Foolish Games | Tombstone

Chapter Twelve

"Let go of me!" Clara pleaded.

"What have you done, Clara?" Their voices moaned, fingernails digging into her flesh. She began to bleed.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, please! Let me go! Let me go!" She shrieked. "Someone, anyone! Help me!"

In her nightmare, a hand pulled her up from the muddy earth. A moment of relief filled her body before being replaced with a dread so great Clara nearly jumped back into the pit. She had been delivered into hell.

She shook her head slowly, her face contorting into a painfully ugly grimace. "No..." She whispered, inching back on her bottom, kicking at the hands that tried to pull her closer. "Don't touch me... No... God, please no..."

"Where are you going, Clara? C'mon now, don't be shy." Johnny Ringo had her cornered, even in her dreams. He grabbed her arm, turning her on her stomach, lifting her skirts...

Doc was jolted awake by a scream so heart-wrenching, at first thought perhaps he imagined it. The first howl was followed by a second, and remembering where he was, Holliday pulled himself from his chair and rushed to Clara's bedside. She was thrashing in her sleep.

"Clara, darlin', wake up." Doc nudged her.

Her arms thrashed about, clawing at a demon John Henry could not see. He called out to her again, louder and more commanding this time. When Clara woke, she was unhinged. Drenched in a cold sweat, she wept until her limbs went limp, tucked in close to Doc's body.

"It was so real," She was hyperventilating. "They were all d-de-dead. I could feel his hands all over me."

"It was only a night terror."

He looked around the room at the shadows that gleamed in the moonlight, cradling Clara in his arms. Doc began to hum, running a hand down the back of her hair. As her breathing eased, fading into even inhales and exhalations, Doc could feel her heartbeat against his own. Lord have mercy.

"It's alright. I'm here now."

Neither one of them slept much that night.

.

.

Back in Tombstone, Clara had taken up a new residence in town with Doc, refusing to return to the Grady home. More preparations were made for the removal of the family goods from the mansion; Clara opted to let the new owners (whomever they might be) keep the furniture. Finally, with everything in place, she had hoped for the ability to rebuild. Her hopes proved futile. In the weeks that followed, her stagnant patterns sent her down a road of deeper melancholy than before, dwelling far too much on all that had happened and all she had lost. Clara became irritable, turning her pain inward.

To make matters worse, the biddies began to talk, spreading ill-favored rumors regarding Clara's reputation. Talk abroad as she had planned the whole thing; her father and brother's deaths, sending her Mama off, all to accumulate the family's wealth for herself and her lover. There were even whispers of a love child, aided by Clara's lack of appearances in public. When confronted with this, she hardly cared.

Let them talk, she would say. Let them talk all they want! No one ever asked her.

At his wit's end, Doc finally cornered Clara into a trip to the bookstore, practically ordering her to venture from the prison she created for herself. A brief argument ensued between them, Clara accusing Doc of having a fragile conscience concerning the rumors, to which his rebuttal was to show his famous anger.

They had been inside their room, Clara sitting on the end of the bed while Doc stood nearby the window, his hands on his hips. The afternoon sun was shining.