Claire Avalon
Writer
- Best answers
- 0
- Known Aliases
-
Violet Nowak
Claire Nowak
- Color #
- %2365000
Claire watched the pale blue glow of the alarm clock as it turned from 2:13 to 2:14am. Her body was frozen still under the covers and her breathing methodically slow, but she was wide awake. The room, the bed, everything felt foreign even if at one time it had been hers. The modern, clean lines of her father's estate felt too sterile, too manicured for her taste. She'd dismissed the guards weeks ago, despite their protests. But her father couldn't contradict her orders, and they never made her feel safe, only imprisoned. Plus, if everything worked out tonight the way she wanted, security would only ruin the plan. And Claire couldn't stand those dogs, or any dogs for that matter. The sentiment was confirmed by the ancient feline purring softly a solid 10 inches from her owner, paw outstretched, initiating the slightest physical content. Affection and distance. Both Claire and the cat's preferred method for companionship.
Returning to her thoughts she mused on the last time she'd slept in this room. 6 years...no it had to have been longer than that. The few times a year she had spent with her father had mostly been on the neutral ground of luxurious cabins in the French alps, the occasional summer in Madrid. Sometimes Christmas...but even that stopped eventually. Even her adolescence was spent between boarding schools and summer music intensives. And then there was conservatory, one semester spent in a dorm room before her father bought a small one bedroom condo in a historic apartment building downtown. It wasn't flamboyant, but the rent price meant her classmates weren't likely to be her neighbors. He bought the condo as an early birthday present before Christmas break, muttering something about security in the building and the practicality of the location. Claire didn't come home that Christmas. She figured he probably preferred it that way. For as long as she could remember, Avalon never met her gaze, never discussed subjects of depth, never really cared to know her. That's not to say she wasn't provided for. Claire was painfully aware of her privilege. She never had to ask for anything she wanted twice. Perhaps that was her father's way of placating his guilt. After all, it wasn't really his fault that he just couldn't find it within his heart to connect with his only child...
His only living child.
Claire's mother had been driven mad by the coldness too, and she wasn't even the primary target. The young woman often wondered why her father even agreed to having a child with his second wife. They looked so happy in photographs, now tucked away deep in Claire's various scrapbooks and memory boxes before her father could vaporize them. Perhaps she was an accident. She'd never had the courage to ask. Reproductive intentions are a better set of questions between mother and daughter, and Claire genuinely didn't even remember the woman anymore. She knew her 3rd birthday was the trigger. Two days before Christmas and Claire had officially outlived the ghost that would haunt the rest of her life. Her father couldn't even be bothered to leave his office, or so she'd been told by a particularly gossipy housekeeper who supplied the details her nanny...and her father...couldn't seem to articulate. Maria had always treated her like an equal, spoken to her like an adult, Claire mused to herself with a smug affection. As if any validation might solidify her worth. She knew the full story by the time she was 7. Her mother, fed up with the neglect (perhaps more toward herself than her daughter), snapped a polaroid of her toddler attempting to blow out the 3 candles atop her cake. Leaving the details of cake cutting and serving to the nanny, Edith Avalon set the photo down on her vanity table, along with her wedding band, and impressive engagement ring, and penned a brief note.
"Malcolm: I can walk away and take care of myself. She cannot. Don't make her wish she could. I'm sorry. -E."
And, after packing a surprisingly small suitcase, she left. Claire supposed her father had some idea where she ended up, if at least for the sake of the divorce papers. But he never went after her, not even for child support. I supposed considering his financial situation, he felt that would be crass and vindictive. If there was one thing Avalon could always do, it was fulfill his duties. His daughter would grow up with the best schools, well dressed and well traveled, comfortable in every external sense. Sometimes he even had the decency to pretend his emotional distance was for her own safety, encouraging her to keep her family a secret, deny association, and even assume her mother's maiden name. Claire never took him up on that one. Some sense of identity was vital to her sanity. Nevertheless, the vast majority of her father's public never learned of her existence. In the process of mourning one ghost child, he had created another. And while Claire never felt too guilty about her father's financial support in her life (figuring he at least owed her that), she did strive not to depend on it. And it had been a solid 3 years since the 24 year old had touched her trust fund.
Back to the present, this thought pattern was doing a decent job of keeping Claire awake, but was starting to taste a bit too much like self-pity. Bitter. There were more current issues to be bitter about. Her father's potentially irreversible brain damage, her sudden acquisition of responsibility many of his properties and possessions, not to mention physical care, the threat of another attempted kidnapping, a target on her back. The ACME job and grad school applications sitting cold on the printer tray. The black diamond and ruby engagement ring reminding her that in the meantime, life was on hold.
Click, click.
Joe wouldn't like this plan
Click, click.
I shouldn't have insisted on coming alone...but he never would have agreed.
Click, click...pause.
Claire tried to make the rise and fall of her chest convincingly slow, but her heart, already prone to tachycardia, was thumping hard enough to ring against her pillow-side ear.
Click...click.
Regret washed over Claire and she thought for a moment she could will herself into passing out. But time froze, and with a gulp Claire hoped was invisible, she opened her mouth.
"I wondered what was taking you so long."
Returning to her thoughts she mused on the last time she'd slept in this room. 6 years...no it had to have been longer than that. The few times a year she had spent with her father had mostly been on the neutral ground of luxurious cabins in the French alps, the occasional summer in Madrid. Sometimes Christmas...but even that stopped eventually. Even her adolescence was spent between boarding schools and summer music intensives. And then there was conservatory, one semester spent in a dorm room before her father bought a small one bedroom condo in a historic apartment building downtown. It wasn't flamboyant, but the rent price meant her classmates weren't likely to be her neighbors. He bought the condo as an early birthday present before Christmas break, muttering something about security in the building and the practicality of the location. Claire didn't come home that Christmas. She figured he probably preferred it that way. For as long as she could remember, Avalon never met her gaze, never discussed subjects of depth, never really cared to know her. That's not to say she wasn't provided for. Claire was painfully aware of her privilege. She never had to ask for anything she wanted twice. Perhaps that was her father's way of placating his guilt. After all, it wasn't really his fault that he just couldn't find it within his heart to connect with his only child...
His only living child.
Claire's mother had been driven mad by the coldness too, and she wasn't even the primary target. The young woman often wondered why her father even agreed to having a child with his second wife. They looked so happy in photographs, now tucked away deep in Claire's various scrapbooks and memory boxes before her father could vaporize them. Perhaps she was an accident. She'd never had the courage to ask. Reproductive intentions are a better set of questions between mother and daughter, and Claire genuinely didn't even remember the woman anymore. She knew her 3rd birthday was the trigger. Two days before Christmas and Claire had officially outlived the ghost that would haunt the rest of her life. Her father couldn't even be bothered to leave his office, or so she'd been told by a particularly gossipy housekeeper who supplied the details her nanny...and her father...couldn't seem to articulate. Maria had always treated her like an equal, spoken to her like an adult, Claire mused to herself with a smug affection. As if any validation might solidify her worth. She knew the full story by the time she was 7. Her mother, fed up with the neglect (perhaps more toward herself than her daughter), snapped a polaroid of her toddler attempting to blow out the 3 candles atop her cake. Leaving the details of cake cutting and serving to the nanny, Edith Avalon set the photo down on her vanity table, along with her wedding band, and impressive engagement ring, and penned a brief note.
"Malcolm: I can walk away and take care of myself. She cannot. Don't make her wish she could. I'm sorry. -E."
And, after packing a surprisingly small suitcase, she left. Claire supposed her father had some idea where she ended up, if at least for the sake of the divorce papers. But he never went after her, not even for child support. I supposed considering his financial situation, he felt that would be crass and vindictive. If there was one thing Avalon could always do, it was fulfill his duties. His daughter would grow up with the best schools, well dressed and well traveled, comfortable in every external sense. Sometimes he even had the decency to pretend his emotional distance was for her own safety, encouraging her to keep her family a secret, deny association, and even assume her mother's maiden name. Claire never took him up on that one. Some sense of identity was vital to her sanity. Nevertheless, the vast majority of her father's public never learned of her existence. In the process of mourning one ghost child, he had created another. And while Claire never felt too guilty about her father's financial support in her life (figuring he at least owed her that), she did strive not to depend on it. And it had been a solid 3 years since the 24 year old had touched her trust fund.
Back to the present, this thought pattern was doing a decent job of keeping Claire awake, but was starting to taste a bit too much like self-pity. Bitter. There were more current issues to be bitter about. Her father's potentially irreversible brain damage, her sudden acquisition of responsibility many of his properties and possessions, not to mention physical care, the threat of another attempted kidnapping, a target on her back. The ACME job and grad school applications sitting cold on the printer tray. The black diamond and ruby engagement ring reminding her that in the meantime, life was on hold.
Click, click.
Joe wouldn't like this plan
Click, click.
I shouldn't have insisted on coming alone...but he never would have agreed.
Click, click...pause.
Claire tried to make the rise and fall of her chest convincingly slow, but her heart, already prone to tachycardia, was thumping hard enough to ring against her pillow-side ear.
Click...click.
Regret washed over Claire and she thought for a moment she could will herself into passing out. But time froze, and with a gulp Claire hoped was invisible, she opened her mouth.
"I wondered what was taking you so long."