☆

CLARA SHELBY OFTEN PONDERED THE FOUNDATION OF RIGHT AND WRONG because who truly was to say what is right and what isn't? Who was to say what is wrong and what isn't. Who determined an action to be right? Who determined it to be wrong? What ridiculous systemic beliefs were integrated into a society that enabled them to be capable of distinguishing a right from a wrong?

It all seemed rather...particular.

Because what if it was deemed right to throw small children over bridges? Would people do it? As much as Clara would delight in doing so, she would have to step back and realise just to what extent the foundations of right and wrong were indeed, right or wrong.

How could one simply decide what was right and what was not? The answer is simple...they couldn't. One might try to push their ideals and their views, but that is one singular person. One person out of millions who may or may not believe differently.

To be right or wrong is a concept entirely subjected to opinion.

Clara Shelby may not hold the same premise of right or wrong in comparison to many others. She believed many things were wrong—many, many things. However, she believed many, many things were right, things such as you should live as you wish and you should love who you love. Clara backed the fact that to love was a universal event that was wholeheartedly right. That to love so deeply and frighteningly was a rightful shared human experience. She believed that love could be shared between any individuals in a variety of ways. Whether it be platonic, romantic, familial or sexual, love tied everyone together with little red strings, interconnecting and weaving with a range of others.

Love was a cycle, or perhaps a tree. It was repetitive, similar—a series of stages in need of completion. Love grew slowly and carefully, ensuring that the nature of its being was suitable between the individuals it attached to. Its roots went deep into the soul and remained there, helping to ground people to what they know and what they experience.

Clara believed that love could wither, (quite like the tree at her and Penny's spot). She believed it could rot away and leave dead roots in the soul that hurt to uproot. She believed that love could die, love was not infinite, and it could simply not last forever. Whether it falls apart through spiteful arguments or something as natural as death, love always and inevitably ended eventually.

It had to...no matter how right it may have seemed.

☆

THE SOUND OF YELLING WAS WHAT EVENTUALLY awoke Clara Shelby from her drunken slumber. It was a deep and loud voice that rattled around Clara's hungover mind and ripped any sense of peace out of reach. The girl stirred at a sudden movement beside her. She slowly opened her eyes and blinked heavily as the noise continued to reverberate around the room. Clara looked around with groggy eyes and upon seeing that she was in fact not in Watery Lane, she jolted up.

A man stood in the doorway of the bedroom, his mouth practically foaming as he spat and screamed. Clara's eyes widened as she jumped to her feet while Penny pleaded with her uncle to stop. The Shelby girl was quick to shrug on her jacket as words of hatred and disgust spewed from the man's lips. His voice broke through the dreary daze she resided in from awaking.

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU PEAKY SCUM," He bellowed, his red face narrowing as he pushed past Penny. He roughly jabbed a finger at Clara's chest as she remained still and calm, watching as he got more and more riled up from a lack of reaction. "GET OUT!"

"Is that any way to treat a guest?" Clara mused, raising a brow as she remained straight-faced. She wouldn't back down– it wasn't in her blood.

"Uncle, please, she'll leave, just stop!" Penny cried out as she tried to pull at her uncle's arm. He merely swatted her hands away. Clara looked directly into the man's eyes as he continued to spout countless profanities.

"Mr Crawford...can I call you Jim?" Clara began as she tilted her head, her lips were pursed mockingly. Her eyes narrowed.

"No...GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

"Alrigh' Jim, why don't you stop with the yelling because you're doing my fuckin' head in," Clara spoke. She kept her voice level and calm as if she were talking to a child. Penny's uncle let out an enraged yell as he suddenly grabbed Clara by the collar and shoved her back hard against the bedroom wall.

Clara's head spun from the impact as she let out a singular cough to try to ease the pain that rattled in her chest. He screamed incomprehensible words as he shook the girl against the wall. Clara glanced behind the man at Penny who shook with fear and had rogue tears streaming down her face. The Shelby girl clenched her jaw in fury at the sight. She swiftly brought her knee up towards her chest before she kicked as hard as possible, hitting the man flat in the stomach.

In shock, the man let go of the girl as he stumbled backwards, his hands clutching his stomach. Clara's feet hit the ground once more. She quickly dusted off her shirt and collar as she adjusted her coat on her. The girl looked up to see the seething man rushing toward her again, and without a second thought, she pulled her gun from her jacket. She held it steady and straight ahead of her, its metal barrel pointed directly at the man.

"One more step and I swear to GOD, I will put so many bullets in your face that even your closest family won't recognise you," Clara venomously spat, her lips drawn back into a snarl. She had made an oath many years ago that if she were to be attacked once more by any man, at all, like she had been on countless occasions before, she would not hesitate to fire the gun.

If Penny wasn't in the room, he would already be down on the ground bleeding out.

The man faltered in his steps, his eyes wide and threatening as he remained in his place. Clara loaded the gun with a soft click, her stance firm and stable as her chest rose and fell. She refused to be belittled.

"This is my last warning...get out of my house you—"

"Peaky scum? Yeah, I heard you the first time." Clara grumbled as she rolled her head.

"I've heard the rumours, I know what you are...Get out of my house, LEAVE!" James screamed. Clara's heart dropped to her stomach. "I forbid you to corrupt my niece anymore. You and your lot have already corrupted these streets, I forbid you to do the same to my house. GET OUT! GET OUT!"

Clara's jaw locked as she grabbed her boots and hat from beside the bed, her gun still trained on the man. She slowly crossed the room, her aim unwavering as she moved towards the door. Her gun brushed the man's chest as she backed out of the room steadily. She only dropped the gun to her side when she reached the stairs and ran down them. Her feet banged against the creaky stairs before she burst into the empty sweetshop and hastily left through the doors.

Clara slowed her pace as she exited out onto the streets. She yanked her hat onto her head as she kept it down, her hands tucked her gun into the holster at her side. Clara took a random turn into an alley as she angrily shoved on her boots. She let out a frustrated yell as she slammed one of her boots against the wall, her fist following it. Pain ricocheted through her fingers in a flash of fiery heat, each blood vessel pulsing and throbbing in protest. The girl clutched her hand with clenched teeth as she let out a string of loud curses.

She stretched out her fingers with a wince as blood began to blossom on the cushion of the skin of her knuckles. Clara scowled deeper and scrunched her face up while she retrieved her thrown boot and pushed her foot into it, leaving the laces loose and untied. The girl slammed her back into the wall behind her in an attempt to soothe her bubbling anger. Clara took in a deep breath as she finally realised what just happened.

They had gotten comfortable.

They had gotten caught.

Clara had drawn her gun.

She'd almost shot him.

She didn't have a problem with the last two, in fact, she would've been overjoyed to pursue the last if Penny hadn't been in the room...but Penny was in the room and Penny had tried so hard to change Clara, so hard that Clara tried to start anew.

But maybe there was no anew. Perhaps this was it. Maybe this was all Clara was destined for. Violence and anger like the rest of her family. Because every time she tried to shake things up and carve a new path, she always ended right back where she started. It was a constant cycle—a relapse of both time and habits.

Clara found herself walking home slowly, her feet dragging as her hat covered the majority of her face. Her face was blank, her eyes followed the stones beneath her not bothered to look up. People merely moved out of her way as she stormed passed them, her pounding head and countless thoughts secured absolute control over her. The sun was split into blinding segments as it peaked out from behind the usual cloud cover and smoke. It warmed her skin, leaving her to feel even more comfortable in her leaden body than she already was.

She trudged down Watery Lane, her brain craving and pleading for anything to pull her out of the miserable depths of darkness that strangled any morsel of positivity. Her feet were heavy, with each step she lugged the weight of dread and guilt. It was unavoidable, she knew that, but it didn't make it easier.

Clara let out a small sigh before she opened the door to her home, her eyes shutting briefly in preparation for the noise within the den and home. She kept on her boots as she strode into the kitchen where she had to pause at the sight of Lizzie, Esme, Pol and Tommy all looking rather tense. Esme was face to face with Tommy. Clara was too out of it to listen in to their conversation. Her brother looked at her and her dishevelled state as she walked in, while his finger raised to point at her.

"You tell them?" He asked, his voice low. Clara raised an unimpressed brow at his tone as she took off her coat. She was too tired for this.

"Bloody tell 'em what?" She grumbled as her arms folded around her torso. Tommy's eyes searched Clara's. He seemed to be looking for any indication of a lie, an indication he evidently couldn't seem to find as he turned back to talk to Esme.

"John's got a big mouth," Tommy eventually remarked,

"No, Arthur's got a big mouth." Esme cut him off, "Arthur told Linda, Linda told me."

"Polly?" Tommy's eyes flickered to his aunt and Clara before they returned to Esme.

"Read the leaflet, Tommy." Lizzie urged as she slid the paper toward him.

"Ladies," Pol eventually shifted her position and stood up straighter. "Why don't I talk to Tommy privately, and then I'll report back to you faithfully."

"You're not just gonna take payment from the Russians, are you, Tommy?" Esme snapped, "You're going to clean them out, is that right?"

Ah, they'd found out about the robbery...

"Esme," Lizzie huffed, she rolled her eyeballs at Clara who returned a small pressed smile.

"So, what happens after, when they come for us? When I'm about to give birth?" Esme questioned, her tone harsh and spiteful.

"Get out, get back to work," Tommy ordered. Clara had to honestly applaud his patience this morning, she half expected him to start yelling like he usually did nowadays.

"Esme, come on," Lizzie spoke up, her hand wrapping around Esme's arm to guide her back to the den.

"Keep us posted, won't you, sister?" Esme half-demanded, her eyes on Pol who lit a cigarette and nonchalantly smoked it.

"I will." The older woman firmly replied, her head nodding. Tommy waited for both Esme and Lizzie to clear out. Clara solemnly leaned against the wall, her head back against the brick.

"Fucking hell," Tommy cursed as he moved to sit down. "So Arthur tells Linda everything, eh?"

"She's stolen his soul and taken it to a better place." Pol joined him at the table. "The suburbs. Where men are honest with their wives." She paused. "We can trust Lizzie."

Clara's eyes bore into the floor as her mind raged a wicked storm. In all honesty, she wasn't in the mood for business. She did not want to be caught up in the business. Not that morning, not at that very minute. She'd had enough of everything and it was only ten o'clock in the morning.

"Yeah, but I can't trust Esme. I can't trust the fucking Russians to pay me or the army, and I can't trust my own brother to keep his fucking mouth shut." Tommy snapped, his eyebrows pinched together.

"Alrigh' I'm gonna go," Clara eventually huffed, drawing both Pol and Tommy's attention to her.

"No, you're going to sit and listen, because I have other matters to discuss with you." Tommy pressed, his eyes practically twitching.

"Leave her, she didn't even come back last night," Pol smirked, her eyes twinkled with mischief. Clara gritted her teeth. "She's probably tired."

"I swear to god, Pol—"

"Where were you last night?"

Clara and Tommy's answers intertwined as Pol blew out an amused cloud of smoke.

"I can't deal with this...and you," Clara pointed at Tommy. She could feel a bubble of rage rise into her throat. "You made me work on my one day off so I'm not working today, deal with it. Now, if either of you want something else, please feel free to keep your requests inside and in mind until tomorrow. It's my fucking day off!"

Clara grabbed her jacket from where she'd placed it and stormed out of the house. She shrugged back on her coat and walked back down Watery Lane. She ignored the looks and nods of respect as she passed, her teeth gritted. Her head remained down on the ground, her noisy brain stamped out any thought of any relevance. She was encased by a tsunami of whispers and unfolding chaos.

And then she heard her name.

"Clara!"

The girl faltered in her tracks and squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't deal with the voices. Not today. Not then. Clara raised a hand to her head as she covered her eyes. She heard the voice once more, louder and more urgent than before. She felt a pair of arms throw themselves around her as she flinched away. Her eyes opened in panic but before the words could escape her, she locked eyes with the culprit.

"Will?"

☆

"TWO WHISKEYS," CLARA CALLED OUT, pushing a few coins across the bar counter. The bar around her was shrouded in a smoky haze as patrons smoked to their heart's content as they nursed their 'well-deserved' drinks. She watched as the Garrison's bartender poured out the two glasses side by side. He did it carefully and slowly, which only made Clara miss the times when Harry was the bartender. He did the job quickly and precise but once Tommy took the pub, Harry had left Small Heath with a sum of money in his back pocket.

Clara took the two whiskeys from the countertop and carried them into the sectioned-off room of the Garrison— the room in which the Shelby's notoriously resided. She backed into the room as she held the glasses firm. Will sat sprawled against the benches, coal and dirt smeared across his cheeks from his morning at work. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his hair still above his shoulders to completely disregard society's fashion.

"Took you long enough," Will scolded, his hand reaching forward to take the glass. "Thought you'd got lost."

Clara huffed and sat on the seat opposite him, her body sprawled comfortably. "Impatient as ever I see," she mused as she placed her drink onto the table. 

"Well, I'm not getting any younger,"

"That you aren't," Clara agreed as she tapped her glass against Will's and drank. The two drank in unison, their eyebrows raised. "Well...how's work?"

"You're not asking me that," Will chuckled,

"What's wrong with asking you that?!"

"God, Shelby, resorting to small talk? You've gotten so boring!" the boy complained, "Next you'll be asking how my mum is and if I've been enjoying the recent weather."

"Well, what else do you want me to bloody say?" Clara scoffed, "Shagged anyone recently? Drunk at a new pub? Considered cutting your wretched hair shorter yet?"

"Yes, yes and no, never, in that exact order." Will answered swiftly, "See, that was so much better! Now you're starting to sound like you're actually from here and not bloody toff London."

"I don't sound like I'm from toff London!" the girl defended,

"Oh you definitely do, I'm half expecting you to pull out a monocle or change into some luxurious floor-length gown that you shipped in from some bloody city in France," Will mused as he sipped from his drink once more. "You need to rein in the trips and stay here for a while so I can beat you back into shape."

"I haven't seen you in weeks and you already want to beat me, I think this is going alright, seems like nothing's changed," Clara remarked, "But c'mon, how's the factory, I know I've been busy but not that busy. You haven't exactly been free either."

"The factory is the factory," Will shrugged, "I had to take more hours because Molly has it in her head that she wants to be a dressmaker in London after she leaves school." Clara smiled weakly at the mention of his little sister's dream. "And y'know mum doesn't want her to but she's my sister, if I can figure out a way to let her go, I will."

"When there's a Will, there's a way," Clara smirked, her eyes glinted in the light as she let the words slip from her mouth.

"Exactly," Will grinned. It was a familiar grin, one which Clara forgot was so comforting.

"If it comes to it, I know a dressmaker in London," the girl started carefully while images of Nadia flashed through her mind. "She works in a smaller shop with another woman, I can ask if they could take on your sister. She's nice though so I reckon she would."

"I can't ask you to do that Shelby," Will huffed as he finished his drink, "We're not a charity case."

"I bloody know that," Clara rolled her eyes, "I mean if Molly can't find anything, tell me."

Will grimaced as he finished his drink. "Enough about that anyway," he rolled his shoulders back. "You look like a mess."

"Always the gentleman," she snorted,

"Can't say I'm not honest,"

Clara hummed and placed her empty glass on the booth table. She allowed silence to settle as she pondered the happenings of her morning. It came in waves of grief, however, she couldn't find it in herself to feel any more regret. She was sure that if another ounce of regret was placed on her soul, she would surely be tipped into the deep depths of complete and utter darkness.

"Just tired," She eventually shrugged. Will hummed, his eyebrow raised knowingly. He looked as if she were spewing shite from her mouth–which, to be fair, she was. He wouldn't understand, so what would be the point of explaining?

"You still doing snow?" he asked curiously as his eyebrows knitted together. Clara glanced down toward her lap. She took a few breaths in and out before she raised her head to meet Will's gaze.

"Yes...only from time to time," Clara lied through her teeth at her friend. "Only when things get too loud or slow." Will once again looked at her with a disbelieving look. He saw right through her but the good thing about Will was that he never pushed for the truth, he allowed for her to come to him with it– which she eventually always did.

"That shit's no good for you, Shelby," Will tutted. His head shook slightly as he raised his eyebrows.

"You talk of it like you don't do it either," Clara riposted, "Hypocrisy is always a horrid look and it doesn't go well with that bloody haircut of yours."

"I do snow...never said I didn't," Will remained calm, "but I haven't done it in ages and when I did do it, it was never as much as you."

"What are you now? The voice of reason?" Clara snorted, "What? Did you find God in your soul or something, Clarke? Did you start going to church?"

"Oi don't get mad at me because it's the truth. You just don't know when to stop," Will defended, "I've seen people become addicted to this shit at the factory...it never ends well, just be bloody careful, I don't want to find you half-dead somewhere."

Clara let out a grumble but didn't respond. She had control over the snow, it did not control her. She could stop whenever she wanted to...she just didn't want to. Not when life was the way it was at that moment. Not when everything was so loud. Not when she was sure she was losing her stable footing on this earth. Not when everything was crumbling.

"I only do it time from time, I have a handle on it," Clara eventually decided aloud. She could at least attempt to cover her lies to soothe the boy's queries. "You know you make it sound like you bloody care, Will."

"Shelby, I do care," Will sighed. Clara pressed her lips together. Whilst the two were as close as siblings, they tended to keep their relationship lighthearted and childish. Will would always be the one to implement it. "Albeit not a lot and not as much as I should...but I do care."

"You've gone soft, Will," Clara cracked a small smile, "it's sad really, you should probably do something about that."

"Shut up, you adore the ground I walk on," Will sniffed, "You'd be dead a hundred times over if I wasn't here."

"Keep telling yourself that, Will," Clara shook her head with a teasing grin. "Keep telling yourself that."

☆

HELLO MY BEAUTIFUL, GORGEOUS READERS!...please don't kill me!

I know I haven't updated in a while and to be fair, I have a lot of valid excuses so let me list them for you: I had a family death, I went on holiday with my friends (and got violently sick abroad), I had a major case of writer's block and I simply hadn't enough time to write.

I'm so sorry, but I should be back to weekly updates now!

ANYWAYS, how are you guys? Catch me up, and tell me how your June and July have been!

I've missed you and I love you all loads!

I will see you soon (and I haven't forgotten your weekly meme!)