Work Text:
For the first time in a very, very long time, Clara was on her own. Just a day ago, her mother had died a slow and painful death in the passenger seat of a stolen car. Her father had dealt the killing blow-- it would delight him to know so, but as far as Clara knew, no one other than herself knew Mary Hatford was dead.
Perhaps, she thought distantly, she should call her uncle. Stuart would probably appreciate knowing his sister was dead. Clara could go to England, and talk to him in person. Stay for a few days until her life stopped collapsing around her-- until her feet felt steady on the ground. It was a nice fantasy, but it wouldn’t work. Men like Stuart didn’t hand out favors without expecting anything in return, and Clara couldn’t afford to be in debt to a mobster. She was alone.
Alone with the weight of the world now on one set of shoulders instead of two. She would have to adjust, to take on the role her mother was leaving behind.
Simply, she needed to get her shit together. Her mother would not stand for her weeping and grief; she would tell Clara to get a damn move on, already. Nathan was far too close, only a state over. He could find her so, so easily if Clara gave him the opportunity.
She would not hand herself over to him so easily. She would not let all of her mother’s work be for naught.
Two hours and three hijacked cars later, Clara found herself in the hair care section of a Walgreens. The looming shelves were a daunting sight without her mother beside her, as Mary was usually in charge of changing their looks. But that didn’t matter now. Clara didn't need her mom to pick her hair dye anymore.
Right now, Clara’s hair was light brown and reached just past her shoulders. It would be easiest to go dark rather than lighter. Bleach was too much of a hassle, especially if she had to do it alone. Black was the furthest shade from what she had, but it would be difficult to change again once the time came, so Clara picked a medium brown off of the shelf.
She turned on her heel toward the snack aisles, not about to dwell on such a silly decision, when something caught her eye. Next to an array of differently shaped hair brushes and brightly colored accessories was a pair of barber scissors. Clara’s hand itched toward them before she realized what she was doing. She told herself that a change in length would make her all the more unrecognizable as they fell into her basket.
It was only when she was back at her motel with 20 fewer dollars in her pocket that she realized how stupid she was. Not only did she buy a pair of over-expensive barber’s scissors instead of the cheap ones from the stationary aisle, but her plan was not to simply trim her hair but to chop it.
Idiot, she told herself as she held a lock of hair up to cut. Idiot, idiot, what would Mum say? She knew exactly what Mary Hatford would say, “Stupid girl, why do you insist on drawing attention to yourself? Just be normal.” Clara thought she was allowed to be a little strange, given the circumstances of her upbringing. Mary was dead and buried, anyway; she could not dictate Clara’s choices dorm beyond the grave.
Clara’s hand glided up closer to her scalp, about an inch away from the thin skin atop her head. All it took was a clench of the fingers, and the strands fell limp into her other hand. She looked at the clump in her hand for a moment, wondering if she was really freed from them. They drifted to the floor with fluttering grace, scattering about the ugly tiled floor.
She kept going, a knot in her chest loosening with every motion. The scissors let out a gratifying snip with each cut, and soon there was a large pile of fallen strands circling her. Her curls sprung up around her head, more defined now that they weren’t weighted down by their length.
It was not her best work, certainly. She was not used to cutting such short hair, so it was choppy and uneven, especially in the back where it was hard to see. But she looked… She looked more like the person she pictured in her head than the person she usually saw in the mirror. For the first time in her life, she didn’t flinch away from her reflection.
Mary would smack her for her vainness and remind her that one should not be proud to look like Nathan Wesninski.
Feeling her phantom hands, Clara turned away from the mirror and started mixing the dye up. Coloring hair was a simple and repetitive process, and it gave Clara permission to look in the mirror for a prolonged period. She allowed herself to take in her new appearance for the 30 minutes it took to spread the dye around, but after everything was rinsed out, she ignored the mirror on the way out of the bathroom.
It didn’t have to be a big deal, not if she didn’t make it one.
Despite Mary’s faults, Clara found herself missing her mother as she lay in bed. Usually, Mary clung to her in the night and did not loosen her clawing grasp until the sun rose. It made both of them feel safer in their sleep, knowing that the person they trusted the most was beside them.
Clara did not have that anymore. The queen bed was cold beside her, a ghost grasping at her hair and arms instead of flesh and bone. She did not sleep, although she knew she should. Despite her need for energy the next day, she couldn’t stop her whirring thoughts.
Mary’s final words repeated over and over again like some fucked up poem recitation. Clara would never forget the hurried promises Mary drew out of her with gasping breaths. Run. Never stop. Don’t let my work be for nothing. Remember what I taught you.
Well, Clara thought that was a load of bullshit. She had not asked to be taken when she was a child. Of course, she was forever grateful to be out of Nathan’s grasp, but, ultimately, she had only traded one heavy fist for another. The new one had just carried fewer knives and more psychological fuckery.
Of course, she would keep running. She would die before she let Nathan have her again, but Mary Hatford did not teach her that. She learned that much earlier on when Mary was but a haunting presence in a dark house, when Nathan was allowed to hit and stab and maim her under her mother’s watchful eye.
Mary Hatford was dealt a shitty hand, that was obvious, but she gained her confidence all too late.
Clara felt angry tears fall down her cheeks, dampening the pillow under her. She hated her father, she hated her house in Baltimore, but she did not hate her mother.
Guilt shot through her for her previous tirade. Mum did her best with the tools she was provided, Clara told herself.
Maybe that wasn’t good enough, a traitorous voice whispered.
“It was. It was,” Clara muttered.
Her hand clenched in her newly shorn hair, tearing the thoughts out forcefully. She didn’t have time to think about the past, not when Nathan was so close.
What Clara needed to do was get the hell out of California. She needed to leave her mother’s ghost and her current identity at the border and start anew.
So, she did just that.
At noon the next day, she set off toward San Francisco, where one of her mother’s contacts lived. He could provide her with everything she needed to start a new life for a couple thousand dollars. Fortunately for her, she and her mother had raided one of their caches not long ago, so Clara had more than enough to pay the guy.
She stole yet another car and arrived in the city within the hour, parking a block away from Pete’s Deli, the front for Peter Lewis’s forgery business. Her ragged clothes and sunken eyes attracted worried looks from those around her as she walked down the street, but she didn’t pay them any mind. Let them think what they want, they’ll never see her again in a few hours.
A bell and the cheery voice of a young woman greeted Clara when she walked in, but the girl quickly changed her tune when she looked up. “We’re not giving anything out today,” she said, a weary expression etched on her face. “Come back on Tuesday.”
“Nah, I’m not here for charity,” Clara responded, making her way up to the counter, “I need a number twelve. Quickly.”
There was not a number twelve on the menu, but the girl understood what Clara was asking immediately. She called for her father before skittering away to the back room.
A man appeared not seconds later, skeptical eyes landing on Clara. “You’re thinking of another shop,” he said, “we do not have a number 12.”
Clara put on her best smile, “I’m quite sure you do, sir. My mother, Mary Hatford, sent me your way.”
The man’s eyes widened, but he did not react otherwise. “Oh, yes? How do I know you are truly my old friend’s daughter?”
“Can’t you see the resemblance?” Clara taunted. Her looks came from her father, but her attitude was certainly Mary’s. “No? Not enough? Well, how about this…” She withdrew one of her mother's knives and jammed it into the wooden counter in front of her.
These sorts of men were not to be trusted; it was best that he knew she was armed before they started any business.
Lewis was not impressed, glaring at her. Nonetheless, he inspected the blade for its authenticity, then nodded.
“Very well,” he said firmly and waved for Clara to follow him upstairs.
Lewis led them through a messy apartment and into a small office that was cluttered with forgery supplies. The man sat in a chair behind his desk, but Clara refused to get comfortable. She inspected the man’s instruments, though she didn’t know what to look for. Her mother usually handled these interactions.
“Where is your mother?” the man asked softly.”
“Dead,” Clara said shortly. “I need new papers. School transcripts, a learner’s permit, contact scripts, the like.”
“I know the drill,” the man said, a forlorn look on his face. Clara couldn’t imagine that his mother and this man were very close; he had no right to look so upset about her death. “You can pay?”
Clara nearly rolled her eyes but refrained. “Well I won’t get it for free, will I? Of course I have the money.”
Lewis considered her for a moment before nodding. “Let’s get to it, then.” He said, “What shall your name be? Anything you like.”
Clara thought for a moment, gazing out of the small window opposite her. Her eyes caught on a shop across the way, Neil’s Apothecary. She didn’t know what the second word meant, but the name caught in her head. Her mouth moved before her brain did, “Neil,” she said. “I don’t care what the last name is.”
Lewis stared at her. “...Neil? That’s what you want to go with? It’s not very…”
Clara… No, Neil aimed her father’s glare at him. No, again. Neil aimed his father’s glare at the man.
It scared him into compliance. “Whatever you say, miss.”
Neil almost drew another knife right then and there, but he stopped himself. He had other things to worry about than some guy’s opinion of him.
The only other part Neil had to participate in was taking the picture. He did not smile.
In two hours, Neil held transcripts from some Californian high school, a learner’s permit, a script for contact lenses, and a birth certificate, all under the name Neil Josten. He examined them as if he knew what a good quality fake looked like, before nodding in approval.
He shoved the documents in his duffel and pulled out several bundles of cash, totaling up to about 15k. Before he could set them on Lewis’ desk, though, the man held up a hand to stop him.
“You really want to waste all that money?” he said, stepping around the desk to stand in front of Neil.
“Well, you did the work. I gotta pay you, don’t I?”
“Yes… but there are other ways,” the man sang.
There was a look in his eye that Neil hadn’t noticed before. Had there always been an undercurrent of desire, or had it just appeared? Neil stepped back toward the door. “Just take the money, man,” he said.
“C’mon sweetheart, I can give you a good time.”
Neil threw the cash on the ground and went for the door, an uncomfortable feeling buzzing on his skin. Lewis didn’t try to stop him, much to Neil’s surprise.
The daughter was back behind the counter when Neil reached the first floor, leaning against the wall and playing a game on her phone.
He glared at her, “Your dad’s a creep.”
She glared right back. “You think I don’t know that? Why do you think I’m working? I’m trying to get the hell out of here.”
Neil nodded and turned around to leave.
“Good luck,” he said without looking at her.
He heard a quiet “You too, man,” before the door closed behind him.