Troubled
Claire
An intolerable ringing snapped Claire to attention and she woke almost on contact with the dresser as her head reeled forward. The large face of the clock glared at her, arms almost touching in a reverent close of chapter. Six thirty. A cold film of sweat settled like bathwater beneath Claire's body. The air smelt like fabric, thick and woolly, trapping the heat like a sponge. The hazy dust of her room flew like flies, as if escaping from a terrible nightmare.
Lately, she hadn't been sleeping well at all. It wasn't so much the nightmares – no, those were controllable and often forgettable – it was the time when she woke up after being chased by some strange inhuman creature or dreaming about being licked by flames. Sometimes it would be so quiet that Claire almost felt compelled to scream. And although there was no sound, there would always be whispers inside her head. Muttering, incoherent words, signs, languages that left her awake for hours afterwards. And the darkness. As if eclipsed by a black death sheet, the sky remained stoic and unmoving, bottled in darkness.
"Claire!" Her mother's voice travelled up the stairs. "Claire, your breakfast is ready!" – a pause, and then quieter, with more anxiety – "Lyle, can you please get your sister, she's going to be late for school."
"Mom, I'm coming!" Wiping her face on the sleeve of her pyjamas, she got dressed and tried to fit back into the routine she had fixed for herself for the past eight years.
"Mom's getting really mad." Lyle met her at the stairs, almost gloating with schaedenfreude. Claire caught her breath, slammed the palm of her hand into Lyle's chest, but he twisted away by reflex, and instead she caught the edge of the stair banner. She raised her hand to her face. A sharp, raised, horizontal streak of blood throbbed heavily. She looked at her brother, his face so young, so carefree. Long hair in his face, eyes just like hers, but no, they weren't really brother and sister, just two children growing up together. He was never to be like her. He opened his mouth to say something as he saw the tears form in the corner of her eyes but she spoke first.
"Shut up."
"No time for breakfast!" Screeched Mrs. Bennet. She scooped up Mr. Muggles with her left hand and began pushing Claire out the door. "You are so late, young lady. Your father's already waiting in the car. I'll see you after school, and we are going to talk. This won't do."
"Whatever, mom." Claire muttered under her breath. As she caught her mother's face through a side-glance, she instantly regretted it. Mrs. Bennet's face crumpled up and she hugged Mr. Muggles tighter to her as if for protection. Oh, Claire knew her mother pretended to be a tight-assed, stupid little dog freak/lover, but what she really was was another matter entirely.
"What?" Mrs. Bennet whispered. Her daughter, half out the door, with her blonde hair like gossamer across her face, the one she had brought up for thirteen years. The one she had wished for so, so much. When Noah finally brought her home that day she cried with relief. Such beautiful blue eyes. Such innocent oblivion to the destructive world around her. What happened to you, Claire? She swallowed her words and began to close the door. "Go to school."