in her lower lip, their peachy colour darkened in a coating of scarlet satin. Crystalline tears poured in pearly droplets down her cheeks; they diluted the mud that smeared across her face in rich coffee smudges that mimicked every other inch of her body. Her hair flowed in sheets of tangled black ribbon slightly bloodied where it brushed her back; she could feel her pulse in the wound where the well aimed rock had struck. The cold on her burning flesh was heavenly. She waited for around a half hour after the footsteps had pounded away then got to her feet.
    She rose her head slowly first searching, her eyes sparkling with tears like wet slate flecked with crystal, the pearl whites surrounding the iris threaded with scarlet. Her entire body tingled with nettle stings as she stepped gracefully out of the tall grass. Yelling rose from the edge of the woods. Clara didn’t turn, she ran as fast as she could down the lane, she heard the jeering coming closer and the pounding feet behind her made a beat which pounded cruelly through her aching head, her feet struck the hard ground painfully as she ran. The wall of her garden came into view the cold mismatched stone had never looked so inviting, she sped up significantly until the pace was torture on her aching limbs. Leaping as high as she could to make the wall, a rush of euphoria flooded over her. But as she soared over her foot caught on one of the stones protruding from the top and it bleed out again as her entire body hinged, her arms flung out to protect her already damaged face she smashed to the ground and bounced unevenly, rolling across the concrete in front of her house. More jeers came, taunting, and with the threats and insults as they left she got to her feet again and limped lamentably to her front door. As her mother took in her dirty bruised and bloody figure, she rushed in distress to her broken baby.
    “You poor baby, you’re filthy”
    “mmngnnn”
    “Clarity Baillie what happened to you, was this them mean kids again I swear one more time I’m... I don’t know what I’ll do but they’ll regret it.” Her tone was rough and caring, concern flooded out for her daughters’ pain. She stroked her baby’s eyebrows, gently comforting her. Clara ignored this comment instead choosing to pull free of her mother’s cradle, and walked upstairs on all fours. She pulled herself up to the old bath splintering her knees on the rough wooden floor, and with her elfin hands twisted the wintery metal tap which curved in a glossy, polished bend over the immaculate slick porcelain. Her fingertips muddied the delicate metal sheen as the water flooded through the tubes aperture, the icy wet bit into her smouldering fever as it poured over her impatient hand. The temperature steadily warmed as the water continued its journey into the intense bleach white. Clara pulled her sullied smock over her petite head and climbed carefully into the bath, which was enormous in comparison with her slight frame.
    The warmth flooded over her in a fervent haze, the water washed up against her ankles as it rose. She sat down in the upended dome and raised her knees to level with her eyes; raising her slender fingers once more she gently eased out the splinters stuck in her flesh. The heat soothed her wounds and massaged out her aching limbs. The water quickly took on the colour of henna paste as the mud that encapsulated her feet cleared. Clara rubbed her hands under the water then cupped them into bowls and pulled them to her face to rinse the blood sweat and tears, her lip cried out in protest as the water beat it. She sat in the bath longer, until her skin started to crease and the water became more saturated, silt began to settle at the bottom of the bath staining the brilliant white. Abruptly Clara stood, the water rushed off her crinkled skin dripping musically back into the bath, she relaxed slightly. Awkwardly she balanced on one leg raising it as high as she could manage without falling, but still only cleared the rim of the bath by a mere two inches. Her foot thudded lightly to the dark wood floor, the water pooled around her foot and she swung her other over the rim and continued to puddle the floor. She tugged the towel off the rack and wrapped its fluffy white around her child figure, catching the worst of the drips. She rubbed herself down quickly, drying her hair, and then abandoned the sodden towel on the rack, its once folded status lowered to a crumpled bundle. Clara glanced at her once-white dress picking it up, she hesitated, wrapped the towel around her shoulders so it hung loosely around her just below knee height, and walked out of the old dark wood door.
    The heat of her bath now hazy was washed away in a cool summer wind – which she hadn’t noticed until now – it buffeted her towel slightly, the heavy mass of damp bouncy black moved minutely in the slight breeze. She pulled a clean white t-shirt from the draw and wrestled with it until it surrendered, falling in a crumpled heap around her; she randomly selected a pair of blue cotton shorts without much interest, finding some underwear and getting dressed slowly. She did not want to face her mother down stairs. She wiped the blood from her lip which continued beading out little droplet that broke in to waves running down her chin staining the fresh white cotton. The mirror revealed that this was not the only fresh stain; there was a small patch of red, growing slowly, spreading from the wound on her back, seeming its way through the clean soft fabric. Clara sighed; this was going to be difficult to explain, and when a situation like this occurs – quite often now – it’s best just say nothing. Since this was all her mother wanted to talk about now, Clara had become a shy quiet girl. She was before of course, however now her quiet had sunk into silence. She looked up from the mirror, eyes burning again; and trudged without enthusiasm down the crooked wooden stairs.
    Her mother already had the first aid kit out, knowing Clara would need more than a plaster, and knowing she wouldn’t talk. Clara carefully walked over to her mother, lifting her head warily as she approached. For she knew her silence bothered her. For a split second Clara paused. Her mother was crying, more than Clara had when the rock had struck her, more than when she was pushed in the mud and nettles, more than when their cruel words stung her. More than Clara ever had. Clara swiftly looked down, guilt welling up in her chest painfully, as her mother’s tears spilled over.
    “Where are you hurt?” her voice was thick with tears that rolled gracefully in many rivulets down her face. Clara looked up again, now face to face with her mother, she reached out for the counter still looking at her mother; she pulled a tissue out of the box on the side and handed it to her mother tentatively, Concern showing through her gentle features.
    “Thank you. Where are you hurt?” again her voice was teary and vulnerable, but oddly flat; careful not to portray her true sadness the resulting tone was cold and scornful. Clara hung her head in dismissal, feeling worse than she ever has in her life. She turned her frame so she had her back to her weeping mother, and lifted her hair, she heard her mother’s muffled wince at the sight of the blood stain on her clean clothes, it must have grown considerably in her delayed walk of shame. Clara felt the soft fabric rip from her open flesh as the back of her shirt lifted past her wound; she gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut to stop from wincing and making her mother more upset. Fresh tears danced on her eyes, they broke free of her eyes and pirouetted down her cheeks as the spray stung. The stinging was soon relieved with an icy film of cream; however as soon as a plaster was placed on, the pain flicked back on like a light, but intensified everywhere the plaster touched, the slight touch burned in a coaster sized square. Clara felt familiar hands on her shoulders as they turned her, she did not raise her eyes.
    “I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me who...” her mother struggled “...if I don’t have the full story”
    “I know” Clara whispered almost mouthed, she finally looked up. Then seeing her mother’s pained expression reached up to put her arms around her, back crying out in protest at this request. They both looked up as they heard the front door open.
    “There’s my girl” Clara’s father walked into the room, sealing the wind out as he struggled to put down his briefcase and walked across the room to look at Clara.
    “Been in the wars again, little miss?” His tone was cheery but disapproving as he patted her on the head, expecting no reply.
    “Yes. She has.” Clara’s mothers tone was flat again her expression blank and staring, she and Clara had made a deal, not to worry her father, he was busy at the minute and doing well, neither of them wanted to change that.
    “Karen” he greeted, kissing her lightly. “Love you.” He added in an audible whisper.
    “Love you to. Eric, can I talk to you a minute?”
    “Yeah.” He looked questioningly at Karen confused as she walked through to the other room. Clara gave her mother a meaningful look, jerking her head to her father and shaking her head when he wasn’t looking, Karen reassuringly nodded in agreement and Clara relaxed a little.

    Nightmares
    Clara hid in her covers, her eyes where wide and dilated in the dim light which lit her room via the street lights outside her window, the coal grey irises barely visible around the edges. Her eyes were rounded naturally, but in her fragile terror they widened more so until they were almost perfectly spherical. Her thin lips appeared fuller as they parted in timid curiosity, her unwilling daydream shifted around her as if it were not just an aberration cruelly projected by her subconscious, she blinked and delirium mercifully evaded her. Gratefully she blinked her eyes to a close and in pure exhaustion fell into sleep. As her head fell more into the pillow her silky black hair billowed out from her in demonic beauty.
    But once she was in a deep enough sleep peace evaded her and the nightmare replayed itself.
    The people where are just silhouettes as they approached the crowd she appeared to be stood in. The people around her bustled and pushed but through their legs and in the gaps – for she was near the front – they all seemed panicked, like they wanted to run and hide but couldn’t figure out how. Suddenly she got to the edge, the very front; an obvious straight line rimed the crowd she stepped lightly away from this line, out of the crowd. Without the cloud of bodies interfering with her vision in their sheep-like behaviour; she could see them coming, even blacked out she knew who they were. There were six of them, all of them a little taller than her, ranging from 3 to 6 years older than her, but clearly much younger than the adults who were swarming together fleeing from the demons. Abruptly and without warning, the screaming started, ranging from shrill and painful to low bellows all breaking and gasping, equally loud and inhuman. It hurt her ears; she tried to cover them to muffle the disturbing shrieks. But her hands did nothing to cover the din and the screaming remained as the dream continued, intensifying in every single way cutting through her head and working the torment through her soul burning the memory in, a memory more painful than any reality she had ever experienced. A chorus of thuds accompanied the constant undying roar of screams in a cacophony of cruel, unharmonious music that ranged like fire in her ears and through her mind. She opened her eyes, which she had subconsciously closed, to find the source of the thuds that boomed like thunder in her head. Rocks were flying through the air as the silhouettes, who she had all but forgotten in the pain of the crowd, had come close enough for the crowd to be in danger of being hit by the many thousands of rocks that now rained from the sky. Though Clara was almost certain the demonic children where the children that tortured her waking moments in her dream they seemed supernatural. suddenly it seemed farfetched that the graceful beings encapsulated in black skin tight night could be the same people that hung her upside down in nettles, for the beings she was faced with now were stronger and faster than was humanly possible they hurled the rocks effortlessly though they were the size of Clara’s head or bigger! More impressive was the sheer speed they hurled them at made their limbs a blur of black smoke twisting effortlessly to lift the rocks and still moveing slowly forwards in an imminent path to the crowd; who were now falling like flies in an ever expanding bloody puddle that leaked out across the floor. The ever falling numbers increased as the rocks continued to fall; they smashed into people’s heads and bodies bringing the entire crowd to its knees. When the entire crowd was dying on the floor the rain of rocks stopped. Clara then realised something, though she had been standing in front of the onslaught she had not once been hit or even jostled by the falling bodies, but she did not have long to ponder this as the demonic version of the children she didn’t want to know closed in around the crowd walking over the already mutilated mush of bleeding flesh crushing the already convulsed forms that lay dead on the floor. They ringed around Clara and she suddenly saw the eyes the only thing in the silhouettes apart from the general shape that was generally human. They shifted restlessly giving meaningful looks around the circle as if signalling their final plan. The children shifted twitching like a hologram with a glitch they entwines and evaporated limbs moving into smoke as they had before in fast movement but their movement was in fact smoke. The black smog rushed in an imaginary wind around her face, cruelly howling in her ear. Abruptly Clara was watching herself her mind disembodied. She watched the demon haze collide with her pale figure; they twisted entwining with each other. The demons twisted around Clara’s body like black pulsing veins of coal running through a chalk cliff. Clara watched as her head flipped up spreading out her glossy black hair which looked just like the demons tendrils that wrapped in a tender strangle hold around her neck like liquid silk. Her eyes rolled back inside her head as the whites turned black and the red veins in her eyes pulsed in a gothic, hypnotic rhythm. Everything faded dimming back into blackness and Clara woke up screaming and crying.