TROUBLE - peaky blinders

54. seven, eight, nine,

☆

THE GRACE SHELBY INSTITUTE FOR ORPHANED CHILDREN stood firm amongst the masses that flocked to its threshold. Clara sat in the passenger seat of her car, her arms folded tightly and uncomfortably as they pulled into a parking spot. Pol had been the one to remind her of the glorified opening day and Will was the one who had actually gotten her to leave Watery Lane. The boy looked over at her from the wheel, his eyes cautiously searching her distant look.

"Shelby?"

The girl hummed and turned to face her best friend. His eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned the emotionless expression on her face.

"You don't have to go in, just say the word and we can get out of here," Will spoke. He spoke as if she were a child, one who was about to start their first day of school or make their first friends. "I'll even take the fall for it." The girl's eyes drifted from Will as the Shelby family walked in unison towards the doors.

"There goes the king and all the king's men," she murmured absently, her eyes following her family as they gathered for a picture. Everyone had dressed for the occasion in their finest clothing. Her nephews and nieces were running rings around the adults, ducking in and out of legs as they scrambled to the front of the picture. Her brothers all adorned hats, not the razor-edged kind that Clara had grown accustomed to but rounded fedoras, something so unfamiliar to see. Will ran a tongue over his bottom lip as they remained in the car.

"I mean it, Clara...look at me," He urged, she could even hear an ounce of pleading in his tone. "You don't have to go in. I wouldn't blame you. They've put you through so much shit recently, and quite frankly I believe think they deserve to be around you."

"They're my family, Will," Clara sighed, "besides, I think Pol would crucify me and hang me before the praying masses if we left." She had tried to ignore the gnawing feeling in her stomach and mind, one which had frequently wracked her body and provided the endless urge to indulge in her beloved white powder—her saving grace.

Today was a bad day, she could feel it clearly now.

"Scale of one to ten," Will asked, his voice low and stern. The Clarke boy seemed to have grown up significantly in a matter of weeks, ever since he'd received that phone call on the fateful night Clara had overdosed, gone was childish Will, now replaced with William— a friend who had gone far beyond the worry a human could cope with. He had been with her almost every day, and on the days he wasn't, he would call and she would answer. He helped her through her withdrawals, often staying the night in her room, sleeping on the cold wooden floor beside her bed as the girl shivered and shook and cried and begged for him to give her some snow.

Those nights had become recurrent, usually a byproduct of days where Clara was overwhelmed with the world and of nights where nightmares plagued her brittle mind.