Life after Love

I'm back! I'm really sorry for the long wait, but I had to do a lot of thinking about this story and I realized; it's not going in the direction I wanted it to. I'm re-writing this, and I'm sorry if you don't like it but please try it out. It still has the same concept and values of the other story but it's tweaked. A lot.

Okay, I'm sorry. Please try it out though! Also, drop a review (or two) and I hope you enjoy the modified 'Shattered Mirrors!'

Chapter 1.

-Clary-

I blew out a breath of complete and utter exhaustion. My eyes were weary, burdened with the heavy load of having been open all day. My calloused hands, hardened over the months of endless work, were shaking as they clumsily buttoned up the last bead on my jacket. It was a frosty night, one that called for hot chocolates and a toasty heater to sit in front of. I bit my chapped lip, thinking of the cool winds I would have to endure on the streets.

"Clary?" A soft voice asked me, laced with the uncertainty that I had heard many times before. I turned around to see an anxious Charlotte, her brown eyes saddened and gentle. "Are you alright for a ride back home?" I smiled at her kindness, a tone I had heard and appreciated many times before. I patted her hand, my ice-cold fingers resting against her own. I gladly welcomed the warmth of her tiny hands, greedily snatching up the heat from her body.

"Nah, I'm fine. Thanks Charlotte," I grinned but felt guilty at the look of despair that enhanced her delicate features. I hated making her feel concerned, as if she had some sort of responsibility for me. But this was Charlotte we were talking about. She was practically a mother towards everyone. I hated pity, though.

She rested her palm against my cheek. I leaned in towards it and closed my eyes, feeling exhaustion rush through my body. "You're working too hard, Clary. These bags under your pretty green eyes, they're not for someone as young as you."

I sighed, hearing the same words I heard every day. "I have no choice, Charlotte."

"Everyone has a choice, dear. That is was makes us God's children," she whispered, sounding close to tears. Charlotte was a heavily devoted Christian, her values and ethics matching her strong-willed personality that reflected strongly on her religion. She had never missed a session of Church, which made her, in the eyes of the local pastor Mr Branwell, the perfect woman.

Once, when Cook had caught a nasty cold, she was convinced it was the work of a demon. She lined salt on the windowsills, which gave Nancy, our elderly cleaner, a near heart-attack, and gave us these funny little doll amulets to wear. Cook, wrapped in a bundle of blankets with a matching red nose, let out an exasperated sigh and shook his head, saying to me, "they can't all be normal. What fun would that be?" I laughed at that. Cook was one of those people who never meant to be intentionally funny, but was. It was hilarious to see Nancy chase Charlotte around, waving her arms and yelling in her Spanish accent, "Miss Charlotte, please!"

"Life's not fair, Charlotte," I said sadly, pulling her in for a much-needed hug. She immediately wrapped her slim arms around me, sighing into my shoulder. I was short, almost to the point of it being unfair but Charlotte was bird-like, tiny like a child. It was only the wisdom in her eyes and the slight wrinkles on her smooth face that indicated any sort of age.

"What has this come to?" Charlotte murmured fretfully, lowering her head in regret. "A child, of all people-"

"Charlotte," I interrupted, before she started praying to the Lord, "I have to get going." I loved Charlotte like a mother, but her concern was often over-whelming. Although, I was entirely grateful for her comfort and love, which had been a source of consolation over the long days that were almost unbearable.

"Of course," her gaze softened as her eyes swept over my face. How small and ridiculously child-like I must seem to her. "Be safe, okay?" I nodded, grabbing my bag before walking to the door. I glanced back to see her staring off into space with a sort miserable expression on her face. I hated doing this to her, poor, loving Charlotte having to deal with me every day.

I regretted stepping out into the night the moment I walked out the door. The winds were harsh, piercing as they chased the last strands of the sun away. Darkness rose from the buildings like black vapour, twinkling stars blinking in the sea of indigo. The last strip of sunlight still remained, persistently spreading its last rays across the sky. I shivered but I was at least grateful for the extra bit of warmth my jacket provided. I also knew that it was going to be a lot worse, as this was only the end of autumn. Winter was soon approaching fast and the days were going to be both longer and colder.

The breeze had picked up again; this time, it was even harsher as it strikes at my face. I gasped, feeling tears gather in my eyes. My shoes clacked against the hard pavement as I rubbed my eyes, blinking away at the sleep. The street lights were bright, a smudge of dull yellow against an ink-black sky.

I glanced back at Taki's, an unknown restaurant that hung on the outskirts of Manhattan. It was a hard place to find, a place that only the locals knew of. It was a dodgy grey, with dim lights and a scraggly coat of white paint. However, the quality of the food was incomparable. It was what brought back all the customers that came back almost every day.

The people there were like my family; I loved Jordon, the defiant and mischievous barista who was like my brother; my best friend Maia, the beautiful and fierce waitress; Charlotte, the manager who was like a second mother to us all; Cook, the rude and arrogant chef and Nancy, the elderly cleaner. There were other part-timers who also worked at Taki's, but it was such a small restaurant that many staff weren't needed full-time.

Maia and I were the only waitresses that worked there, but we worked well together. She was a great friend, one of the best, alongside the mischievous Jordon who always seemed in trouble or near it. Jordon was absolutely infatuated with Maia; a blind man could see it. Before her, other women he would treat like beanbags. It was only the models and the girls in magazines he liked and respected. He loved annoying people to see what their reactions would be, always saying shit like; "Hey, sweetheart. Yeah, I'm a pig, but I got the balls to admit it. Sexist? Me? Whatever, darling."

They would always get angry, but knowing that he tricked them into it. That's why it was so funny to see him blush when Maia entered a room, or when she smiled or even talked to him. I wondered if Maia returned his feelings, or if she was just pulling him along. I secretly hoped that they would eventually get together. I hadn't had much of a chance to talk to her recently, though, with everything that was going on.

Jordon was like the brother I never had. He was rebellious, never caring about what people thought about him. It was probably the defiant Latin side of him that made up his arrogant and unruly personality and his ability to always be in trouble. Cook always threatened to fire him but we all knew that he would never even consider it. Even when Jordon hid all the knives in the kitchen and replaced them with the plastic spoons from IKEA.

Cook was a grumpy, old chef who emigrated from London and had pretty much trained with the best cooks from Britain. He would never actually tell us what his age was, even though Jordon said he was around for the Industrial Revolution, but I guessed it was somewhere around 56 or so. He was fussy, obsessed with kitchen perfection. He would spend hours straightening out his forks and spoons while we watched him from the entrance of the kitchen.

"Crazy old loon," Jordon would always grumble, which made Maia laugh and then his face would turn red. I loved teasing him about it which always made him scowl and push me away.

The sky was darkening quickly; it spread like black fog, enveloping the stars as a blanket would be wrapped around. I neared closer to town, bright shop lights shimmering as I breathed out. People passed me in a hurried, vicious manner and I neared out the way of a hassled-looking mother who had a tight grip on her screaming children. I could barely hide my laughter as I ducked a flailing arm. I shivered as I drew my jacket in closer, teeth chattering in the cool wind.

I looked up, realising that I had finally reached the hospital. It was huge, hulking and grey in the centre of the street. I lingered in front of the entrance before shouldering my way inside, blinking as the bright fluorescent lights blinded my eyes. The bitter smell of medicine and morphine met my nose and I swallows the nausea that gathered in my throat. It was blindingly white inside, the marble walls and tiles inhumanly gleaming with a pristine shine that most hospitals had. I wandered over to the front desk, greeting the night-shift receptionist.

"Hey, Tess," I said, resting my elbows on the counter. Tess was a few years older than me, just out of college. She was an aspiring doctor, but did other jobs to help pay for her apartment. She had become somewhat of an older sister to me. Tessa was often on the night shift, used to my visits during the evenings and afternoons.

"Clary," she said, her grey-blue eyes meeting my own as she rubbed her own eyes tiredly. Her long brown hair was tied up in a scruffy ponytail, half of it sticking up in a messy fashion.

"You tired too?" I asked, smiling as I unbuttoned the front buttons of my jacket. It was surprisingly warm, the heaters leaving me feeling toasty and the cool atmosphere almost homely.

"Yep," she said, popping the 'p' as she typed something into the keyboard. "Double-shift."

Tess had been extremely sympathetic towards my situation, and often allowed my very late visits. Visiting hours were a very strict matter at most hospitals, but Tess had managed to bribe the board. There was a very influential doctor who was very taken with Tessa; a handsome guy who was about her age. He would pretty much move the world if she asked, but Tessa was blind to it, which reminded me a lot of Jordon's situation.

"Well, I'm gonna head up. Enjoy your shift." I smiled at her before taking off, heading for the elevator. My feet felt like they were no longer functioning, but I pushed on. The whole room was blurry; it tilted as I blinked furiously, breathing out in rapid breaths. Staff, who I grown acquainted to over the long months, waved or smiled at me as they passed, rolling trolleys with boxes of medicine.

I reached the elevator, before tiredly raising a finger to the button and pressing down. I waited, catching my breath as a slight ding sounds from the machine. I crawled inside, clutching my bag closer to my chest. I sighed, feeling guilty of the millions of lies I would have sprout for her today.

I leaned against the wooden walls of the elevator, tipping my head backward. I was tired. So, so tired. The bell dinged once more and I jumped, surprised.

I knew this hospital so well, I could probably name every department and their respective staff. Navigating my way through an assortment of tired-looking nurses and some bedraggled doctors, I headed down to a ward down at the end of the corridor. The walls seemed to suddenly close in, the huge hospital now a seemingly tiny place.

My hand reached for the handle and I grasped it tightly; the cool steel was a pleasant surprise against my now burning fingers. I pushed it open and looked inside, forcing a smile as I slipped inside, as quietly as I possibly could.

I needn't have been as quiet as I was, because she was already awake, waiting for me. Her smile lit up the entire room, her green eyes gleaming with a sort of feverish happiness. "Clary!" You could hear the obvious happiness in her voice. It was powerful, as was her noticeable strength in her voice.

"Hey, mom," I responded just as enthusiastically, grinning widely. I walked over and sat in the usual chair besides her. Her fragile hands reached for my own and I curled my fingers around her cold palms. I thought that my hands were cold, but hers were absolutely freezing, glacial even. "How are you?"

She laughed, squeezing my hands. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Just a bit tired because of the medication." My mother was still beautiful, despite the obvious toll the illness had taken on her. She used to have lovely, smooth crimson locks, but her condition had taken her hair. Her head was derelict of any color, now a bare, pale dome. Bags hung under her ever sparkling green eyes, and her face was bone-white. Her skin was translucent, blue veins showing through her fragile arms.

Cancer. A six letter word that threatened to eat away at my mother's very existence. The word that had been printed on the doctor's formal letter that informed us of her illness. A disease that ran through my mother's bloodstream, which had become so deadly that it had confined her to a hospital bed.

"Never mind that," my mother said, grinning as she sat forward, giving my hands a pat, "how was school?"

I felt a lump start to form in my throat. Shame flooded through my body and it was all the strength that I had within me that prevented me from breaking down and crying. "Good," I lied, the words burning my tongue. 'It's great."

"And Aunt Muriel?" She asked, gratitude coloring her tone. I almost growled at the mentioning of her name, but I forced it back, smiling instead.

"Yeah, she's good," I said, fidgeting with my mother's marriage finger. It was beautiful, a gorgeous diamond that sparkled atop a gold band that had the words carved; 'all, everything that I understand, I only understand because I love.' Leo Tolstoy was my mother's favourite author. She had never once taken off her ring, for fear that she would lose it.

"And your work? It's so great that you got a part-time job, sweetheart. I'm so proud," she said warmly, stroking my hair with a gentle sort of fragility.

"Working there's great. It pays really well and everyone there's amazing."

"That's fantastic! I remember when I got my first job. It was at a bakery near my parent's house and I always took home a cake home for my mom. I was a few years older than you, but I can still tell you exactly where the fruitcakes were-"

"Mrs Fairchild?" We both looked up to see my mother's doctor, Dr William. He was extremely attractive, which made most of the nurses in the building either swoon or giggle when he passed. His features were very angular, striking with his violet-blue eyes and ink-black hair.

"Yes?" My mother asked, not looking a bit upset at the fact that she had been interrupted. She just continued to stroke my hair as she pulled me in closer.

"I'm here to tell you that you're ready for your next cycle of chemotherapy. We have given as much time as medially necessary for the normal body cells to recover, but it is time for the next stage of your recovery. This one will last for the duration of three weeks and we'll start the process morning," he said sombrely. Will, as he had asked us to call him, was a great doctor. He worked underpaid in a crappy hospital when he could work at a private hospital in London or even France. I was eternally grateful that he was taking such good care of my mother.

"That's good to hear, Will," my mother smiled, but I could tell it was forced. She hated the treatment; it made her feel tired and sick. He nodded his head and grinned good-naturally before waving us goodbye. I yawned before looking over at the ticking clock in the corner; it was getting late. I got off the bed and headed over to the plush chair that sat next to the bed, taking off my shoes as I curled up onto the armrest.

My mother tutted as she picked up a spare blanket from the side of her bed, spreading it over me. I sighed, snuggling up in the warmth as my mother brushed the strands of red hair from my face. "Why don't you go home, Clary?" She asked, sounding worried. "You have your own bed there, and a heater and Simon's a few houses down." Simon was a close friend who lived close to me; we had known each other since we were barely children.

"But no you, mom," I said sleepily, closing my eyes. I loved our home, a small house in Brooklyn that had a view of the Hudson River. But without my mother, it was cold and lifeless. "It's not home if you're not there."

"Hmm…" my mother grumbled, but I could tell she had given up on it. She sighed instead, giving me a kiss on the forehead before settling down into her blankets. "Good night sweetheart."

"Night, mom," was all I said before drifting off into a blissful sleep without dying mothers or an endless racks of hospital gowns.

If I concentrated hard enough on the honking of the cars outside, or the shouts of angry citizens, I almost didn't hear the beep of the machine that informed me of the fact that my mom was still alive.

Please review!

-happinesstrap xx