Sweet Soul (Sweet Home #5)(71)

Clara frowned. I pointed to the notebook again. “Read it,” I signed. “These are the poems from my darkest times. How I felt when I was alone, when I had no one to turn to, and nowhere to go. When I felt like I couldn’t go on.”

Clara’s eyes dropped to the notepad, then flicked back to me as I rose from my seat. “I’m going to take a walk, then I’m going to come back. Please read this if you want to. Then perhaps we can talk, if you want to.”

I walked off, feeling like I was leaving a large part of my soul behind. But I kept one foot moving in front of the other, praying to God that something in that book would help her. Something, about the hell I went through, would show her she wasn’t alone.

I walked and I walked; I couldn’t stop. I walked through the busy rooms, waving at the teens who were seeking help and healing their hearts. I walked out to the covered gazebo in the yard and I sat down. I sat for as long as I possibly could. I stared at the river rushing by, cradling my hands around my waist as the wind whipped through my hair. I wondered what made it so fascinating to Clara. I wondered if it would fascinate me too, if I’d never be gifted sound. Would I spend hours wondering what it sounded like? Would I too become lost in its rhythm?

My leg started bouncing, and I couldn’t sit here anymore. Getting to my feet, guessing that a good ninety minutes had passed, I headed back into the sunroom to see Clara’s brown hair leaning back against the chair.

I approached slowly and cautiously, more out of fear of her having read my poems than how she would be. Then I heard a soft sniff. I turned to face Clara sitting on her chair, and my heart broke in two when I saw her cheeks were wet and her eyes were red.

My book was clutched to her chest, open on a page.

“Clara?” I signed. “Are you okay?”

She watched my hands, and then nodded her head. I sat down before her and she lowered the notepad, resting it on her lap.

“This one,” she signed, then patted her hand over her heart, “It is me,” she added, a tear falling from her puffy eyes. “This poem is me.”

I flicked my gaze down to the poem, and I stilled. It was the one I used to read most. The one that tore me apart. The one I’d written at the worst of Annabelle’s taunts. The one I wrote just before I succumbed to their cruelty.

“Clawed Heart,” I mouthed on seeing the scribbled title of the poem. Clara nodded her head and I watched as she started reading from the first line:

“Spears from mouths, they fire at will,

Malicious and sharp, with poison they fill.

The venom is fast, destroying the vein,

Melting the flesh, racking with pain.

Invading heat, like rivers it flows,

Eyes firmly set, the place it hurts most.

Like ink it is black, polluting the light,

The words manifest, one goal in its sight.

The skin shreds away, leaving naught but bone,

It rips away life, leaving fear on its own.

It sweeps through the mind, taking happiness and soul,

With talons like razors, it moves, dipping low.

It creeps down the neck, tears the body apart,

The darkness consumes, the last bastion: the heart.

It wraps it in vines, strangling its breath,

It pierces with needles, no beat there is left.

The blood, it runs deep, its shell empty and bare,

The claws shred and they maim, ‘til there’s nothing left there.

The darkness it smiles, the weak they can’t cope,

Then it moves to the next, to victor cruelty, not hope.”



I breathed through my nose as I saw Clara’s eyes leave the page, and she ran her fingers over the words, to victor cruelty, not hope… to victor cruelty, not hope… to victor cruelty, not hope…

She traced the words three times, then pointed to herself. My skin crawled with a feeling, the feeling of knowing. I knew what that line meant. I had lived it. Was living it still, as was she.

“Cruelty,” she signed. “That’s what they do. They use cruelty to hurt, until all hope fades away.”

“But you can fight it,” I signed, and Clara tipped her head to the side.

“Did you fight it? Have you fought it?” she asked, and I dropped my hands.

She smiled sadly, then pointed back at the last two words… not hope…

Clara stared at that poem so hard that I took the notepad and ripped out the page. Her brown eyes widened in surprise as I placed the paper on her lap. She shook her head, and went to lift her hands. I stopped them from moving, my hands over hers. She focused on my mouth. “It’s yours,” I said, and watched her read my lips.

She dipped her eyes and said, “Thank… you…” My heart filled with light as the heavenly sound of her stuttered monotone voice filled my ear.

“You’re welcome,” I mouthed back and squeezed at her hand.

I heard the sound of Lexi’s heels coming down the hallway to take me home, so I could dress for the dinner tonight.

Sitting back, I signed, “Are you okay, Clara? I have to go.”

Clara inhaled a long deep breath, then she smiled. She smiled. And it wasn’t fake or even small. She smiled showing me her teeth and she nodded her head.

She lifted the poem in her hand, then put it back down and signed, “This gives me hope. Thank you.”

I saw Lexi enter the doorway, and I got to my feet. For the first time since I started coming here, I had gotten through to Clara.