Bodyguard
Clary POV
He's back from school. I tense up, hearing another pair of footsteps follow him into the room. I see high-heels. Red, slutty heels that girls wore when they wanted him to... *ahem* He doesn't, does he? Oh please. Don't do it. Not again. But I hear him push her onto the bed above me. Of course they do the deed. I'd jump out and stop them, but that'd blow my cover. That's the 12th girl in these past three months alone...
He gets off the bed, but the girl stays on. I hear him tell her he's going to take a shower, so that his girlfriend doesn't smell her on him. He is such a man-whore; I'm surprised he's managed to still keep a girl to consider a steady girlfriend. Meanwhile, this girl stays on the bed, her feet hanging off the side. I know this, because I see her heels, hanging in front of my face. I listen, until I hear the sound of the hall bathroom's shower being turned on.
For the first time, I realized something was different about this girl. All the others smelled like cheap perfume or something from the mall. She smelled...cold, but at the same time, sickly sweet fire. I knew this smell all too well.
His parents aren't home. He'll be distracted. So it's up to me to save him. When I was sure he wouldn't be able to hear, I rolled out from under his bed, pulling out my Swiss Army Knife from my sweater pocket, saved especially for this occasion. She was laying there, on his bed, satisfied with that after-glow on her face. She was pretty. Too pretty…
"Hello." My voice was high and childish. I knew it scared her. Her eyes snapped open.
"What the-?" She demanded, scrambling to sit up, covering herself with her hands. Too late, I already saw everything. "What the hell are you doing here? Who are you?" I cocked my head, smiling sweetly at her.
"You were a naughty girl," I scolded in the high voice, sweet-like-bubble-gum. I even wagged a finger at her. "Very naughty." She scooted backwards, eyes wide. As wide as they could get, when they're those pretty, almond-shaped eyes.
"What do you want, you creep?" She demanded through clenched teeth. I tapped the tip of the blade thoughtfully against my chin. Drawing it out. Like Garroway would've done. Garroway would've been proud. I smirk at the girl devilishly.
"I'd say I want your soul, but I know for a fact you don't have one."
She shook her head. "Uh, are you drunk? What are you talking about?"
I stepped forward, and grabbed a chunk of her black hair. She yelped. "You let him pound you," I whispered. "I let him pound you, right above my head. You little harlot." She opened her mouth, seeing my knife poised to stab her. She was going to scream.
"Hush," I cooed. "Shh, sweet girl. You and I both know you aren't good for him. Or anyone for that matter."
"W-wha..." she swallowed. "What do you want?"
I brought my face in close to hers and licked my lips. "I want you..." I said huskily with a slight tilt of my head. "...to stay away from him."
She whimpered. "What are you going to d-" I pressed the knife into her throat, slitting through the skin.
A shriek rose from her mouth, blood gurgling and bubbling out, dripping down her chin and onto her chest, which were already stained with blood from her slit throat. She was dead. It was beautiful: Nothing but those blood-red heels, her inky hair spread out behind her, blood covering her mouth and neck and chest.
I heard the water go off, and duck, rolling under his bed. He rushed into the room, in nothing but a towel around his waist. I hear him screaming. Yelling. Cursing. He grabs the phone, and dials 911, reporting a murder. All this fuss, over a silly little whore. I shook my head, watching as police come in. Searching the room. Guess where they forgot to look? Under the bed. I sniff the blood from the sharp blade, and hum. Her blood smells like cherries. Sweet and scarlet. Suits her lips perfectly.
I know he's still awake. I can practically hear his too fast heartbeat from through the mattress. He's scared. He knows that his little slut was murdered right in his own bed, and he thinks the killer is still out there. But I'm right here, and I won't hurt him. He eventually falls asleep. His snores drag me to sleep.
I hear yelling, from downstairs. His dad. Him yelling back, saying he couldn't stand watching his father cheat on his mother anymore. A slap. Heavy silence. I know he was hit. By his father. The dad hurt him.
I hear him leave, choking out something about going to his friend's. He's upset and scared: His dad hit him, and his at-night-fun-buddy was murdered on his bed.
Then, somehow, some way, I know something's...off.
I walk, lightly on my tiptoes, down the stairs. His dad is sitting on the couch, newspaper in his hands. I walk up to him. Sit across from him, in the armchair. I smell a sweet cool smoky breeze. I knew it.
He looked up, his eyes so much like his son's, puzzled. "Who are you?"
I smiled. "I'm a friend."
He frowned. "My son isn't here."
I nodded. "I know." I stood up. "I came for you."
I watched in disgust as his eyes darkened, and it became noticeable from beneath his pants. "Well, come for me." He began unbuttoning his pants, but I shook my head.
"I need to get something." I say. Great: he's a pedophile.
He relaxed, slapping me on the rear as I walked towards the kitchen. "Hurry up, baby!" He called. "I wanna be inside that cute little butt before I have work."
I rolled my eyes. No one would be ever able to claim me like that. I pull out a plastic bag the mother used on her last grocery-shopping trip. And I walked back, quietly so that his dad wouldn't hear me and turn around. I tugged it over his face, ignoring his pitiful screams, and when he tried to yank it off, I nicked his wrists with the Swiss Army Knife.
He couldn't breathe. It took quicker than I'd thought for him to die: He screamed too much, and wasted his breath. The dad was quite a sight when dead. I kiss the dad on the cheek, and then ran back up to the son's room.
His mother left. She couldn't raise a seventeen-year-old boy by herself. She couldn't look at him without seeing his father. Smart of her to leave, though. This house isn't safe anymore. I think that new lady is his grandmother. As if she could protect him from what's out there. He has such a dysfunctional family.
He came home late from school. I hear his grandmother tell him to get washed up for dinner, because she wants to go shopping for groceries. Minutes after she leaves, he leaves too. Probably off to his friend's house. For the first time in the three months since arriving at this house, I was alone. Well, I might as well explore.
I crawled out from under his bed. And suddenly, I heard noises. From the front door. Perhaps I'm not as alone as I originally thought. Ah well, it might be nice to talk to someone. I silently padded my way to the window, and I saw two teenagers with dark hair. Or at least, they looked that way. My knife felt heavier in my pocket, and the air felt colder. I decided to wait to see what they wanted. Then I heard them speak.
"Open the door!" The speaker was a girl with long hair. She kind of reminded me of-
"I can't!" The other was a boy with a buzz cut.
"It's just a door. Are you stupid?"
"Oh, forget it. The window is open." Quick as a flash, I'm back under the bed. I see them (well, their legs) traipse around the bedroom. Wait: are they going through his stuff? As I watched them for closely, I realized who they were. The girl was Jessica, and the boy was Sebastian. I knew they weren't very fond of him, but I never thought them to be the type to break into a house… And there it was. That all too familiar smell.
"C'mon! There's gotta be something we can sell!" Jessica said.
Sebastian inhaled. "Why does it smell like death in here?"
"Perhaps because you're here," I say calmly. I was now standing next to the window. The boys whirled around. One glance at my Swiss Army blade, and they knew they'd be in for it. I see them glance at the window, and I close it. "Don't even think about it." I hissed.
"Oh come on, little girl." Sebastian said. "Do you really think you scare us?"
"I'm actually taller than your companion over there," I pointed out. "So who are you calling a little girl?"
"Shut up!" Jessica screeched. "Do you know how many short jokes I've heard today?!"
"No," I replied. "Nor do I care." I studied them for awhile, and then said, "I do care about what you are doing here."
"You can't make me leave, silly girl. I'm-" He never finished that statement. My knife was a little busy distracting him with a well-placed blow to the chest. He fell to the floor gracelessly, and he never moved again. My "sweater" had somehow flown off and covered his face as well, making as much damage as the knife. ("Fashionabelle Armor: Attack Edition." Designed by Isabelle Lightwood.)
Jessica let out an angry shriek. "You killed my boyfriend!"
I blinked, then arched my eyebrows. "It's possible...for you...to date." I tried to sound sardonic, but I was truly shocked.
She bared her teeth. "SHUT! UP!" With that, she charged. She put up quite the fight. How refreshing. She placed her blows well, and her kicks were strong. But training with Garroway meant I had to practice moves over and over until I could fight when sleepwalking. I flipped over her head, and landing soundlessly on the other side. I turned around and snapped her neck all in the same breath. I dropped Jessica's body on the ground, and padded over to Sebastian. The knife was still stuck in his chest. I crouched down next to him and placed my mouth right by his ear.
"See, baby? That's what happens when you make a little girl angry," I say huskily into his ear. "She throws a little bitch fit." I casually tossed the knife behind me, where it "accidentally" sunk into Jessica's chest, who was trying to get up… I felt a satisfied glow cross my face, and I walked over to the knife, and I bend over at the waist to pick it up. I examined the blade, and reveled in the cherry-scented blood.
"Holy shit," someone breathed. I whirled, so startled that the knife flew from my hand and clattered against the wooden floor. He had opened the door and was now staring straight at me: standing in the middle of his room in nothing but a skintight black tank top, a short black pleated skirt, and black heeled leather boots.
I raised my eyebrows, but other than that I allow myself to show no emotion. "Hello, little boy," I say. He doesn't know who I am. He asks, very rudely, in my opinion, how the hell I got into his room?
Be cryptic, Garroway would say. "You can see me." I stated.
He really looked annoyed now. "Of course I can see you," he said. "I'm not blind, you know." Oh, but you are. You just don't know it. I wanted to say.
I step over in his direction, and tilt my head to the side. I decide to be blunt. "I've been in your room. For three months."
He backed away till his back hit the door. "W-what?" He never stutters.
I took a step forward, and he flinched. "What is it?" I ask him.
His golden eyes are dark: full of fear and another emotion I couldn't place. "You've been in here...this whole time?" He asked in a hushed whisper.
I nodded. "Under your bed," I told him. "You needed somebody to look after you, so I was sent."
"Was it...You killed Aline?"
I thought back to the pretty girl. "Is that what that thing called itself?" He nodded. "It wasn't good for you. That thing's not good for anyone." I said bluntly.
His breath caught. "Did you-did you kill my dad?"
"I'm here to protect you," I turn away from him and look out the window. "Don't think of me as a murderer." A wry smile crossed my face. I'm sure at this point, I looked as scary-crazy as Garroway would have.
He gave a little annoyed huff. "And why not?" He asked in a sardonic tone. "You can't just go around killing people."
"You're right," I say, deciding to go back to a cryptic persona. "You can't go around killing people." I gestured toward the floor. "That's not a person, little boy. It may look like a person and talk like a person and maybe even bleed like a person. But it's not a person. It's a monster."
His face was pale. "You're crazy. I called the police on you once; I could have you convicted of murder."
I felt the corners of my lips curve upward into a Garroway-type expression: a smile that wasn't quite a smile. "The police aren't usually interested unless you can produce a body."
He glanced down at the floor. I knew what he saw. There wasn't even a smear of blood there- nothing to show that the pair never even existed. All that was left was my knife. I walked up to it, bent over, and picked it up. Behind me, I hear him swallow. "But-"
"The police from earlier? Ten to one those weren't real police officers. These little stinkers have a way of hiding their tracks."
He was silent for awhile, and he didn't do anything either. Funny, here was a girl: alone in a house with him, in his room and in a tank/skirt/heels outfit, no less. And he was just standing there, staring at me. Shouldn't he be trying to charm me into his-?
There was a sound. The window. Instantly, I had whirled around, and my knife flew and- -was caught by a hand. An all too familiar hand. And the figure in the window calmly said, "That was three inches farther from my head than when we last met, Fray. You're getting sloppy."
A/N: Well, I was reading Stalker by Kissing Fire, who's a very good one-shot writer, by the way. Anyway, it got me thinking: what if she had a sane reason for being under his bed? And then: this was born. I may make it a two- or three-shot, but this is the first chapter.
If you do plan on reading Stalker, let me warn you that it is potentially disturbing to those of you with weak constitutions. But if you think you can handle it, go ahead and read it. It may help you understand this a little better.