Shattered

Prologue

Clara sat on the windowsill, looking down at one of the many empty streets of London.

Everything looks different when it is night, she thought.

The petite seventeen year old had propped herself up by the old window, conducting her routinely daydream session with a stolen cigarette in her right hand and a half empty bottle of Jack's in her left.

She always thought looking out the window was always a lot more comforting than the wretched house she was in despite however dark and unwelcoming the street may seem at night. The floor of the house was full of broken photo frames, shattered glass, unpaid bills and magazines ripped to shreds and vases that were shattered to smithereens. And on top of the warzone lay a thick veil of dust.

The floors of the house resembled a minefield and the walls were no better, exhibiting more battle scars than wallpaper. Every step she took around the house would bring back the ugly memories that haunted her and the old, pretty ones that have ought to be the only ones to remain etched in her.

One would have never thought of such a horrid scene for the young adult but as every other broken child, she had a story. See, she was born into a lovely home with wonderful parents but the pretty picture was due to crack for nothing good ever lasts, especially happiness. Not to her, at least.

Little and young Clara had the perfect pair of parents, well, perfect in her own opinion at the very least. Her mother was a wonderful woman and her father, an accountant. She grew up in an enriching and lively environment. She had no brothers or sisters but a nanny who loved her as much as her parents did.

During the weekday mornings, her father would set out for work while her mother sat in her plush velvet chair, sewing. Her nanny would be up and about the house, tidying it and such and little Clara would be off to school to fill her inquisitive, young mind.

On weekend nights, the quartet would reside in the drawing room, having singing and storytelling sessions. At the end of these nights, her parents would retreat to bed and little Clara would be tucked into bed by her nanny. Her life was simple and quite pleasant for there were no troubles that were worth fretting too much over and there were none too major a disaster fell upon her family, at least not yet.

The greatest ill-fortune came on one of those many nights where London was graced with heavy rain. It was that very night when her mother had fallen gravely unwell and died several days later. Little Clara was devastated for she had one less storyteller for the night but soon enough, little Clara forgot almost completely of her mother for she was still a young child and had an active imagination to fill her mother's place. Her father was, of course, another story. He was a great man, but behind every great man was a great lady. And so, with the absence of his female companion, he managed to lose his job within a matter of weeks and could no longer afford a nanny for his little daughter.

His mind was almost completely out of state and every night, he had gotten himself drunk, wasting every last penny. Little Clara soon become his new punching bag seeing as she was constantly beaten up and scarred. Months later, a cruel fate fell upon Clara as her father passed away after a terrible car crash. He was drunk, the police said. The once loving and caring little Clara grew to be cynical and twisted and learned to hate her father who not only caused her despair when she was grieving the loss of her mother, but also for leaving her behind in a wicked world by herself.

Social services had picked her up then, putting her in an orphanage. No one wanted a child who was bruised, battered and so untrusting and cynical. Moreover, she had been left almost bankrupt, seeing as her father had spent a good portion of their savings for his own benefit. The people who looked after her told her that she would be able to receive full access to her accounts once she turned eighteen, but till then she was to stay put and abide by the orphanage's rules.

On unseeming nights like these, she had learned to sneak out of the compounds of the orphanage and return to the place she once called home. She'd steal what she could to ease the ache in her chest, and with precise steps, she nimbly made her way to the very window she sat on. She felt it important to remember her wretched past like as if it made her who she was today. She felt that she should remember them often to remind herself that this fate was what she really deserved.

"A few more months," she whispered. "A few more months and then I'll be free."