Worthless (Camren)

"You're here"

"Lauren, you can't stay in bed forever."

Lauren tore her eyes away from the ceiling to look at Clara standing in the doorway.

"I'm sick," she rasped, her voice rough from disuse.

"No, you're heartsick, which is another thing entirely," she said gently. "And I understand, I really do, but it's been four days."

Lauren turned to curl on her side, closing her eyes. "No, really, it must be some kind of virus. I have a fever and everything hurts."

"Sweetie, you can fool your dad, but I'm a nurse and a mother, remember?" There was a smile in Clara's voice and Lauren turned her head to look at her, mortified. She shrugged. "I've known you're faking all along. I've covered for you, because I get it – sometimes we just need to hide for a bit to gather strength before dealing with trouble. But too much of it doesn't help, Lauren. It's time to leave the bed."

Lauren sighed and sat up against the headboard. "I really feel sick though. Every time I think about Camila in that place... I can't breathe knowing she's being hurt." Her eyes stung again, the aching tightness in her chest familiar by now. "I didn't even manage to see her before they took her away. She must think I just left her," she said in a small voice. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about it for the last four days. "Did you know that she had an owner who used to leave her alone in a locked apartment for weeks? Camila was fourteen. She's terrified of being abandoned, I can't imagine how she's feeling now."

Despite her dad's intervention, nothing could have been done to get Camila out of the correction facility before the six weeks period was over. Such was the law, and Lauren's dad didn't have enough clout to get it bent for them. Not for the first time, Lauren wished her father would have run for Senate when he'd had the chance. Then again, with his unpopular beliefs about slavery he would never have won, and the publicity might have put their family and the business, including the slaves at the garage, at risk. Violent attacks on "liberals" who were too vocal about slave rights were hardly uncommon.

They'd spent the rest of Sunday trying all available ways to get Camila home, or even just get permission to see her, but all for naught. And as the hours had passed and the last bit of hope dissipated, Lauren had found herself in a dark cloud of despair.

She turned her face away, embarrassed about her tears, but Clara would have none of it. She entered the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, turning Lauren's head towards her with a gentle hand on her chin.

"Honey, you know it's not your fault, right?" she asked.

A little sob caught in Lauren's throat. "Of course it's my fault!" She choked out. "I bought her that stupid, easily removable collar. I left her there alone. I pissed off that guy when we first met. How can you say it's not my fault?"

Clara put her warm, soft hand on hers. "You did nothing wrong, Lauren," she said firmly. "You shouldn't have had to worry about how good the lock on Camila's collar was, or be afraid to leave her alone for five minutes. People have their slaves running errands by themselves all the time. No one has a right to touch your slave without your permission, you know that. The only one who's at fault here is that Austin boy. It's his actions that caused the whole terrible situation. Blaming yourself won't do you or Camila any good."

Lauren sniffed and reached for a tissue. Her brain knew all that, but her heart was another thing.

"Thank you, Mom," she said, squeezing her hand. "Will you let me have one last day off tomorrow? I'm not sure I can face school yet."

She sighed. "Okay. Just this once. But you're back to school on Monday, missy. And I expect you to be mostly over that 'virus' of yours by tomorrow. Your dad's starting to worry."