The rain sounded so far away. All was distant to Clarissa Fairchild, whose sole intention for having stayed up into the late hours of a battered and bruised day was to finish her painting by seven in the morning. Everything depended on her finishing her project. Her stomach depended on her finishing this project.
As Clary took her messily abstract palette to the washroom for the tenth time that night, she heaved a sigh and wondered how she had got here in the first place. Having to work late to support her education. Selling her works for cheap prices at the shadow market (for that was what it was called, it was a place of shady dealings) to get a square meal a day.
Oh, right. She'd fought with her parents, that's how. Valentine Fairchild had always been a cruel, money-seeking man. However, love always finds a human, no matter how selfish he may be. Jocelyn had only been 18 when a man had come asking for her hand in marriage. Her father, a poor man with no other way for supporting her, had consented without a hesitation.
But Valentine soon grew fed up of her. She had held all of his interest in her youth, during her prime age. Heads turned her way when she walked beside Valentine. The night Jocelyn discovered that she was pregnant, she was too afraid to say anything to her husband. Of course, it wasn't long before he found out, and Jocelyn, at the mere age of 24 grieved the loss of a baby. She had named him Jonathon.
Now, when Jocelyn discovered that she was pregnant a second time, she ran away from Valentine. She could not suffer the loss of another child, it would break her. By the time Valentine had found her, she had already had the baby. "Clarissa" she'd named her. To say the sight of her warmed the heart of Valentine and changed him would be a complete and utter lie.
That was how Clary grew up, with a father who hardly cared and a mother who was too scared to. Her education was rough-edged. Her father kept shifting them from place to place throughout childhood, and she was beyond four and a half when her mother finally found the courage to ask him. Even then, he had not really paid any attention.
At age 17, Clary Fairchild had decided she had had enough. She had taken what little possessions she had, written a letter to her mom and texted Simon Lewis.
It was Simon who had found her the apartment so close to her college, Simon who had helped her find her buyers, Simon who had always been there for her more than anyone else. All those lonely nights in her room, bunched up in a blanket calling Simon on his telephone- it was partly what kept Clary sane.
Now, as she sat back onto her chair, Clary noticed that she'd received a text from him. She smiled despite the thoughts in her head.
"Still Up?" it read.
"Yeah, gotta finish this one and I'll hit the bed."
"Well then, do it quick. You have classes after the auction."
"Sure, Si. Thanks."
"Good night."
"Good night."
Clary stretched and looked at the time. 2:15, the clock said. Sighing, she lifted her brush and began to add the finishing touches of the painting.