Sorry for the author's note, but first I would like to thank you for taking the time and interest in clicking my story. I really do appreciate it. Another thing is that due to busy schedules and homework, updates will be infrequent, but I will try my best to make sure there will not be any large, time vortex worthy gaps between updates. Sometimes I curse at myself for taking too many advanced classes.
Without further ado, I present to you:
Show Me The Stars
Clara peeled her eyes open and glanced at the clock.
5:49 AM
She let out a hefty sigh that would make the high winds proud and stared at the ceiling.
Eleven more minutes.
She spent the remainder of the time staring at the ceiling, tracing out patterns and connecting the glow-in-the-dark stars she has had since she was five with imaginary lines. Clara remembered back to when she first took an interest in the stars, back to when her mother was still alive.
"Clara! Come here for a moment." Her mother's voice rang out in the large house. Albeit the enormity of the house, her mother's presence always made it seem full and warm, never straying to the characteristic emptiness of a living space that big.
A young Clara clattered down the steps and ran past the kitchen that always sent out the warm smell of freshly baked soufflés that wafted up to her room, never failing to make her mouth water. At last, she reached where the voice resonated from: the living room. Clara spotted her mother by the sliding door that led out into the back garden. Her mother waved her over and stepped out to the open area, Clara following at her heels.
She took a seat at one of the stone benches that was sandwiched between two weeping angels. Those always made Clara sad and creeped out, to be honest. They gave out a sort of aura that made you look and not blink. Clara situated herself next to her mother.
"Look up there," Her mother said, pointing toward the vast, inky sky. "Look at the stars, Clare Bear." She sent her mother a warm smile at the use of her endearing nickname before doing as told. The smell of the roses her mother always planted tangoed through the air.
"Look at the stars and it'll make you think of all the possibilities." Her mother continued. "Whenever you're feeling down or whenever a sad spell has been cast upon that pretty little face of yours," She pinched Clara's cheeks and the little girl let out a silent giggle. "Look up. The stars'll give you hope."
The little girl looked up and tried to make sense of the glittering mess of twinkling lights. Her mother looked at her daughter and sighed. A long one that contained all the sadness in the world. Clara ripped her gaze from the stars and opened her mouth, forming a question.
Are you alright, mum?
She meant to say them, to voice her question, but, as always, nothing came out. She tried again, but not a peep sounded. Clara pouted as her mother gave her a sad smile.
"Look up, child, at the stars. Don't be sad." She wrapped her arms around her mute child. It was a psychological thing, the doctors told her. Time would fix it, others would say as if they were talking about some machine. But this mute little creature beside her was not a machine. She her was her daughter.
Her mother tucked a strand of hair behind Clara's ear and leaned down to whisper something into her ear that would stick to her for the rest of Clara's life, that would go beyond her mother's death.
Look at the stars.
Her mother never really did give up on her. She sat down with Clara every day and helped her learn how to form words so that whenever she did get her voice, she would be ready. Each and every single day, her mother also taught her how to sign.
The first words that she signed to her mother brought the young woman to tears.
THANK YOU.
Her mother always looked forward to the day she would be able to hear her daughter's voice, but the day Clara learned how to speak was also the day her mother was ripped from her arms.
Fifteen year old Clara perused through the books at her town's library. The smell of dust, old books, and a slight hint of petrichor welcomed her like a blanket. She was in her little corner where it was the quietest and she was mouthing the words to her favourite book, The Odyssey, when she heard someone read out the exact part she was at. She jumped out of her skin and looked around, bewildered. It took her a moment to realize that the feminine voice that read out was her. Clara tested it out to make sure. She remembered the first few words she had learned to sign and voiced them.
"Thank-" A breath here. "You." Her voice was raspy, as if she had a really sore throat, but hers all the same. A smile split its way to her face.
"Thank-you." Glee sparked at her eyes. She tried again.
"Thank you." No pause. No breath in between.
She could speak.
Clara carefully shoved the book back in its respective place and dashed out, the librarian she had come to know that could be considered an aunt warning her to be careful. But when she came home, the smell of freshly baked souffés did not greet her. Nor did the warm blanket of a mother's love surround her when she entered the estate. All that greeted her was a cold quietness that shook Clara down to her bones. An icy feeling clambered its way up her spine.
"Clara?" Her father's voice sounded oddly distraught. "It that you?"
He appeared at the threshold. One look at him and she knew. She knew.
He shook his head.
"She's gone."
The epitaph of her mother's grave stone were the very words Clara first spoke, a quote from Odysseus himself.
"Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier. . ."
The blaring siren that was her alarm broke Clara from her reverie. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Clara wiped roughly at face as she got up and headed for the shower.
A car crash. A bloody car crash, they said. A driver who was drunk off his arse had slammed into her mum's car. They said the brake broke so the driver couldn't stop and crashed her into a tree. The drunk driver had apologized profusely and had taken care of the costs, as if he could just buy his forgiveness.
Did he really think that a few apologies and money can heal the damage of losing a mother? If it hadn't been for him, Clara still would have had a mother. She still would have had a father.
After her mother's death, he distanced away from her, claiming that she looked too much like her mother it pained him. This fired her feisty spirit and got bangs, just like her mother as a spur of the moment bugger off. But it was useless because he never saw her anyways.
Clara turned on her hair dryer and the loud roar of air being expelled from the rather large appliance drowned out her thoughts like a man drowning out in the sea. First the panic and then the calm.
She pointed it at the mirror to evaporate the steam that had collected from her hot shower. Slowly but surely, Clara began to see her reflection. It was like peeling an onion. You have to peel back all the layers that made it look pretty until you get to the raw center that puts tears in your eyes.
How pitiful I look.
Once all the steam had cleared up and warm air, rather than the cold gust she got when she had first switched it on, expelled itself from the appliance, Clara started drying off her hair. A feat that required a good ten minutes to get from soaking to damp. She knew it would have been easier if she had just toweled it off first, but then it would just tangle her hair even further into the the dreaded knots that put tears in her eyes when she tried to untangle her hair.
Clara switched the hair appliance off when she was satisfied with her hair and padded into her conjoining room. The soft carpet, which she vacuumed and cleaned herself despite the protests from the maid, felt comforting underneath her feet. It grounded her to the Earth, keeping her from floating off amongst the stars.
Once she had finished with everything, she quietly made her way down the stairs. Clara steeled herself before looking up. Having to look at the back garden was inevitable because the stairs faced it.
The roses that her mother had so lovingly planted had withered long ago and all that was left were bushed of thorns that would not hesitate to draw blood if you got too close to them. Clara and their maid had tried to replant them, but they never bloomed. It just wasn't the same without her mother. The weeping angels that sandwiched the stone bench like book ends were dilapidated and grimy, chunks of stone were missing here and there from the day her father, her sweet, loving father, had gone on a rampage after her mother had died. He would have torched the now thorn bushes had Clara gotten home a second later. He had seen her watching through the glass door and looked ashamed for a second, before the cold skeleton of what was left of her father snapped back in. He had put down the gasoline tank and brushed past her as if he weren't about to set fire to one of the only remnants of her mother.
Clara rushed through the living room as quietly as she could and waited until the maid had her back turned before running to the front door. As she stepped out into the cold air, the door closed behind her with a small click. She took a deep breath as the chilly autumn air nipped at her exposed skin. She smiled at the pleasant feeling and set off.
Clara stepped into the café she always stopped by before school and was greeted with the smell of freshly brewed coffee and nearly gagged.
I hate coffee.
Not only was she greeted by the nauseating smell of coffee, but of the hullos of the students that attended her school. She gave each individual a cheery smile and a hullo back. Clara inwardly sighed.
You could say that Clara was popular, a sweet smiled, bubbly one, even, but that didn't mean she liked it. She had to sit at their everyday lunch table and listen to them rant about how they were failing classes because the teachers 'hated' them. Clara knew full well that they could get by with a fairly passing mark if they had just done the homework, but she just smiled and agreed with them when they ranted to her. She also had to stand by while they bullied the other 'less-popular' students when all she wanted was to gather their victims of the day into her arms and tell them that it wasn't true, that they were the most perfect human beings that ever walked the Earth. Clara made the mistake of letting it slip that she didn't like it when they did this while she was at the table and had been told that she was too soft-hearted. "Too sympathetic it was almost pathetic," followed by a squeal about the sentence rhyming. Clara inwardly cringed at the memory of the high-pitched squeal that almost took her ears out.
Clara wondered why she stayed in their clique sometimes, even though she knew fully well why. They gave her security; they stayed at a constant, even though their constant involved a flurry of gossip, makeup, and gossip. Oops, had she mentioned gossip twice?
But back to her point, they always stayed at a constant and the only thing that changed were the trends they followed. They always drilled these said trends into her, reminding her that to be a 'good' popular, you've got to follow the trends. Lattes and espressos, in. Being nice to the people she was supposed to be bullying, out. She always followed all the other trends they told her, but one thing she will never do is bully another. The thought of causing someone other than herself pain horrified her.
It was her turn to order but she paused before voicing it. She considered ordering a cotton candy frappuccino, which was non-caffeinated, a thought that made her heart race. Actually going against the 'trend' and saying to hell with coffee? The thought made her smile queasily.
You know what? To hell with them.
She was going to do it, but all that came out of her mouth was a squeak telling the barista, "One espresso, please."
"Clara!" The barista's voice called out. She picked up her -espresso- with shaking hands, as if it were a china doll. This cup of coffee practically represented her security. Her constant.
She could just throw it out and ask for what she really wanted, a cotton candy frappuccino, but at the cost of losing her security. Not to mention being berated about the trends.
The thought of trends made Clara shudder. So what, if she didn't follow the trends? She was her own person, and she could do whatever she wanted. Just as she reached over to throw her dreaded coffee away, she turned back and headed towards their table.
Clara always headed to school earlier than the others to walk in the peaceful silence. The slight wind sent prickles all over her skin that elated her heart, despite of what has been shoved upon her.
"Hey, Clara!" A girl from their table, Isabella Torres, squeaked out. Everyone at the table turned and looked. They all greeted her with enthusiasm rating from Isabella's to looking at yesterday's rotten lettuce. Clara cocked her head as she took a seat beside Isabella, the only girl from the group that she actually liked.
This wasn't normal.
Even though they usually taunted her with her 'soft-hardheartedness,' she knew everybody took a liking to her.
"We just can't resist it!" They had told her all that while ago which was followed with a pinch to the cheek because she was just "too adorbs!" The football team who were also apart of the group said she was 'pretty chill' with the side comment of being 'bangable.'
"Is there something wrong?" Clara asked. They looked at her and then shared a glance.
Tell her, it practically squealed. A girl to her right, Bessie Gavantis, sighed.
"Well," She paused, rubbing a thumb over her pink nails. "There's this boy who is, like, so nerdy," She emphasized this with a rolling of her eyes. "And really, he sort of thinks he's better than us." She said this as if it were the most insulting thing in the world. As if on cue, they all looked offended, but they all they looked like was constipated.
He isn't that far off. Spot on, even.
She answered with a cock of her head, "Is that what you lot are so down about?" She faked a look of sympathy.
"You shouldn't worry," She continued, fake sympathy practically dribbling out of her small mouth. "You guys are the best!" All their faces softened on cue. Good thing the football team was at practice because the girls would made them pull all these expressions and just the thought of it almost made her sympathetic mask break. One thing she can count on the guys to do: Make her laugh regardless of the situation.
"Awww! Even though that is, like, totally sweet," The girl, Christie Jarvis, gushed. "It's not enough." She deadpanned with a few shakes of her head that made Clara fear it might fall off.
Well to hell with you, too.
"We need your help!" Bessie said. Clara's question of why? trickled onto her lips, but before she could get a drop of it out, Ellie Pickip, the all around 'leader' of the group, spoke up-
A shove from behind reeled her back from the flashback, causing her to drop her books. A pout was set upon her lips as she looked at the boy who had caused this.
"I am so, so sorry!" The boy exclaimed.
He scrambled to gather her belongings as she bent down to help. As she lay a hand on his shoulder to tell him it was okay and to calm down, he jumped, causing his head to slam into hers.
"Could've done without that in the morning, thank you." She remarked jokingly. The boy's eyes widened.
"I am so, so sorry!" He exclaimed once again. "I startle really easily and-"
"Hey," He started fussing over her, mumbling to himself about concussions. "Hey! Calm down. . ." She grappled for his name, but she just couldn't place him.
"I go by the 'Doctor,'" He enlightened her. "Listen, I am so sorry, I didn't mean. . ." His words faded away in Clara's mind.
"His name is John Smith, but he goes by the 'Doctor.'"
Clara felt queasy.
Ican'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan't
"Are you okay?" He looked into her eyes. Clara noted that his eyes sparkled with the excitement of a bunny and the mischief of an eight year old who had just hit his pyro phase.
Ican'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan't
"Helloo?" He started to shake her, snapping her out of her daze.
"What?" Her books were situated in his lap. "Oh, thank you," She breathed out. They stared at each other, not quite knowing what to say. The Doctor suddenly shot up in a way that made Clara chuckle.
"Watch out Chin Boy, you might put an eye out with that thing," Clara joked as she rose up, trying to keep her thoughts at bay. He was taller than she expected. The Doctor flushed at this.
His face looked familiar. Clara's eyebrows scrunched together and her head cocked to the side as the thought came to her.
How can he look so familiar?
"I'm the Doctor." He reintroduced himself, shoving his hand forward. "I'm in your AP Human Geography class." He shook their hands vigorously.
Eureka.
He glanced at his watch, looking alarmed.
"A class we're going to be late for if we don't scurry along." Clara's head cocked at this.
How had time gone by so fast?
"The bell for passing period just rang. Come along!" He started power walking but stopped when he realized Clara was still rooted to the spot. The Doctor heaved a sigh and grabbed her hand, tugging her along. Clara stumbled, not being able to keep up with his large strides.
"Wait! Stop! I can't walk this fast!" Her cries were met with deaf ears.
"Come along! Can't be late!" It was nearly impossible, but he went even faster.
When they finally made it to class, Clara was breathless. Every head turned towards them and took in their appearances. Well, Clara's to be exact. Her hair was a bit messy and she knew her face had turned red. She knew what this looked like to the other students and the fact that he was still holding her hand did not help a bit.
They think we made out. Great.
The damn bugger was still grinning and didn't look a tiny bit breathless. He moved along to his seat in front and Clara herself headed towards the back where her normal seat was. Except someone else had taken her seat. A certain someone with a cheshire smile that looked so smug Clara wanted to wipe it off her face.
With a shovel.
One of Ellie's cronies, who was fairly smart, had taken her seat and the only seat vacant was next to the Doctor.
I-can't-I-can't-I-can't.
As she settled herself into the empty seat, the Doctor gently placed Clara's books on top of the desk, trying not to drop them. She sent a wavering smile his way and he grinned back.
Ican'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan't
Clara nearly sobbed, but she held up her front.
"Good morning, class!" Their teacher, Ms. Blainer, sang, breezing through the door.
Clara spent most of the class period in her own little world, drawing in her notebook. Today they were learning about the Demographic Transition Model.
There are four stages: Low growth, high growth, moderate growth, and then low growth again. Then there's the emerging fifth stage where everyone is basically screwed since the population declines because the natural increase rate hits zero.
During Clara's zoned out state, she had let her hand run freely, but as she focused down on what she drew, her heart started to pound. She mentally cursed at her hand.
Her hand had drawn rose bushes and a stone bench sandwiched between two weeping angels that were still in tact. At the foot of the bench was a small figure with long, chestnut hair who had her head resting on the bench, crying. It was her, one year ago, at the one time she had let herself go. She could still hear her heart wrenching sobs echoing in the darkest recesses of her mind.
Clara had been holding up fairly well for someone who lost their mother. She tried to hobble along life with the living memory of her mother in her heart, listening to whatever the therapist told her to do. The day was dying down and headed into Clara's favourite time of the day: the transition of twilight into dusk. She loved the rich shades of blue the sky projected. It was also when the stars started to become visible.
Clara was marveling in the shades of blue in the sky when she passed by a 24/7 cafe. It was around this time that they started baking more of their delectable goodies, the smell of butter and whatever concoction they were crafting that night wafting out into the street, inviting the passersby the come in and take a look. The smell hit her like a ray from a phaser that was set to stun.
She stopped in the middle of the street, earning dirty looks from the pedestrians behind her. The pushed past her, but Clara stayed rooted to the spot. The smell that she had practically grown up with. The smell that was now long gone from her household. The smell of freshly baked soufflés.
Tears filled her eyes but she forced one foot in front of the other.
Left-right-left-right
It was like a mantra in her head. When she opened the door, the smell washed over her and a young version of her rushed past her, into the arms of her mother. The walls of their once lively kitchen clicked into Clara's view, like a ghost of a memory.
"How was school today, Clare Bear?" She cooed at her daughter. An excited eight year old who was quite small for her age signed to her mother eagerly.
A BOY TOLD ME HE HAD A CRUSH ON ME.
"Hmm. . . Don't you be getting boyfriends so early!" Her mother joked.
NOT MY BOYFRIEND. ONLY FRIEND.
"Well, he's a boy, and he's your friend. So he's your boyfried." Her mother laughed as Clara pouted.
"What's this I hear about you getting a boyfriend?" Her father swooped in and gave Clara a kiss on the cheek.
"Leaving us already?" He laughed with mirth, his eyes crinkling at the corners. A sharp ding filled the air and her mother let out an exclamation.
"Hold Clara, the soufflé is done!" Her mother sang. Her father let out a cheer and young Clara's mouth watered at the sight of the perfect soufflé in her mother's hands.
ONE DAY, I WILL BAKE THE PERFECT SOUFFLÉ. FOR YOU TWO.
"Looking forward to it, Clare Bear." Her father kissed the top of her forehead as her mother set the soufflé on the table.
The café door slammed into her back, the kitchen dissolving from her view. Tears were in her eyes as she approached the display case, soufflés lined up like little army men. And just like that her resolve began to cave in like smushed cake. Like a smushed soufflé.
Clara rushed out of the café, trying to see through her tears. She rushed across the street, receiving honks from angry drivers. At last she reached her front door. She blew past the living room and into the back garden.
"Look at the stars, Clara,and it'll make you think of all the possibilities."
The words taunted her, echoing back and forth, ricocheting in her mind. Her heart pounded and a scream erupted itself through her lips. Clara screamed at the sky, at the stars. They were a reminder of what had been so brutally ripped away from her. She continued to scream until nothing but a weak groan came out, until she had lost her voice. She collapsed onto the flow and wept enough tears to put the two weeping angels beside her to shame.
Clara remember how it was being mute, not being to speak your voice, and the only thing she ever wanted was to hear her voice, but now all she wanted to do was rip it out, however impossible it may be. She didn't want her voice anymore, not if the only person she ever wanted to speak to was dead.
Tears welled up in her eyes, making them shine. The teacher's voice penetrated her rising panic.
". . . Partner project where you have to write a report and make a three dimensional model of the Demographic Transition Model. . ."
"The partners are. . ."
"Amy and Rose. . . Jack and Ianto. . . Wilfred and Donna. . ."
Clara's heart thudded. She was close to her snapping point. She was pretty sure she was shaking.
How can you do this? There's something wrong with you. You're going against what you held yourself to!
". . . Dean and Castiel. . ."
The weight of her decision along with her flashback shook her to the core. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore.
"Clara and-"
She ripped out of her seat and out of the classroom. She had to run, she needed to move. At least then she could leave everything behind and just run. Because ever since that day, when her resolve caved in, she never looked at the stars again.