She digs through her small stash of belongings-it was less sparse when her dad was around, but when he didn’t come home, they had to “make do” with what they had. She takes an old rucksack from under her bed and begins to stuff her belongings inside.
Somehow she knew this would happen. The tears begin to form before it’s all said and done. She found only a select few items worth snagging; her wooden dagger, a doll her father gave her, the candle from the nearby windowsill, just in case she needs light.
From the hallway, she can hear her mother and “father” moving about, the rest of the argument having fallen through.
Clover scans the room for any books or items she can take from what little she owns. Unless if she wants to bring a few broken toys with her, she’ll have to stick with what she found. The thumping from outside is becoming more apparent, her parents moving around without words between them.
She decides that tonight is the night. She can’t live like this anymore. She knows that the only thing her mother can give her is a hushed hug and maybe a biscuit for the road, if there were anything left to eat in this house.
Deciding not to put her and her mother through the pain, she tosses open the window quietly, stepping up and tossing her mostly empty bag onto the grassy floor below. She follows through with herself, landing on her hooves with a quiet thump.
Clover is outside of the house now. She doubts she can climb in through the window on her own to get back in, and she doesn’t think it’d be smart to head through the front door. Not with her Step Father on watch.
What does Clover do? By her estimations, it is probably a few hours before dawn.
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