"C is for Clara who wasted away"
There is true sadness to this one, how so compare to most, well it goes on the fact on how this likely to happen with children, not given the chance by adults to live. Think on this ideal only, what are the ways of a person to waste away, from no food given, skin pale and brittle, hollow eyes glazed with no hope of help to come.
Children kidnap from home, shoved down in the basement or a place, away from others to see. No care given at all, just to die, there in a room that itself has no life to live. Bare and hollow just as poor wiry hair Clara, under that sheet holds a being, skin just tightly around bones and organs stuttering to live, while ticks of bone joints twitch towards a door, or how those hollow black eyes glance upward.
Quick glance, yes there is a window, decorated in thick dark ink of night; a frown of chap lips could form words, if it didn't hurt. As the bends of her jaw hurt too much to do. If anyone was to find her, would there anything left of an unwanted child, who's history no one will know, just as her killers thought of so.
Felts of the blanket is dried with sweat, of a fever no one caught, as wrist and ankles bruised just like the rest of the body, from an executioner no one will find. This case to solve goes cold, what is left of Clara is in a less than six feet layer of dirt, with an unmarked grave.
No one will remember her, only the one who thought she was worth it to end, just like other likely before and after, gone through the years. There isn't much to her, because there isn't anything to give out, and in respect; Clara wouldn't want to be remember of a life that didn't live out, but a movement, to makes this stop.