Part One: Chapter Four

August 3, 1984

Sara sat quietly on her bed, staring absentmindedly at the cover of the book she just finished reading. "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" were the words imprinted in gold foil upon the dusty cover. It was one of the books Clara (As she had instructed Sara to call her) had given her. Sara had taken it, eagerly, remembering one of the things Clara had said. Clara had made a pointed statement when handing it to her "You should read this, I think you'd make a fine detective one day Sara."

Still gazing at the cover, running a single finger along the golden words, Sara thought of Clara, her one true friend. Ever since that one night, Sara went up to Clara's home any time she felt down on her luck or just longing for a chat. Clara became steadily more eager for Sara's visits and almost every time Sara came, she had a small stack of new books waiting for her.

Their visits mainly went in a sort of schedule. Sara would arrive, and Clara would show her upstairs. They would sit at the kitchen table and talk about life below, sometimes Sara cried, something she hadn't done in front of people for years. When they had finished eating some of the sandwiches or whatever else Clara sat out, Sara would take the books and go back downstairs. Some days when Clara was feeling particularly worn out, Sara would go for a quick cleaning sweep around the house, spraying disinfectant here, scrubbing off cat puke here.

It went that way for four months. Sara could still remember one visit clearer than any other in her vault of cherished memories.


"Hello Sara!" Clara cried when the door opened.

Sara waved, smile on her face, and stepped forward onto the staircase. Sara had long since perfected the art of ignoring the foul smell in the house, for it still lingered no matter how much she seemed to clean. When they entered the kitchen a platter of chocolate chip cookies was set out in the middle of the table along with a couple glasses of cool milk.

Sara grinned at the sight of the sweets and sat down at once. Clara followed stiffly, hunched over in arthritic pain. Sara began swinging her legs underneath the seat as she had done on her first visit.

"You can go ahead and eat those cookies Sara." Clara mumbled, wincing in pain as she sat down in the opposite chair. "I dare say, you need to get some meat on your bones." The old woman chuckled. Sara, no matter how much she seemed to chow down on, remained skinny as a starved horse, barely more than skin and bones.

Sara picked up a cookie gingerly and began to nibble slowly at it. Clara watched her eat, vague smile on her face. Then suddenly, she sprang into a fit of coughs, wheezing and hacking like her cats whenever they had a hairball.

"Clara?" Sara questioned nervously as Clara shook with the coughs.

"Oh it's nothing Sara, just an old woman getting a bit down on her health. There's nothing you need to worry about, it's only a cold."

Sara looked back down at the cookie she held in her hand and took another tiny bite.

"Sara,"

"Yes?"

"Do you remember your first visit here?"

"Do I ever!" Sara beamed in thought of the memory.

Clara chuckled, only to burst into another fit of fierce coughing. When the coughs cleared, she spoke again.

"Do you remember when I told you death was something you needed to face sooner or later?"

Sara was silent and gazed down to her feet where Oliver was pawing at her shoelaces.

"Yes, I remember." She looked back up and took another bite of her cookie.

"I think it's best time you start to turn around and face it." Clara muttered, clearing her throat.

Sara dropped her cookie onto her plate with a clatter.

"But…Clara," Her eyes widened with a sudden realization. "But that…No! No, you can't! You're my only friend!"

"I think it's best time you start finding friends your own age, not eighty-year-old widows."

"But Clara!"

"I've got one final book for you my dear." the old woman interrupted. She struggled to stand then shuffled out of the room towards the bedroom. Sara sat stock still on the chair in complete disbelief. Clara was going to die soon, the woman knew it, and she was making sure Sara knew it too so she wasn't surprised when she finally snuffed it. Well she sure was sure surprised now, no matter how easily Clara tried to put it..

The old woman came back out of the room, carrying a book under her arm.

"Here you go," She held out the book to Sara who took it grimly. "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. He's a detective. He solves mysteries." She smiled tenderly. "You should read it. I think you'd make a fine detective one day Sara."


That had been their very last visit. Clara had passed away in her sleep that very night. Sara had stood by the doorway as a team of people took the old woman out in a black bag. Clara was 80 years old when she passed away, July 30, 1984. There was no funeral. She had no family. Sara's parents refused to pay for any sort of proper farewell. That night Sara sat in her room, cried, and prayed for Clara, that she was happy, and that she, herself, would make it through without her guidance.

A single tear dropped onto the book and Sara wiped it off with her hand, the remaining liquid causing the cover to shimmer. Biting her lip angrily, she made to fling the book off the bed. She stopped mid-throw and set the book down gently on the floor. All the new books she had received from Clarabelle, she couldn't possibly damage any of them.

She lay back onto her bed and sighed heavily. Her only friend in the entire world was now dead, had been dead for four days. How was she supposed to survive? There was hardly ever a night her father wasn't drunk anymore. Ever since he was fired, they had been on stuck on welfare, Laura and Jim scrambling for temporary jobs to put food on the table, both managing to get fired every other week.

Sara reached over behind her head and pulled out her pillow, stuffing it into her face as she screamed her frustration out into the muffling feather cushion. She let her hands flop to either side of the bed in a small moment of defeat. What, had she actually expected screaming into the pillow would make everything go away? Of course not.

Nothing she did would ever make it go away. She could never just pinch herself, turn five again, and change everything for the better. She couldn't just go up to her mom and dad, sit them down, tell them to stop fighting, to get jobs, and love each other again. She had long ago learned life didn't work like that.

A sudden crash brought Sara out of her aggravation and she sat up on the bed. Great, they were fighting again. They had already argued today, there was no point in them doing it more than once. She pushed the pillow off her head and put two feet on the ground. A sudden growling in her stomach amidst the shouts and crashes filled her with thoughts of a nice sandwich for dinner. She made a beeline for the kitchen and pulled out some bread, peanut butter, and jelly. Not much of a dinner, but it was really all they had.

She grabbed a butter knife from the drawer and began spreading peanut butter over a slice of bread. Sara then reached for the jelly, but something caught slightly out of the ordinary caught her eye. The knife holder that sat on the counter was missing a knife.

"What the…" Sara mumbled, reaching a finger out to touch the empty hole. "Maybe it's in the sink…" She glanced over at the drainer to find nothing there but a couple of glasses from lunch earlier that day. "Where—" But Sara's words were interrupted when a sudden scream of fear and a sudden grunt of pain sent her head whipping around to through a fleeting look down the hallway towards her parents bedroom.

"No…" she moaned aloud. She ran over to the master bedrooms doorway and frantically jiggled at the doorknob. It finally released and she stepped into the room, hoping against hope what she was suspecting was mere speculation. The first thing she did when she entered the room was scream. Not the aggravated scream she had uttered earlier, this time it was a scream of complete fear, shock, disbelief, and utmost astonishment.

Blood was all over the walls, and her mother lay kneeling next to a still Jim, sobbing and shaking, repeating the same words over and over again, "You don't love me…you don't love me…you don't love me…"

Sara's hands were over her mouth and she could feel vomit attempting to creep its way out. Her father's body lay on the ground, splayed out, blood soaking his white t-shirt as it leaked from a large wound in his chest. A bloody steak knife lay on the ground beside him, now steadily becoming engulfed in a pool of his blood.

"Mom…" Sara squeaked, shaky hand gripping onto the doorknob for support.

"I'm sorry Sara. I'm so, soverysorry."

End of Part One