Hey, it's Sarah, aka da kray-kray fangurl. And this is a little something that popped up in my mind. It's rated T for mentions and descriptions (not graphic) of abuse, suicide and depression. I try to keep swearing to a minimum, but there's absolutely no way that a story like this can't have absolutely no swearing in it. But there's not as much as there could be or should be if this were to happen (and it does happen) in real life.

And to all the haters out there who thinks suicide is cowardly and depression isn't real and all that crap, then you shouldn't be reading this. It's very real, and these things exist in real life. Normally, I'd appreciate haters, but this story really connects with me, so I won't tolerate any haters about the events of this story. Flames about my writing itself are welcome, but none about the plot, please.

This story is dedicated to my friends, you know who you are, the people who've helped me through so much, but most of all, myself.

The lights go out all around me
One last candle to keep out the night
And then the darkness surrounds me
I know I'm alive but I feel like I've died
And all that's left is to accept that it's over
My dreams ran like sand through the fists that I made
I try to keep warm but I just grow colder
I feel like I'm slipping away

CLARY'S POV

I looked at my finished masterpiece, and tears sprung to my eyes.

A blur of red and green was on the floor, being shoved down by ghosts only invisible to her. Her hand is reaching for the sky that was dark and black. The stars glistened in silver, and fell like tears. The moon wass full, but somehow, it seemed cold. There was a tinge of red in it, and I could almost hear the cries of agony leaping out of the page.

The angels. They weep for their dead children, the children of their blood. They weep for them and for me.

I added some calligraphy at the bottom, the elegant cursive making the words seem like a beautiful terror. Nobody heard her scream.

I blinked my eyes several times, and then hid the artwork in my folder before anyone could see it. I shoved it in my backpack, along with the watercolour pencils that I used, and pulled out the assigned book. Class should start soon.

As if on cue, the bell rang, and Mr. Garroway rushed into the class. He always came barely on time. Several students started filling up the leftover empty seats. I sunk lower into my seat.

The class began, and Mr. Garroway talked about the homework assignment we were supposed to do the night before. The students made occasional commentary, and one or two answered the teacher's reflection questions.

Then I grabbed my sketchbook and my 6B pencil, and drew the faint outline of an intricate design with broad lines. It stood bold and strong on the paper, and always reminded me of the word fearless. My mother showed it to me before she died. She was an artist too, and she told me to look for beauty in ordinary things. Us painters, we could see horror and beauty in even just some simple lines and swirls.

Next, I sketched different ones. My mother and I had made quite a few. We had specific ones in which we would use to communicate to each other, like Strength or Quietude. We created random names for them, and we would aways draw them on each other when we needed it.

It's been nine years since I had to draw it on my own.

I dropped my pencil and picked up my sharpie pen. I turned over my wrist, and drew a familiar design onto it.

Heal, numbing of the pain.

Iratze.

I imagined the entricate design do it's work, and wash away all the stress, all the doubt, heal the cuts and bruises. I let it leave my skin behind as flawless and unscarred, smooth as honey.

I closed my eyes and let out a heavy sigh. For a moment, there was no Clary Fray and her shitty life. There was no Valentine Morgenstern, no depression, no death. There was only healing.

My eyes snapped open when I heard my name.

"Clary," Mr. Garroway called. "What do you think?"

My eyes widended fractionally. "I think that it's great." I stammered the automatic response.

He raised his eyebrow. I was automatically jealous that he could do that. "You think murder is great?" He was hiding a smile.

"Umm... No... I just think that the book is great, although murder is wrong unless it was in self defense." I knew I was stuttering, but I couldnt help it.

"Okay, thank you Clary." I sighed in reief. I was off the hook.

I went back to my drawings until the bell rang again, signalling the end of the period. I gathered my stuff and quietly left, hoping to avoid the populars.

The day passed by in a drone. The teachers talked, I drew. By the time lunch came by, I was half asleep.

I edged around the side lines, carefully giving a wide berth around the populars. When I reached the loser table, I sat down. All I wanted to do was sleep. I hadn't slept in a week, and it was really catching up to me.

What I didn't realize was that someone who I have never met before in my life was sitting near me. There were ten or so people who sat here, and I just so happened to be unlucky enough to be one of them.

My head whipped up when I heard someone say hi. I looked around, trying to identify the voice. And then, I saw him.

He didn't look like he belonged here, in the loser table. He had soft, windblown hair that was as golden as the sun, a tall, lean, muscular body, a smirk to die for that will most likely melt other girls, and his eyes. They were like honey, about two shades lighter than his hair. They were absolutely gorgeous, but they were blank. Emotionless.

I gasped in surprise. "Umm... Who are you?" My voice sounded pitchy, even to me.

"Jace Herondale. Nice to meet you." The corner of his mouth lifted upward. He had dimples.

"Okay. Now that we got that figured out, what are you doing here?" I said it a bit sharper than I planned.

"You mean, what am I doing with you, or life's biggest mystery, what am I doing on Earth?" He asked amused. His dull eyes failed to show any emotion, but I could see that he was enjoying this conversation.

"What are you doing with us?" I asked. A guy who looked like him should be sitting with the populars, flirting with Kaelie or other sluts.

"I'm having lunch." His hands scrambled around and found an apple. He picked it up, and took a bite out of it to prove his point.

"Ugh," I was frustrated. "Nevermind."

He grinned even more. "So, now that I have revealed my identity, what's your name?"

"Clary." I replied solemnly.

"Well, a pleasure to be in your presence." He took another bite of his apple. He ate it funny. First, he put it to his mouth and touched it to his lips for a second, as if making sure it was there and didn't disapear. Then, without moving, he opened his mouth and took a bite.

"So tell me, Jace." I took a drink out of my water. "What's a pretty boy like you doing at the table for the bottom of the social status?"

"What's a pretty girl like you doing here too?"

I flushed. "I'm not pretty."

He raised his eyebrows. "I imagine you are."

I tried to do the same, but failed miserably. "Imagine?" I asked curiously.

His smile faded a little, but then it grew wider. "I'll explain later."

I was suspicious, but then I shrugged. I swigged another drink of my water.

We fell into a comfortable silence, and I drew (AN/ Ha, get it? Drew? Sorry. I'll stop now.) out my sketchbook and coloured pencils. I began a light outline of a little girl trapped in a box, bloody and broken. She holds a small Angel that is stringed on a necklace close to her heart, and she seems to be whispering a prayer. Her gray eyes are wide, frantic, pleading. On the walls of the dreary box "Bruises heal, Scars don't" Is written.

I didn't even notice the bell rang until Jace tapped my shoulder. "Clary, can you show me to my next classes?" He hands me his schedule that was tucked in his back pocket.

"Sure." I sighed hesitantly as I unfolded the sheet of paper. "We have the next two classes together. Come on, Art's down this way." I took a step forward, and continued walking. I turned around, expecting him to follow. Instead, he was looking around wildly for something.

"Clary? Clary." He called out.

I walked back. "What? Are we going to go to class or not?" I was getting impatient.

Then his wandering hands reached my shoulder and grabbed on to it desperately. I flinched, and backed away, but he held on tight. I tried to pry his hands off me, but it was no use. I was frightened that he would do something else.

"Clary, please stop struggling." He said, and I reluctantly stopped. He put his other hand on my other shoulder and turned me slightly so I was staring into his lifeless eyes.

And when he spoke, his voice was filled with seriousness. It was tinged with bitterness, and he sounded like he mourned for something that once was his.

"Clary." His grip on me tightened. "I'm blind."