lucygrisham-blog

[lucygrisham-blog]

carsynmccallum:

The entire bake sale was a complete laugh to Carsyn. Sure, the proceeds were nice, but how was she supposed to take the cause seriously when it was dedicated in Clara Caldwell’s honor? But she was choosing to play nice and bite her tongue – at least the scholarship went to a student (not that she thought many kids here needed it) – by “supporting” the cause or whatever. She didn’t bake anything herself, she wasn’t about to make anyone suffer by eating her baked goods, but she could spare some money by buying other peoples’ baked goods. 

Carsyn ignored the gossipers and the curious onlookers that were discussing police suspects, serving cold glances at those that thought she’d want to partake in the chatter. “Get a life,” she muttered under her breath, as she made her way past tables. How many baked goods did she need to buy to be seen as a supporter of this bake sale? 

Already she could feel eyes on her and hear the whispers: “Carsyn McCallum can’t be that invested in her child’s future by skimping out on the bake sale,” or “If she didn’t bring something, she could at least buy some more to show some support.” Any statement of the sort made her want to scream. As if anyone really cared, it was all about appearances anywhere, but of course she’d be a target once they expended all the gossip they had on the Caldwell murder. Nothing screamed social function like gossip and trash talk. They just better pray I don’t catch them doing so, she thought. 

The offer of a brownie took her out of her thoughts. It was still weird seeing Lucy now that Clara was dead, but she brushed away the feeling that came up whenever that occurred. They were different people, or a good faker, Carsyn doubted. She paused, glancing at the brownies Lucy had brought to the sale. “Sure, why the hell not,” she decided. “How much?” 

“Only a dollar a slice!” Peppy and upbeat, Lucy decided that she must have resembled a character from a cartoon, or a tv-show long off the air. A caricature of who she was, who she had always imagined herself to be and who the world saw her as, the entire charade felt phony, plastic that was beginning to melt. She wondered what they thought of her, of the twin sister who had survived and outlived the wicked witch, who now stood here with a faux smile plastered across her face and a gentle tone that was too false to be true. Did they wonder how she managed to stand there, as still as a rock instead of floating like a feather in the wind? Did they scold her for the way she kept herself together? Or did they secretly wish it had been she who had fallen victim to the work of true evil? Sometimes, she wondered each of those things about herself.

“And remember, all the proceeds go to a good cause!” A good cause. Clara had never believed in them. Charity, she could remember her sister once saying, was designed to make rich people feel good about themselves. And I don’t need that to feel good. No, of course she hadn’t. Clara had ruled their town, her world - and the lives of many others - with an iron thumb, a steel gaze and a vicious tongue that knew little kindness. Charity was never a word she would associate with her sister - and there lay the bitter irony. And yet, at the same time, she could appreciate the good intentions behind the effort, of wanting to make something beautiful out of the tragedy. It was the way she looked at life. And yet, it felt almost wrong - to search for such a thing before the dust had settled, when the dirt was fresh over Clara’s grave.

Maneuvering the fish slice underneath a slice of brownie, Lucy opted to make small-talk whilst they waited, hoping it would be innocuous enough. But in this town, who knew anymore? Anything could be used against you - and nothing was ever taken at face value. “How are you doing? And how’s your daughter - Nova, isn’t it?” Everyone knew the tragedy that lay there.

[lucygrisham-blog]

Date: September 12th Location: Hughes Household  Status: Closed @ramsayhughes

I shouldn’t be here. Lucy knew, instinctively, that she should not, under any circumstances, be here. When your husband found out - and confronted you - about your affair, you were supposed to beg for his forgiveness, commit yourself to your marriage and break it off. When your sister died just over a week ago, you were supposed to mourn, remain stricken, unable to sleep, eat or even breathe. And when your sister was murdered - well, then, it was supposed to break you. Such a fragile creature, anyone would have thought that Lucy was easily broken, easily intimidated and easily indoctrinated to doing the right thing. And yet, here she was, standing outside the Hughes house - the place Ramsay shared with his wife and children. Whatever angel she had once been, surely that was gone now.

Unaware of the police who watched his every move - and who were now sat in the car opposite, camera lens at the ready - their eyes widening at Ramsay’s visitor, Lucy knocked on the door, eyes glancing around to make sure no peeping neighbour was keeping watch. In truth, she was worried about herself. But she was worried about him too. And as it had been her entire life, she put someone else before herself, before what was right, before sanity, before everything she had held dear. Door swinging open, her lover quickly ushered her inside, clearly fearful of who might be watching. Instinctively, Lucy’s eyes moved to his arm, shattered and wounded, taking it into her grip, tendering placing butterfly kisses upon it. Attracted to the most broken and damning of birds, her heart started to bleed. 

“Oh my god...Ram...I’m so sorry.” Sorry, that I couldn’t help. Sorry that this happened. Sorry we’re in this situation. And, perhaps, sorry we couldn’t find each other in a different life. “What can I do to help? How can I make it better?” Those would turn out to be fateful words. Shocked by even her own tenderness, the magnitude of her feelings towards him, how willing she was to abandon caution to the wind, she stepped back a little, but continued to touch. One hand went to his face, gracefully brushing across his cheek. “What on earth are we doing?”

[lucygrisham-blog]

dcaldwell:

Dalton…

His heart skipped a beat. Smoke exhaled from his lungs in a sharp breath. Clara. But his mind ticked the thought over as quickly as it had come - the voice was too soft, too caring, it didn’t come from a tongue sharper than a knife. He glanced sideways, needing to just…make sure. The wispy blonde hair feathered around a smooth face, lips smoothed with a pale pink gloss… it was just Lucy. 

His heart fell slowly through his ribcage, down into his stomach, sending it turning over itself little by little, like a Boa constrictor tightening around its prey. Dalton inhaled from his cigarette quickly in an attempt to send smoke down to untie the sickly knot of nausea. 

Everyone here loved Clara.

Aw, Lucy was untying it for him. His cheeks lifted, a laugh expelling the smoke in several puffs. Clara. Loved. Police working hard. 

God, that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Once he was laughing, he couldn’t stop, tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and he bent over a little, removing his hand from hers to grip the balcony rail, the other pressing the flask to his stomach as he laughed and laughed and laughed - to the point where he could hardly breathe and there was no longer noise leaving his lips, just convulsions and spattered breath that…for a couple of seconds, might have been sobs. 

With his head down and body still shaking a little, he exhaled two long breaths in an attempt to gain composure. Straightening up he turned to Lucy with his brows pulled together, scanning his eyes over his dead wife’s identical twin, that damn snake constricting around his heart again. He stood in complete silence for a moment, speechless, really. 

“…You really do look like her.” He exhaled.

The statement was a bloody obvious one but…it just…fell from his lips as his mind ticked over with contemplation. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t just Lucy. How did he know it wasn’t Clara standing in front of him… what if it had all been a rouse  - what if Lucy was the one who had died and Clara had taken her place…what if Clara had killed Lucy so that she could leave Dalton, leave all the problems she’d caused and be innocent little Lucy, Vincent’s cherished wife. 

Fuck. Dalton’s brows knotted together and he brought his hand up to her cheek, his thumb pressing against her cheekbone, palm against her jawline. He stared into her eyes intensely, his vision a little dizzied by the liquor but god damn he was determined to see the truth. “I thought we were in this together…” A whisper left his lips, meant for Clara, who in that moment… he definitely could have been looking right at. 

Her first thought was that grief had clearly permeated her brother-in-law, twisting fact and fiction. Her second was that perhaps she hadn’t ever truly known him at all. Perhaps she had only been seeing a mask - and that there was an ugliness that lay underneath, the very same as she had sometimes seen in her sister. No, not sometimes, always - it had bubbled underneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered. Her third was how sad this all was - and how desperately she wanted to help, all the while knowing that there was nothing she could do. Her fourth was how terrified she saw, stepping back as Dalton reached forward, freezing under his touch. Her fifth was how much she wanted it all to end. But, paralyzed and trapped by politeness, concern and fear, Lucy turned into a statue, forced to see this out until the end.

“Dalton...” she began, her voice trembling. This was by no means the first time the twins had been mistaken for each other. A memory came back to her, the pair just four years old, their first day of school. Their teacher, naturally, had mixed them up. Clara had stuck her nose up in the air and proclaimed anyone should be able to tell them apart, because she would never be like her. Even then, Clara had seen herself as superior, the better of the pair the alpha. And Lucy, for all her faults, had never been one to correct her, happy to assume the meek one. Well look at me now Clara. I outlived you. Darwin had been proved wrong. The stronger didn’t always survive - she was living proof. Quickly dismissing such ugly thoughts, Lucy forced herself back to reality, where in equal parts tenderness and melancholy, she turned to address the man Clara had left behind, the man who would never be whole again.

“It’s me...it’s Lucy. I’m sorry...but she’s gone. Clara’s gone.” As if Clara would have ever stepped into her shoes anyway. She never would have stood for Vincent’s treatment, simply swanning into the sunset, all by herself, leaving the world as she had known it behind. “She died.” Saying the words outloud struck her numb, the blonde blinking away tears before they could fully form. Never one to disguise her sorrow, she had simply grown  too weary, sick of the forever emptiness. Why can’t I be whole again? Somehow, she knew, no matter what happened, she never would be. Clara would always haunt her - just as she would haunt Dalton, even if it drove him insane. “I’m Lucy.” What else could she say other than that? How could truly convey everything in just simple words? “Let me help you.” Because you need it.

[lucygrisham-blog]

vincent-grisham:

From the moment he spoke, it looked like she was going to break. Vincent averted his eyes to the floor and fixated there, biting down until the muscles in his jaw ached. He did that a lot – looked away from her. It made her pain easy to ignore. He was talented like that. Anything he didn’t want to see, or acknowledge, or deal with was met with the hard shell of his exterior. Things he didn’t like never quite sank in.

But this would not go away. 

Vincent looked up and stared at her from across the room, searching her face. This stranger, his wife. They never looked each other deep in the eyes anymore. Now, she was begging him for this one small compassion, and the misery on her face was so apparent, and so reminiscent of the way his mother used to look at his father. For the first time in his life, the reality was too overwhelming to fall victim to denial. Suited and above domestic violence, he was still his father’s son.  Vince swallowed and felt it drop all the way to his gut. Am I really that person? Do I really make you so miserable? I thought it was enough, I gave you everything – was his most common justification. But now more than ever, he realized – except love. And warmth. And kindness.

As he gazed at her, feeling her sorrow breath around him in ripples, he knew it was the right thing to to do wait. Stuck in the purgatory of making a decision, a long silence passed. He had not felt this helpless since he was child. Vincent thought about walking out to leave her in peace – he really did. But unfortunately, patience was not one of his virtues.

“Lucy,” he said, sterner than he liked. Vincent stepped toward her with a shuddering breath, trying not to look threatening. “Just tell me how this happened. Okay? Explain it to me.”

How had it happened? Had she been a cruel person, had she been more like her sister and a little less like a doormat, she might have laughed. It would have been a cutting, jaggered sound, sharp and desperate in its wails. Had she been Clara, objects might have flown. Certainly, her temper would have been raised. She could have screamed and cursed, talked about how she had dedicated her entire life to him, to the dream of what they might have been, only to be torn down and shown that in the end, Cinderella doesn’t escape the wicked step-mother.

Predictably, she did none of those things. The mouse swallows its words, language denied to it. That animal can only squeak - and as she can she. Trapped by fate, constrained by the limits of who she had always been, she couldn’t express how hopeless this was, how lost she had been, how he had neglected her for fifteen years. At one point, there will be a straw that breaks the camel’s back - and one day, one transgression will be one too many. Sitting there, shivering a little with the last air of summer saturating the space, Lucy inhaled sharply, swallowing her speech. There’s no point. I don’t think he will listen. And I can’t make excuses for what I did. 

How silly the martyr is, running into battle, inviting the cuts of a sword. 

“I...I don’t know.” She had always despised lying, remaining truthful whilst Clara invited deceit. But that was the greatest lie she had ever told, strangling her system as it took a hold of her. It would hurt him, to know how he has hurt me. At least, that was what she reasoned. A more rational part of her told herself that he didn’t care - that this was merely about her being in his possession. “I...I guess I felt sick. I just...I couldn’t wait to see if you would come home day after day. I couldn’t be the only person in this marriage. I needed to be someone. To do something.” Breathless, her teeth nibbled on her lip, waiting to see if she stepped too far. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t...I shouldn’t have betrayed my vows like that.” Over and over and over. 

But then again, neither should you.

[lucygrisham-blog]

date: September 13th location: Little Einstein Day

Lucy was beginning to feel like a china plate when it has just been knocked off a table, teetering halfway towards the ground. The collision is coming, breaking is a certainty - but in that moment, you exist in momentary tranquility, all the time waiting for the inevitable pain that comes with shattering. Made of porcelain, the world had already scratched her too many times. Now, she would never be whole again. Even when glued back together, the scars remain. Some say that scars are the strongest part of your body - but what do you do when you were never strong to begin with?

Whilst the chatter on everyone’s lips was of Police suspects and accusations of guilt, Lucy found herself deaf to it all, refusing to be drawn into any discussions. Let me live in my temporary peace. Let me remember what it feels like to live. How had her world come to this? How had a lived existence that centered on love and family come to be about grief and sins? Rapidly losing herself, she sought to cling onto something - onto anything - hoping it would prove to be an anchor. Time would tell if she was right or wrong.

Standing behind a homebaked plate of brownies, smoothing creases out of her apron, Lucy wished her frown away, replacing it instead with a homely smile, the sort you dream about coming home to. “Can I interest you in a Brownie? It’s an old family recipe, I promise.” And yet, all that time, she could only think about how Clara had despised baking - and how she would have hated this whole charade.

[lucygrisham-blog]

vincent-grisham:

// @lucygrisham

date: september 11

location: grisham home

As if he’d had too much to drink, the memory of he and Lucy the night of the fundraiser was almost blacked out. He vaguely remembered her face, about an inch from his, beautiful eyes widening as he confronted his wife with everything Clara had told him. After that, the whirlwind of bullshit began. One unavoidable distraction after the next. Murder. Questioning. An encounter with Dalton he wished would’ve never happened. Funeral.

Vincent had waited long enough ; the tension between them had climbed to impressive, terrible heights and stayed there, choking them both. He wasn’t the devil. He wished he could give Lucy more time to grieve, but the man could not leave this conflict unchecked for too long. For the first time, he actually feared what would happen.

He strode in slowly and stopped just outside the kitchen. All around them were expensive gift baskets and flowers, some of which he ordered. When he realized that he craved to break something, break it all, to hear the glass vases shatter to the walls, he dared not enter. Instead, he folded his arms and leaned against the frame, putting a good amount of space between them.

“Lucy, sweetheart,” he said. His voice sounded deeper and a tad quieter, as the man was trying very hard not to growl. “We need to talk.”

We need to talk. Her heart, already fragile, shattered to pieces, each shard tearing at her skin, imaginary red lace ribbons stemming from porcelain skin. With dread, she dry-swallowed, struggling to summon word - any words. Instead, she remained a mute, the silence growing between them. For what on earth was there to say? This was by no means the first time they had spoken these words - but this time, the roles were reversed.

Usually, she was the one across the room, nervously playing with her fingers as she sleepily coaxed the truth from her husband, mind-numbingly tired at waiting for him to return. (Sometimes, he didn’t). Over the years, a pattern had emerged between them. She would present evidence. He wouldn’t bother to hide the truth. She couldn’t even remember if he asked for her forgiveness. Nonetheless, she always gave it, a tender heart bleeding, knowing that in the back of her mind, he was one of only two things.

This time, she wasn’t so sure if he would forgive her.

She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to be forgiven.

"Can it not...?” She began half-heartedly, silently begging him to wait. Only a cruel man brings up infidelity on the day she laid her sister into the ground. Then again, that was the sort of treatment she had come to expect. Never strong, her words fizzled away, head gesturing into a nod. She would give him what he wanted. She always did. 

[lucygrisham-blog]

dcaldwell:

After his little…outburst at the funeral, Dalton was forced into the semblance of composure by his parents who had given him a kind but stern talking to. They were right of course, acting like a right twat wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and it certainly wasn’t going to bring Clara back or force her killer into confession. No, he had to be smart about this. Unfortunately, the alcohol wasn’t exactly helping that cause.

Although he’d sobered up a little by the end of the funeral, the reception, being held at his own home and catered by his own money was well stocked with liquor – and sure enough there was a glass of golden bourbon placed into his hand the second he joined his guests. It could have been any other event hosted by Clara, and every time he remembered that she wasn’t standing by the pool gossiping with her friends, he took a drink and did his best to keep it down. For the most part, it was all small talk, polite crap that meant nothing. ‘So sorry for your loss’ they all kept saying. Bullshit. 

“You know what would be fun” Dalton spoke, lighting a cigarette, flask of vodka in hand, standing at the edge of the balcony with one of the guests, looking out over the lower deck that was spotted with people dressed in black. “Locking everyone in and watching them all squirm until we get a confession or until they all tear each other apart. I wonder who will get eaten first.”

You weren’t supposed to be able to feel oxygen. Logically, she knew that. But she could feel it being stolen by her chest in breathless sighs and sobs, alternating between the two. She could almost feel Clara at her side, a waiting cutting comment about how she was always the baby out of the two of them. When she closed her eyes, it was almost as if Clara was real once again - as vivid as she had been when she was alive. But when they opened, the illusion was shattered - and reality sunk back in. Clara was nowhere to be seen. She was gone. And as empty as that felt, it was cruel of her to try and fill the spaces with the ghost of a sister who would never be as beautiful as she had been in life.

She only wished there had been more time. More moments to make things right,  an occasion to forge something strong and unbreakable between them, to turn porcelain into iron. There had been so many unspoken words, so many unanswered questions - which would always lie hanging in the air between them. A secret pressed closed to her chest, Lucy remained silent, confessing in no one. Did you love me Clara? Why did you tell Vincent about my affair? Why were you so adamant that I should be so unhappy? Would anything have ever been enough? They were ugly questions - but had her sister been here to answer them, Lucy suspected the answers would have been just as brutal, like a dagger to the back.

Wine glass in hand, Lucy did her best to appear effortless as a hostess, demure enough for people to express their griefs in, but strong enough to seem unbreakable. After Dalton’s...outburst, it appeared that she would be taking lead rein. Thrust into the spotlight, she was surprised how warm its heat felt. Maybe there was more of Clara inside of her than she thought. Glimpsing the man himself outside, isolated and alone, looking out to sea, her heart began to bleed, compassion spurring her forward. She knew what people were whispering about him. She didn’t care. Slipping quietly out onto the balcony, her lips instinctively curled into a smile as soft as snow, only to recoil at his words. They were so ugly. So full of rage. “Dalton...” His grief was laid bare to the world, a righteous fury. And as much as she wanted to understand, she couldn’t. “That’s not fair. Everyone here loved Clara.” Chewing on her lip, she gently took his hand into her grasp. “And the police are working as hard as they can. We’ll get justice - it might just take some time.”

[lucygrisham-blog]

[lucygrisham-blog]

leytonvelasquez:

    There had always been a poetic beauty about the face in the mirror, the one belonging to the other Caldwell. In all the areas Clara was hard, Leyton had seen Lucy show softness and kindness. During events, meetings, casual passing on the street - he’d seen it, and now, despite the commotion, his gloomy gaze was drawn once more to the slumped shoulders. He’d always had so many thoughts about the woman, the way she fit so perfectly nestled into the white picket fence life. The one her sister had never fully embraced, with heels on throats. 

    Leyton had avoided that crowd almost entirely. He wasn’t one for drama, unless he wrote it himself, complete control of every scenario unfolding from the end of his pen. Watching, listening, learning, however, well that is how he came up with stories. Inspiration had been drawn from both of the Caldwell women, the contrast and the differences like the fish in a Pisces symbol. One pulling down, the other upwards, until it switched in a never-ending circle. 

    “Then don’t do it,” Leyton spoke, though he realized after that she may not have even realized he stood nearby, quiet and still like a mouse on Christmas eve. He looked over to her with a shrug, offering a small smile meant to show some sort of support, fabricated from the romanticizing he’d done to her over the few weeks. “I assume that won’t be going anywhere for awhile, and even if it does, you’ll have a plethora of other ways to say your goodbyes. When you choose. The eyes of all these people? Doesn’t matter.”

Caught up in her own grief, she hadn’t noticed a second figure approach from the corner of her eye, concern written across his face. It seemed, even when the world seemed determined to prove itself as a damnable wasteland, people were determined to push back, to show the smallest of kindnesses in the bleakest of situations. A world, which had been nothing but darkness for the past few days, began to a show a little of the light she had spent her life chasing. Suddenly, she had hope. Circumstances hadn’t changed, but it felt a little more manageable. What if they could come together? Perhaps they would make it through. 

In her gratefulness, she never pondered to wonder what Leyton was doing here. An outside figure, they had never been a part of Clara’s close knit community. If anything, he despised her, responsible for the demise of his wife. Was this forgiveness? Or had the hatred she - encouraged by Clara - thought existed a figment of her imagination? Seizing on the good, on the actions he had shown her - and the person that presented him that as, she melted into their conversation, grateful to have someone at her side, even if they were a near stranger.

“You...you’re so kind.” Twitching her lips, she attempted a smile, but found her grief was too heavy to form one. Perhaps it would be for a long time. But it was more than grief...it was guilt too. Regret that her relationship with Clara had ended in a black hole, no chance of making amends. That was why she needed to do this, to show Clara, that even in death, she cared. Tearfully, she would proclaim her intention to care for Clara’s children, to keep a watchful eye on Dalton and make sure he was alright (even if they had argued) - and do all she could to honour her sister’s legacy. Clara would have liked that, she knew, a public speech of declarations. “But Clara...she would have wanted this. In fact, she would have loved this. I’m glad people are honouring her like this...in the right way.”

[lucygrisham-blog]

alexcassidy:

Alexander was sorely regretting telling his wife that he would go lay the flowers at Clara’s memorial the moment he actually made it to the damn thing. The only reason he’d offered in the first place was because he didn’t want Fallon stressing out over the ordeal anymore than necessary. So he found himself hovering near the makeshift memorial holding a small bouquet and a handwritten card from Fallon, despite the fact that he really could not have been less affected by Clara’s unfortunate passing.

Startled by a choked sob nearby, he whipped around, barely able to suppress the knee-jerk reaction of calling out Clara’s name as he lay eyes on Lucy. He sighed tiredly – he’d almost forgot there were actually people who were more than just victims of Clara’s, that she had a husband, and two children, and a sister. “Lucy,” he stated gently, scared that even a slight breeze might snap her in half.

“You don’t have to, if you can’t. I’ll place them for you, if you’d like,” he offered. “I remember I couldn’t bear to visit Lucia’s grave for over a week after she passed.”

Of all the people she had expected to see, Alexander hadn’t been one of them. His...feud (and that was putting it lightly) with Clara had been well-documented in their local histories, people quickly picking sides. Most, it seemed, had come down upon her sister’s - with many continuing to cast an eye of suspicion upon him, the man who’s only crime had been to lose his wife. In the witch hunt that had ensued, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to be a part of it. He loved her Clara...he couldn’t have done it. At the time, Clara had snapped at her, told her not to be such an innocent. But that had been one insult easily slid off her shoulders. I’m happy to be that. Words thought, but never said.

“Oh...that’s kind.” The fragility in her voice surprised even her. She hadn’t realised her sorrow was quite so transparent, translucent in the Autumn light. Summer, having come and gone, left only the lightest of touches. And yet, for Lucy, it felt as if winter had already come, along with flurries of snow she had only glimpsed on a few trips heading due North. “But I couldn’t trouble you...I...” I should do this myself. Force myself to. Steel myself. And yet, she had never been the strong one. She had only ever been the flower. “Can I ask you something? It’s a...a personal question. You can say no.”

[lucygrisham-blog]

Questioning:

“Mrs Grisham - we understand this must be a terrible time for you. Thank you so much for coming in.”

Their words were kind, but their eyes reflected none of that sympathy, marred instead by suspicion. How horrible it must be, she mused, to see the very worst in people, to look upon the world as if it  were made of evil. Whilst their empathy was lacking, hers, even as she shook, trembling under the bright white light and the absence she felt, never would. After all, that was why she came. It had only been five hours since her sister has been discovered, since she had cracked and fallen to the floor, consumed by sobs she thought would tear her to pieces. It would really help us in our investigation. I’m sure you understand. Her hair had bounced as she nodded. Of course. She always did. 

“Anything to help.” Underneath the bench, her hands trembled, made unsteady by nerves. Flattening them out, she buried them under her dress - no, Clara’s dress - she had borrowed one that night. You can’t be weak now. You have to be strong - for Clara - and her children. Only, she had never really known how to be strong. “Could I have some water?” Quiet and unassuming, the officers struggled to catch her words, but eventually one rose up. The other pressed play on the recording device - and so it began.

“Alright, first of all, could you describe your night at the fundraiser? Did you see anything suspicious? Where were you at approximately 11pm?”

Inclining her head into a solemn nod, Lucy dug her nails into the palm of her hands, struggling to recall the events of that night. It had started so well, almost like bliss. Wait no - that wasn’t true. It had been doomed from the start. “We were late. Me and Vincent - my husband -” But for how much longer? She thought, wincing at their argument. “- Clara wanted us there early, but we were late...and Clara wasn’t pleased at that.” No, for the first night of the academic season, she had wanted her entire group around her. Even the sister she had so chillingly betrayed just earlier that day. How could you do such a thing Clara? But even that, even that fundamental question, was thought with more anguish than anger. It was hard to be upset with her. Only then did she realise she would never be angry at her ever again. “But in the end it didn’t matter that much - she had an argument Dalton. It was....it was bad.” Always at loathe to speak ill of people, especially when the person in question was her brother-in-law, Lucy paused. “But...it wasn’t suspicious. I wouldn’t say that.” Speaking quickly, she struggled to rectify her mistake, adamant in her wish not to condemn her brother in law. “I’m not saying he did anything wrong. I need you to understand that.” Exhaling a shaky breath, tears welling in her eyes, she cleared her throat before continuing. “I...I think I was with my husband.”

 The officers eyes sharpened. “You think?” 

“I’m sorry...the details are blurry. I’m trying my best. I didn’t really leave his side all night -” Trying to make amends. Trying to show her love. “- So I must have been with him. I don’t know where else I would have been.” Not with Ramsay not in public. 

Eyes flickering up to meet those of the officer, Lucy struggled to read their reaction. Briefly writing a few notes, the officer spoke once more “Alright, lets move on. What was your relationship with your sister like? Were you two close? Was there ever any animosity?”

Biting down on her lip, Lucy allowed thirty-eight years of history to filter through her mind - the good and the bad. In each and every portion of her life, Clara was prevalent, always making herself known - even when she wasn’t wanted. Once, they had been two blonde girls, one strikingly beautiful, the other more demure. One had always been chasing the other - eagerly shouting for her sister to wait for her. But the sister never had. No matter what it was, where they were or how old they had been - Clara had always been just out of her reach, a clear first. Lucy had given up competing. It was easier to shrink herself, confide herself to her children and savor the small pleasures. But that hadn’t meant she loved her sister any less. Even now. “We’ve been a lot closer as adults than we were as children.” She admitted, not precluding the fact that the relationship appeared to be one sided - and that Clara hadn’t cared about her at all. “She...well, you know about Clara’s reputation. She was very smart, very ambitious - and I’m...I always had different goals. It wasn’t always easy, being alongside her. Especially as her twin.” Bile threatened to halt her words, immediate guilt flowing through Lucy at her honesty. I’m so sorry Clara. “But we got past that a long time ago.” She thought she had, but had Clara? “We’ve both got children the same age - and our husbands are quite friendly. We’re more than sisters - we’re friends too. Were.” Shuddering at her own correction, Lucy cast her gaze downwards. “Sorry. I can’t speak in the past tense. Not yet.” Nor will I ever. If your sister dies, does that mean you’re not half of anything anymore? “But...I confessed something to her. And she betrayed my trust....I was so mad at her.” It felt good to confess this, to tell someone, to expose her inward soul. A tear rolled down her cheek. “But I still loved her. Even then. I will always love her.”

Nothing slipped past the officer. “What did you tell her?”

Spoken through choked tears, Lucy’s speech was hardly distinguishable. “I...it was personal. About me.”

Wondering if she would have to elaborate, the door suddenly opened, the officer entering with her water. Placing it down in front of her, she immediately took it between the palm of her hands, gulping. “Thank you.” Even when mauled by grief, she remembered her manners. 

The officers exchanged a glance. “Alright, I guess that brings us onto our last question. Has it been difficult, living in your sisters shadow all your life? That must take quite a toll?” 

Her first instinct was to deny. To say no - and stay true to the person she had always planned on being. The good girl never gets upset. She never gets angry. And she never resents the success of others - let alone her own blood. But that wasn’t the truth. And, chewing on her lip, Lucy knew she was a terrible liar. Transparent, they would see straight through her. “Maybe when we were younger...and we wanted the same things. But we don’t - we didn’t...so...I don’t think so, no. It would be childish to hang onto those things.” Besides, I’m not the sister who stabbed the other in the back. The real question was - why had Clara been so determined to ruin her? “Once we grew up and got married - she was my maid of honour you know - “ Lucy hadn’t been Clara’s. “- things like that don’t matter. I had my children and they...they’ve filled me up. I don’t see myself as being in her shadow.” Because no one would ever bother to compare the two of them. “I just...I really did love her. I...” Swallowing more water, she fought off sobs. “...I can’t imagine my life now. We’ve always been together and the thought that she...that I...” That things were never made right. “I miss her. I miss her already.” Furiously wiping tears from her face, one officer awkwardly reached over, holding a tissue. “Thank you.”

“That’s all we need for now Mrs Grisham. We’ll escort you out.”

[lucygrisham-blog]

ramsayhughes:

Ramsay hadn’t known Clara well enough to guess what kind of flowers or gifts she may have liked. All he knew about the bitch was venom, the kind that surely would have killed the cornucopia of blossoms that surrounded the elaborate set-up of photos of her that graced the front of the school. The teddy bear he brought to lay by the front steps had been all Kyla’s doing, and in return, Ramsay had offered to make the delivery, not because he mourned the loss of the bitter Caldwell twin, but only so Kyla wouldn’t have to be reminded of her friend’s death. He owed her that much, at the very least.

He stepped from the door of his car, but he wasn’t alone. It was almost eery, to watch as Lucy stared towards a memorial crafted for the woman who’d shared her eyes, her lips, her everything — and if the sight shook him, it was surely nothing compared to what she felt. The tears he heard her sniffing back, and the incoherent jumble of words he was barely able to make out, confirmed those suspicions.

She needed comfort. She needed someone — she needed him.

At home, there was another woman who did, as well, but he’d always been a man with short sight, a man of immediate gratification. His mind, his heart, his body — all of it was here, and tonight, none with Kyla.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m here,” he ventured, voice soft as he approached, slowly. His arms wrapped themselves tightly around her frame, coaxing her head into the crook of his shoulder. With his hold around her, Ramsay pulled the woman behind the trunk of a large tree — just enough cover for the two of them to engage without any risks of suspicious glances. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for, alright?” He pulled himself inches away, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on her forehead. “You take as much time as you need — no one can blame you for that.” 

“Ramsay.” And just like that, a little of the tension that had sent her heart into a flurry was relived, the knot of anxiety inside of her replaced by a frictionless tension that emerged in his presence. Her grief continued to pull down at her shoulders, but she no longer felt as if she had been cast out on the vast ocean all alone. A lifeboat had come - and there was someone here to rescue. By now, she should have known better - should have learnt how to rescue herself. But it seemed as if she never might.

And, for a moment, she allowed herself to ease into him, to be wrapped tightly in his embrace and be held. Time stilled around them - and the moment began to feel eternal. I could be here forever. For, right now, there was no need for a mask. There were no sharp biting remarks or pitied looks. There was only him. But reality would demand things from them both - and the pair of them didn’t belong to the light of day, even when hidden behind a tree. She couldn’t indulge. She couldn’t be so selfish. 

She had told herself that daily since their very first time, since her awakening after so many years of death. But the words had never resonated, not until now, at least.

So, although it pained her, she withdrew, stepping backwards. All that was left of him was the impression on her forehead where his lips had been.

“I’m glad you’re here.” These past few days had been so lonely. Ever since that night, ever since she had been released from police questioning, she had been lost - unable to piece herself back together. In a sense, it was logical. A piece of her was missing. Clara had been a part of her since birth. How did you live without that? Empty and derelict, she was a porcelain cup, cracked but not yet pieces on the floor. “I know...but...I have to. I’m her sister.” Pausing, the cold reality sank in. “Was. I was her sister.” But when the time had come, Clara hadn’t honoured her bond. She had chosen to break their trust and doom her marriage, putting Lucy’s entire life in jeopardy. 

[lucygrisham-blog]

audravelasquez:

Audra was here because, apparently, she was a masochist. Seeing people praise a, frankly, awful woman because of her death. It was like everything she’d ever done had been wiped from the minds of the citizens of Santa Clara and suddenly she had been canonized. Each person was expected to pay their respects, but Audra was one of the people in the town who would not be caught dead carrying flowers towards that memorial, and would never bring flowers to her funeral, either. She wasn’t empathetic to Clara herself, but instead to those who were posed around Clara, who had lost someone they loved, no matter how awful she was. 

“Lucy?” Audra asks, her voice concerned for a woman she’d almost call her friend. Lucy was gentle in all the ways that Clara was all sharp edges. Audra approaches the woman, who’s carrying flowers in her arm, and catches the tears welling up in her eyes. 

“Technically, you don’t have to.” Audra states, “It’s okay if you can’t yet.” Audra wants to cry too. Lucy was the kind of person who made you want to protect her, yet she couldn’t let herself do that. She didn’t owe any more tears to Clara Caldwell. She tires to give Clara a reassuring smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. 

“I’ll go with you?” Audra offers, knowing it goes against everything she believes in but feeling like this will help. 

A flash of red hair at her side could mean only one thing - Audra. Her first reaction is one of surprise. Out of all the places she could have pegged her, this isn’t it. Clara was nothing but cruel to her, Lucy watching from the sidelines as her sister had the audacity to ruin someone for the simple crime of loving two people. Even before her affair, Lucy never would have allowed herself to judge, too gentle and kind for that. But now, she thought she could understand a little. Sometimes convention isn’t enough. Sometimes you need more. But in one key aspect, they different.

Audra gets to love two people. I’m not sure if either of mine love me.

Although her heart ached, she tried not to dwell - guilt and anger stirring inside. Guilt at the betrayal of her wedding vows, anger that one of Clara’s last actions had been to confess her tryst to her husband, thereby wrecking any chance of peaceful reconciliation. Stop it. The order cut through her mind, forcing her to move off the subject. You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Especially when they’re your sister. Today, as in all the days to come, she would conjure only the good, the rare happy moments, those in which Clara had acted as a sister should. The rest she would take to her own grave.

“I should. Clara would want me to. These were her favourites - and I couldn’t find her childhood bear. This is the least I can do.” In truth, Clara’s childhood bear had been her bear - taken from her at aged four. Clara had already bitten hers to pieces and when greedy hands had stretched out, the word no hadn’t formed, as it never would. “That would be kind. Very kind - thank you.”

[lucygrisham-blog]

fuckyeahrosamundpike:

It’s a lovely thing, to put love on screen. You feel good when you’re doing it. I think, chemically, things happen to your body when you’re playing characters. When you’re playing malevolent characters, there are probably higher levels of cortisol. And when you’re playing love, all the serotonin kicks in.

[lucygrisham-blog]

Flowers. Her entire life, she had sworn by flowers. Roses, lilies, violets - each holding its own delicate beauty, each perfect for a separate occasion. She had carried a bouquet of white roses down the aisle on her wedding day. She had been brought lilies by her parents after the birth of her first child. And now, today, a bunch of violets sat in her shaky hands - all with a more tragic purpose. They were her favourite. No, a small voice correct, were. Talking about Clara in the past tense still sent a shock wave down her spine, her body knowing that something was fundamentally amiss in the world. A piece of her was missing, the end of a permanent string cut off, fraying loose in the wind. Her entire life, for better or for worse, she had looked towards Clara. Her sister had done everything first - birth, marriage, children...she should have guessed that she would fall to a grave first.

She just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. Or to be like this. 

Two days after the fateful events and the police continued to flock around the school, regarding anyone who approached with cautious suspicion. And yet, despite that, a memorial had already begun to build, flowers and teddies, heartfelt messages and fresh tears. Clara would have loved the attention. And yet, mere yards away, Lucy couldn’t bring herself to cross the road, to pay her respects, to begin to say goodbye. 

Tears welling in her eyes, her words came out as more a sob than coherent passage. “I...I can’t do this. I can’t lay these flowers.”

[lucygrisham-blog]

LUCY GRISHAM

thirty-eight. full time mom. rosamund pike.

“Lucy? Oh, you mean Clara’s sister. It’s amazing how the two of them are related, honestly. Lucy is everything Clara isn’t, you know? An amazing mom, a good heart - maybe too good, if you ask me. She’s always been a bit timid, letting Clara take the spotlight. I heard her husband isn’t exactly the most faithful, either. Maybe one day, she just got sick of taking a back seat to everyone. Maybe she decided there’s only room for one of them.“

Had Lucille Beauchamp been born an only child, perhaps she’d have become a different woman — but she wasn’t. Sharing a womb with Clara had shaped everything, from the twins’ first breaths onwards. She’d been the antithesis of her sister, though whether it was by nature or by necessity was difficult to say. Where Clara was loud, demanding eyes and ears in every room, Lucy was docile, a dream of a child to the parents whose hands were full with a little blonde monster. Caring and soft hearted, it was always the path of least resistence to put herself last, allowing Clara to take the spotlight. It was cold, living in her sister’s shadow, but Lucy became quickly accustomed to coming in second place. Clara was a natural born leader, and Lucy was simply along for the ride. Any achievements she managed to tuck under her belt, Clara would either undermine or outdo, and so she learned to keep her victories quiet, which was a better compromise than having them stolen from her altogether. Her sister had never been the kind to let her have something that was entirely her own — when they were little it was her toys that she’d steal, and as they grew it became friends, opportunities, and whichever boys happened to look at her with a smile. For a girl who’d always been a romantic at heart, the latter hurt the most. She had a soul filled with love — love that she even tried to give to the sister who did nothing but step on her. All of her dreams included a vision of romance — to give her undying love to someone who reciprocated it, to become a mother, to watch her children grow up and become successful. She’d been forced long ago to give up on the idea that any of it would ever happen while her sister was around — or at least until her sister had found the same thing for herself first. After high school, when Clara left town for university, she finally found a taste of what life on her own, rather than as Clara’s sister, was like. She followed her heart, that had always appreciated the beauty in life, towards a degree in art history at a UCSC. Without her sister’s shadow hovering over her, she was free to be herself, to let her light and heart and creative spirit shine through. She was also free to, for the first time in her life, meet someone without Clara’s interference. She fell head over heels for Vincent Grisham, taking his last name after she’d finished school. He was her Prince Charming, sweeping her off of her feet with charms straight out of a storybook. She’d soon learn that fairytales end when they do for a reason. Vince’s pitch had seemed too good to be true — and it was. He’d presented himself as the loving husband she’d always dreamed of, told her she’d never have to work a day in her life, that he’d take care of her. Financially, that much was true, but Lucy had never dreamed of financial happiness. She was an emotional being, a Tinkerbell thriving on love and passion rather than applause, and other than a quick fuck on his clock, she received neither from her husband. Yes, he gave her beautiful children that lit up her life, but the more he revealed of himself, the emptier she felt. She was married to a narcissist — a cold man, an angry man with a temper, a man who saw a wife as an obligation and status symbol at best. This wasn’t the man she’d fallen in love with, but that man hadn’t existed at all. No, this man put his work above his family, putting in minimal effort with their children. This man would come home smelling like another woman’s perfume, if he came home at all. She chose to ignore the infidelity, whenever possible. It was simply easier to sweep the knowledge of his affairs under the rug, rather than confronting him head-on. On the occasions when the evidence was too damning to turn a blind eye too, she’d facilitate a quiet conversation that would always end in her forgiveness. She was a kind soul at heart, always choosing forgiveness over resentment — but part of it came out of necessity. She’d spent so many years in this life that if she left him, where would she even go? What would she do? What would happen to the children? In his absence, her children had become her everything. She had no job, and barely a husband, leaving her kids the most important thing in her life. Their achievements became her achievements, their success her success, the line so blurred that it never occurred to her to consider her own wants and needs — at least, for a while. There came a day, while Vince had been away at work and her children had been off at school, shen she was forced to face a harsh realization — she had nothing in her life that was just hers, and perhaps she never had. She needed to feel alive again, to feel loved again, and so she fell into the arms of another man — Ramsay Hughes. She’d never thought herself to be the unfaithful type, but there was no denying how good it felt to have someone that wanted her and her alone, in a raw, all-consuming passion.

MOTIVE

She had far too good a conscience on her for an adulteress, and the guilt begun to weigh heavily. She’d made the mistake of confiding in her sister about the affair with Ramsay. While she’d hoped Clara would provide her with advice, what she got was quit ethe opposite. Clara held the affair over her head, pressuring her to tell her husband — and saying that if Lucy didn’t, she would. Perhaps Lucy should’ve known better than to assume her sister was bluffing, because soon enough, Vincent came to her in a rage, asking who it was she’d been sleeping with. Clara may have withheld the name of her lover, but she’d gone ahead and let Vince know that his wife had been unfaithful. She simply couldn’t let Lucy have anything to herself, could she? Not her lover, not her marriage, not a damn thing in thirty-five years. Now, she’ll never have to worry about being overshadowed again.

CHILDREN

nadia grisham. daughter. thirteen. with vincent grisham. anderson grisham. son. eleven. with vincent grisham. reese grisham. son. five. with vincent grisham.

lucy is taken. alternate fcs: n/a

[lucygrisham-blog]

You’re Annie.