An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
we were born sick, you hear them say it (take me to church) | chapter 3
Clarke doesn’t mean to go there.
She tells herself she’s just driving, just letting the road unspool beneath her tires because sitting in her apartment feels suffocating, the walls creeping in, the early hours of the night feeling a little too knowing for her liking. The silence is too loud. The memory of white collars and silver-edged pages presses against her ribs and creeps fingers around her heart until she can’t breathe.
She doesn’t realize where she’s headed until the iron gates rise up in front of her like an accusation, the peaceful, tree-lined road feeling anything but. The church in the far distance to the right of her passenger seat feels accusing, the spires reaching high into the soft afternoon sky.
The cemetery is quiet when she steps through it, late afternoon sun slanting long and amber across the rows of stone. The air smells like damp earth and old leaves. Clarke tucks her hands into the pockets of her jacket, shoulders hunched as she slogs deeper into the graveyard.
She hasn’t been here in months.
Guilt twists low in her stomach as she follows the path by memory alone, boots crunching softly over gravel. She knows the turn. Knows the crooked oak that leans just slightly to the left, faltering branches dropping orange-hued leaves like confetti with every gusty breeze. Knows the headstone before she even sees it.
Raven Reyes
Beloved Daughter, Brilliant Fierce Friend
Clarke’s throat closes.
“Hey, Rae,” she murmurs, voice rough from repressed emotion and disuse. She doesn’t think she’s spoken to anyone in the past 48 hours, besides a quiet question or two whilst staffing the cafe register.
