House Of Legions (The Angel Descendants book 1)

Chapter 2 (Clare)

It wasn’t as bad as not remembering the first ten years of her life, so she always said, “If I can handle not knowing, I can handle anything.”

She thought back to when her mother started rambling about how some time away from ‘London’s cold’ would be great. Just the thought of it stirred up her anger at how foolish she was for the lack of concern. Clare presumed her mother was blowing off steam, or some psychological bullshit after whatever happened to her. Fearing it was rape Flare could only hope not, because she’d seen the after effect, especially on people like her mother, who liked control. A shudder went through her at the vision of her mother ending up like her friend Stacy’s.

What Clare couldn’t understand about the whole ordeal was what was so damn important that she had to drop school and leave straight away, two weeks before her interview with Oxford University. That was what stayed on her mind, unsolved as she finally drifted off.

***

Clare open her sleep filled eyes. Her stiff neck begging to be stretched as her lower back felt like it was run over by a train, leaving her groaning in discomfort. Lifting her head, a wave of lead greeted her before the constant pound of drumming made her want to drill a nail in her skull and dig her brain out. Talk about an alcohol free hangover.

Side effects of awkward sleeping, ‘shit,’ she swore inwardly. She scrunched her face and slowly straightened her long legs.

Five minutes into stretching her body on the sofa she felt great. Well not that great but totally what she needed.

“Honey,”

Clare squealed before falling side first to the tiled floor, “Jesus, mom, just scare the sleep right outta me, don’t ya.”

Michelle’s only response was the quirk of her brow and the tilt of her lip. Comfortably leaning against the door jamb, she waited until Clare finally got up off the floor, no doubt frowning. Flagging a menu in her hand, Michelle shook her head on an exhale, “Just thought you were hungry.”

Clare looked at the woman who had supposedly given birth to her. And it wasn’t the first time that she had really looked at her mother. The light powder blue eyes so different to Clare’s green emeralds, yet almost identical to Phillip’s, Clare’s friend, looked back at her.

Now, the slacks were normal, but the straight black hair tied by Chinese forks on the top of her mother’s head could mean either two things- they were getting a visitor, or the visitor was her mother. Judging from the flushed freckles on Michelle’s cheeks and the slight frown to her brow, Clare figured neither. Her mother had already been the visitor. Which meant that she must’ve slept for hours, no wonder her body felt like hell all over.

Her mother straightened her stance; of course doing it in a timeless grace and elegance that was an innate part of her, something that Clare herself couldn’t even feign. It was somehow ingrained in her to wear boots and always choose practicality over fashion. Unfortunately there was no way of confirming how true that assessment of hers was, memory loss and all.

Michelle normally dressed for comfort herself, with loose slacks or chinos. She never showed too much skin even though she was five foot eleven and fit comfortably in a European eight. That night which changed everything was the exception. The one and only time Clare could remember seeing her mother in a slim black fitted figure-hugging dress, was that dreadful night.

Sometimes Clare wondered if she was adopted. They had nothing in common when it came to looks, style, or temperament. The things that kept Clare from believing her presumptions true was first,

Michelle’s height, she was almost as tall as Clare’s six-foot figure. Which was relatively rare for American women, so it had to count for something, right...

The other obvious, was the blood type O-, which they both shared, surprise, surprise. Those weren’t the deciding factors. No, that was left to the obligation that Michelle always saw her as. Clare wasn’t a child wanted in Michelle's mind, but one to protect. She doubted her mother would’ve kept her if it wasn’t for the blood ties, and that hurt. But Clare always told herself, “If I can handle not knowing, I can handle anything,” and that was exactly what she was doing, handling anything.

“Clare, why are you looking at me like that?” She didn’t answer her mother. Not that she didn’t want to, she didn’t know the answer, so she just kept on staring.

If she didn’t look like her mother, she thought, almost in a wistful daze then she must look like him. The mystery sperm donor. She had no recollection of her father or even his name. Her relationship with him unknown. Why had he never looked for her?

Was he even alive? Not knowing, never stopped her conjuring him up. A rugged brown hair man, with paler skin and a sharp jawline to match unnaturally dark green eyes. She could almost see him, the male version of her. After all her looks had to have come from somewhere.

Considering her extensive sporty nature which she must've inherited also from her dad, Clare moved well. She was solid on her feet. So what if she couldn’t pull off the grace that Michelle possessed. She could tackle a ball from between opponents’ legs without losing a step.

Clare also had a swing to be reckoned with. If it wasn’t for her need to be academically stimulated, she would’ve taken the offer from her tennis coach to play professional tennis. Which was why, she applied to Oxford law. Getting the interview was one thing, and getting through it, was a whole lot of ball game and respect. Both of which she flunked. She was rude, filter-less and self absorbed.

Apart from her mother, Clare was incapable of biting her tongue. And well, her ball game started and ended with Phillip. Being the only Oxford student she knew, he was supposed to help her out, but he’d just upped and vanished. All in all she wasn't left with much. She wasn’t so sure that her outgoing nature and looks would contribute to the deciding factor. In fact she considered the negative impact it’d have on acceptance.

One couldn’t hide their out-there come and get me features. Her sharp jaw line was way too strong to ignore. And lips utterly out of character. They always scrunched up in a pout which only amplified when she was upset. Let’s not forget the deep emerald-green eyes. The one feature she loved and never complained about especially since it came with excellent vision. Lastly, the out-of-control chocolate- brown locks cascading down her back that she just couldn’t cut. She always imagined running to her dad with her hair swishing from side to side. That long hair of hers kept the image alive. It was depressing holding on to childish fantasies but she had her way of dealing, it was what it was.

Stretching her hands toward the dark sky, dragging her feet toward her mother, who unsurprisingly had taken up leaning on the door frame again. Watching Clare as intently as she watched one of her patients. Clare wanted nothing more than to shake her head in disgust at the lack of affection in her mother’s silent scrutiny. It was hard to refrain, but refrain she did.

When it concerned her mother, Clare always held her tongue, which was a complete contrast to her persona. She didn't need a psychologist to tell her that their relationship was bullshit, naturally, Clare had figured it out years ago. Regardless of the distance that lurked between them, she loved her mother but liking her was pushing it. A step into the apartment she stopped short at the sound of Michelle’s soft commanding voice, “There’s a lot you don’t know about the world, Clare, you wouldn’t last a day alone, not yet.” Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

Clare didn’t turn her head, she wouldn’t give her mother any satisfaction, nor did she raise her voice, “of course mother.” Michelle stiffened and the silence which followed was enough confirmation to Clare, that she hit her mark.

Frustrated with her thoughts, and knowing full well that the one-sided conversation wasn’t going to get any better she huffed and stormed down the white-walled passage. Turning to the first room on the right she slammed the door, taking small pleasure in the loud noise.

She threw herself on her bed frowning at the ceiling and ignoring the black jeans and red t-shirt sticking to her clammy skin from the afternoon heat. Any other focal point in the small space was pointless. Already knowing the colour scheme of the whole apartment - white or similar to, but still white. Which wasn’t a surprise considering her mother’s obsession with the bland colour.