The Shadows that We Follow

-Chapter 1-

August 31st, 1935

Clover keeps her eyes open in the dark, afraid that falling asleep will steal her away from Malcolm faster.

After over two years of sleepless nights, this torment is the worst one to keep her awake: No lurking murderers—not even gnawing hunger. Instead, she is plagued by the image of Alex’s bruised nose and the way Mary had grinned hideously when she told Clover that she would be leaving—for good.

She had tried to find a way around this—wept, begged to stay…she even tried to convince Alex to lie for her—but none of it worked. Now, her only hope is that Mary had been bluffing. Tough chance of that.

Clover’s stomach growls.

Last time she ate?

Dinner three—no, four—evenings ago.

Carefully, she sits up and quietly leaves the room. Might as well eat something while she still can… What is Mary gonna do? Send her away?

Already doing that.

Beat her?

Better than starving.

Upon entering the kitchen, her eyes catch on the repulsive old yellow wallpaper shedding off of the walls like skin. The room reeks of boiled cabbage and cigarette smoke, making her lungs burn. Her hand trembles as she reaches for a can of beans, but a voice stops her: “Don’t go for that, you runt. Take the better meat.”

“Christ, Alex,” she mutters, gaze flickering to his bruised, swollen nose. Guilt stirs, and then satisfaction takes its place—she did that.

Alex stands a head taller, sandy hair falling into his eyes when he frowns.

Clover doesn’t look much like Alex, despite them being cousins—his light skin and easy smile seem to belong to another family entirely.

Slamming the icebox shut and firmly grasping a rancid bag of dried beef, she asks, “What're you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” He shrugs. “Ain’t your business, is it?”

“Come to apologize?”

“Look, I didn’t tell. Swear it.”

The words spew out before she can stop them—blunt and mean. “And I didn’t punch you. Swear it.”

“She saw the bruise. Tried ta’ lie—didn’t work.” He lets out an irritated sigh. “What more d’you want me ta’ say, Madden?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that Malcolm won’t starve while I’m gone? That you’ll keep him safe? That you’ll make sure Mary won’t—"

“—Malcolm’s never safe.”

“Yeah, well, you’re clearly no help.” Clover snaps. “He’d be safer if I could be here.”

“Well, you won’t be.”

“Right.”

They are both quiet for a moment, but his next words are ones she never thought she’d hear—especially from him: “I can be.”

“Be what?”

“I’ll keep watch over him.”

“You?”

“Yeah.”

Clover waits for him to start laughing in her face, but he doesn’t. She furrows her eyebrows. “All you’ve ever done is make things worse.”

“I’ll stop picking on him,” says Alex.

Clover narrows her eyes, “You need to slip him some food when ya’ can.”

“I will.”

“And keep him away from Mary’s…” She struggles to find the right word: “…guests.”

Alex’s face contorts with repugnance. “Lord. She’s still…”

“It’s not just filthy—it’s dangerous,” says Clover. “Remember what happened only a few months ago? He can’t defend himself on his own.”

Alex looks as though he is thinking for a while—something that must be rather difficult for him. Finally, an unsure expression flashes in his eyes, and he dejectedly whispers, “I could give him my rifle.”

“You would?”

He nods. The gesture means more than Clover wants to admit.

***

Upon entering their room, Clover immediately hears Malcom’s sobbing. She rushes toward him and shakes him by the shoulder gently.

“Clover?” he croaks, voice groggy and laced with panic. He rubs his forehead, curly hair sticking to his sweaty face, and tries to sit up but struggles to do so. His eyes are wide—wild like a frightened deer with a shotgun to its head. “Are they gone?”

She swallows hard, her voice barely a whisper. “Who?”

She knows full well who he’s referring to, but just once, she wants to make-believe—like they’re normal—like none of it ever happened.

Malcolm’s voice shakes, “Them.”

“They can’t touch you right now,” she says softly, brushing his hair back like a mother would. “You’re alright.”

“Are you sure?” Malcolm breathes, looking to her as if certainty is something she can just hand him. And in that moment, she wishes she could give him everything.

If only hope weren’t so rare in this bleak world.

“I’m sure,” she whispers. “I promise.”

A lump forms in the back of her throat at her brother's nod.