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It was nothing new for a Fletcher to die tragically.
In fact, it was quite normal for them to suffer from "hysteria" and die in some awfully brutal way. So, it was no surprise when word got out about Clarissa Fletcher tearing her own throat out in froth of her niece and nephew. They all expected her to snap eventually—but never that soon.
Luckily for the twins, the county didn't place them in a foster home, knowing that was the last thing they would need. Instead, Sheriff Liz Forbes visited them every morning and every night, doing her best to make them feel safe enough to be in their home. But she really didn't need to—not when the best football players were sleeping on the floor of Fawkes' bedroom.
Tyler and Matt had all but moved in after Clary died. And surprisingly, Finch didn't mind. The four teenagers would carpool and someone would always be there, so neither twin was alone. Fawkes threw himself to football and school, drowning himself in homework to avoid the stark reality that awaited him when he would resurface. Finch just kind of coasted through her days, not fully there or connecting with her world.
Tyler spent a lot of time with her and for once he wasn't talking much. He was quiet, sticking to her side like glue and just being in her company. Finch appreciated that. Especially since he often fell asleep on her window seat to make sure she wasn't lonely. He did a lot more for her by just being there. Finch felt more... real when Tyler was with her. I guess she couldn't avoid calling him her friend anymore.
But now time had passed and it was time for the twins to head back to school. Which Finch was far from prepared for. Nervously, the witch ran her hands over her hair, smoothing it in a panic. A tremor forced her hand to move unsteadily and she wanted to scream. She needed to up the dosage on her anti-anxiety meds.
"Finny?" Her brother rapped his knuckles softly against the doorframe, gathering her attention. "You ready?"
Though she was listening, her eyes remained on her reflection. To be exact, on the soft blue long sleeve she wore, the bottom hem was frayed by years of use and a hole was worn into the elbow. Clary's favorite shirt. The one she promised Finch would get when she died. Neither of them knew it would be so soon. The girl winced as that thought stabbed into her head and she tore her eyes away. "Sure." She replied simply, there was nothing else to say.
Everything that Finch did felt rehearsed, as if this was simply a script and she was an actress. Which she guessed she was—pretending to feel somewhat normal, to feel like she could live. But in actuality, Finch wanted nothing more than to lock herself up in her room and rot there.
