I don't know what to say guys, sorry this took so long. School's been kicking my butt lately. I'll try to be more efficient in the future.
On Wednesday Clara was cleared to leave the hospital. Her movement was greatly limited due to the still-healing wound near her stomach, but she was able to walk on her own. Clara insisted that she didn't need looking after and refused her father's attempts to stay at her flat, but that didn't stop him from booking a room at a nearby hotel. "I don't want to be four hours away from you at a time like this," he had said. John couldn't blame him. He didn't even want to be twenty minutes away from Clara at a time like this, and he was slowly going mad with worry behind the counter of the shop.
She's fine, he told himself, she can't even leave her apartment, and if she did, where would she go? She doesn't go back to work for another couple weeks. John's inner musings didn't stop him from worrying about her though. It seemed to be a built in part of his day now. 1) Wake up. 2) Go to work. 3) Worry about Clara. 4) Go home. 5) Get into bed. 6) Worry about Clara. 7) Repeat.
He tossed around the idea of stopping by her flat tonight. He really wanted to but he also thought she might want to be alone. After all, she was back in her own apartment for the first time since the shooting. John thought about texting her then but his brain was so intent on overanalyzing the situation that he decided Clara would be annoyed by his constant nagging.
The hours passed by a lot slower after that, and by the time John's shift ended, he realized he had to see Clara before he went absolutely crazy.
It was nearing five o'clock when John parked outside Clara's building and buzzed her flat. No answer. John gave it a few minutes, figuring she wasn't moving as fast as she normally would, but after two more minutes of silence, John buzzed again. Still nothing. Before he panicked too much, he pulled out his phone and texted her.
Are you home?
In reality, he only waited three minutes for a reply, but to John it was much too long, almost an eternity. He called her. Her phone was off. John was officially starting to freak out. It's been less than twenty-four hours and something horrible has already happened. How did I manage to mess this up again?
He thought. He got back in his car and gripped the wheel, trying hard to stop his heart from coming up through his throat.
Okay, she's out, that's all. She just went to go run some errands or something. But she didn't have a car. She was also probably in some amount of pain. What in the world was she doing?
"Clara, where are you?" John said aloud. He thought about the last three days he spent in the hospital and forced himself to remember anything that might give a clue as to where she went. Of course, he still wasn't entirely sure she went anywhere. She could be asleep in her flat right now, which was an entirely plausible situation. John allowed himself to relax for about four seconds before he figured that if she actually was somewhere, and something actually was wrong, he would never forgive himself until he exhausted each and every possibility.
His brain went blank the more he tried to play detective. He was just about to get frustrated when he remembered part of a conversation he had with Dave a few days before.
"Almost to the day actually," Dave had told John about Clara's mother getting shot nine years ago. Then another memory hit him. "26 R4 SG," she had said. John was almost certain he knew what that sequence meant now. It was a long shot, but John latched onto it.
After a quick internet search, John was able to figure out where he needed to go, and thirty minutes later he was entering St. Mary's Cemetery. He had looked at a general map of the area during his internet search, but it didn't quite compare to the real thing, and he didn't know where to start.
The grounds were massive, filled with headstones of all shapes and sizes lined up neatly next to each other. Trees were spaced out at seemingly random intervals and John heard their leaves rustling in the wind as he made his way to the center of the cemetery. He noticed a few people leaving flowers next to graves, but John went unnoticed as he reached the middle of the circle that made up the center of the area. He turned in a complete circle but he couldn't see Clara from where he was standing so he decided to turn left and start out into the east side of the cemetery. He envisioned the map he saw on the internet and made his way toward Saint George's plot.
It didn't take much effort to spot her in the end; she was wearing a red coat that stood out among the green and grey. John sighed in relief and congratulated himself on his excellent detective skills, but now he was unsure of what to do. Did he make himself known, or was this an intimate moment that he wasn't supposed to interrupt? He stopped in his tracks and considered the situation for a full five minutes before his desire to talk to Clara won him over.
He walked slower than he started and made sure to step on several twigs and crunchy looking leaves so Clara would hear him before he reached her. It worked, and when he was still several feet away, Clara turned to her right and noticed him. She looked away quickly though, and wiped the cuff of her sleeve across her cheek in a rush.
John stopped walking when he was still a few feet to her right. She still didn't look at him so instead he turned his body to the grave in front of him.
ELLIE OSWALD
BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER
BORN
11th SEPTEMBER 1960
DIED
5th MARCH 2005
A sudden wave of realization hit John. Today was March 5th. Clara was visiting her mother's grave on the anniversary of her death, and John was standing there uninvited. He felt awkward. He had absolutely no idea what to do next, but he was saved when Clara spoke.
"How did you know where I was?" She asked with a small voice.
John cleared his throat. "I solved your riddle," he said without looking at her. His voice was solemn. "26 R4 SG," he sighed, "The twenty-sixth grave in row four of Saint George's plot." John glanced at her and saw Clara look at him for just a second before she looked back down.
"It's about time you figured it out," she said, obviously trying to make the situation less awkward. It almost worked until she sniffled and wiped her coat sleeve across her other cheek.
John looked at her. "Are you okay, Clara?" He asked.
"Yeah, fine," she said.
"Please don't lie to me," John said.
Clara bit her lip and looked at her shoes. "No, I suppose I'm not okay," she confessed.
"Do you want to talk about it?" John couldn't stop himself before the cliché question left his mouth. Of course she didn't want to talk about it. If she did, she'd already be talking by now, John thought, so it surprised him when Clara turned to him and spoke after a long spell of silence.
"I don't feel good," she said. It obviously wasn't the exact word she was looking for, but Clara was finding it difficult to express just exactly what she was feeling.
"You don't feel good how?" John asked.
Clara struggled to put her emotions into words. "Well I… My mum, she died because she was shot. And now with me… I guess what I mean to say is, why did I get to live, and why did she have to die? And why does my existence make me feel so awful all of a sudden?" Clara said. She sounded absolutely miserable, and she looked lost.
"There's actually a name for what you're feeling," John said. They were still standing an awkward three feet away from each other. "It's called survivor's guilt," he explained. He knew what it was called because he was fairly certain he had felt it before, though he couldn't recall the exact circumstance.
Clara let out a puff of air. "Yeah, that sounds about right," she said bitterly.
John took a step toward her. "Hey, you know none of this is your fault, right? I need you to understand that. You're a survivor, yes, but the only guilt you feel responsible for is your own creation. You've done nothing wrong except be in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Clara didn't say anything for a long time, not for lack of trying though. She just couldn't seem to get any words past the lump in her throat. Without warning she cracked and her face scrunched up and a few tears fell from her eyes. She brought her right hand up to cover her face and her left hand instinctively covered the stitches in her side.
John immediately wrapped his arms around her and she sunk forward into his chest without a second thought.
"I miss my mum," she whispered.
John didn't know what to say, so he settled for hugging her tighter. Clara was shaking and crying and John felt completely useless. He couldn't bring her mum back, he couldn't fix the bullet wound in her side, and he couldn't even stop her crying. He kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes.
"You're going to be okay, Clara, I promise. Just hold on okay? Just hold on."