I myself didn't like this story. But it had to be written, I don't know why. I'd be paranoid until it was written.
If you can't handle angst, cutting, or mentions of abuse (Though there is very little) This is not the fic for you.
Don't forget to review when you're done.
She met the love of her life in kindergarden.
She didn't techincally meet him, of course. She'd been too shy. She was the quiet little girl that always stayed in a corner by herself, drawing.
He was always loud and outgoing. He wrestled boys during recess, and pulled girls' hair during naptime.
She observed him, from a distance.
From what she could tell he avoided sleeping on his back, whenever he actually fell asleep during naptime. He always wore long-sleeved shirts, and other than wrestling and playing tag, he avoided being touched in any kind of contact.
And during field day, when everyone else wore their bathing suits, he wore a tee shirt, insisting that he had fair skin.
She admired his looks, even at five, she thought he was the most handsome thing she'd ever seen. His golden blond hair was tangly and long-ish, and his eyes were a light amber, with tints of honey. Whenever he'd smile, the deepest sets of dimples would pop out, and she would immediataly blush, even though he was never looking at her.
The third week after the first day of first grade, she remembered the first, and only time he had awknowledged her.
She was eating her lunch alone doodling on her napkin with a yellow crayon. The sound of his laughter, which she could detect in a room full of laughing people, alerted her that he was headed for her direction.
He stopped in front of her table, he and his friends stifling their laughter.
"Hi," he said with a mean smirk.
She flushed, nervous and delighted that he was actually speaking to her. Butterflies were fluttering in her stomach, and she worried for a moment that she might be sick.
He flipped a blond curl back from where it'd fallen in front of his eye. "Would you like this peanut butter and jelly sandwhich?"
She nodded, still blushing, and took the PB&J from where it lay in his outstretched hand.
He and his friends walked off as soon as she'd taken it, laughing loudly.
She'd overheard some girls that were painting pink and red hearts, that he and his friends had each picked their nose and had put their boogers inside of the PB&J that they'd given to the redhead freak.
She'd told the teacher that her stomach hurt, and cried in the nurse's office until her mother came by to pick her up.
In first grade, she promised herself that she'd avoid him like the plague.
Until he came to school with a black eye.
She approached him, and demanded to know what had happened to him.
He'd stared at her for a whole minute, before he gently slid his hands onto her shoulders, and gave a hard shove. She fell to the floor, scraping the palms of her hands. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision as she looked up at him.
His expression was angry as he glared at her, spitting out that it was none of her business.
The teacher had hurried over, and pulled him aside, and sent him and her both to the nurse's office; Her, ice for her hands. him; a check-up to see if someone was beating him up.
She'd sat in a red plastic chair that numbed her bottom, watching in silent horror as the nurse rolled his long sleeved tee shirt up to his chest. Bruises dotted his ribs up and down. Black, blue, and purple covering his skin.
The scars, however, were the worst.
They were angrily etched and engraved into his skin; His arms, ribs, and along his back.
She'd began to sob quietly for him, though his expression remained stony and impassive as he stared straight ahead at the wall over the nurse's shoulder.
Not once did he cry, even when the nurse prodded at his handshaped bruises, and the fingershaped once that marked his collarbone and neck.
He didn't cry when she called the police and the ambulance. He didn't cry when she told him that whoever did this to him was going to be locked away for good.
She cried silent tears for him, shaking slightly in that stupid plastic red chair.
That was the last time she saw him that year.
On the twelveth day of second grade, he came back to school, with his new stepbrother and stepsister.
She'd waved excitedly over to him, smiling brightly, but he cooly ignored her, his eyes sliding over her as if she was invisible to him. Which she was.
No one in their class knew why he'd missed a year of school, except for her and his stepsiblings. And the teacher.
She drew him, during their Silent Time, where everyone either could either go to sleep, or read a book. He'd chosen to sleep, and she drew him with nothing but a black crayon and a yellow colored pencil.
For an eight-year-old, instead of his sleep being peaceful and relaxing, she noticed that his forehead was furrowed, and he twisted and kicked in his sleep, restless. She drew him, a slight frown etching into his features.
She was elated when the drawing was finished, for it looked exactly like he did. Scarred and beautiful. Flawed and perfect.
She waited until he had woken up, and she crawled over to where he was sitting, and excitedly showed him the picture. He stared at himself for a long while, before looking at her, smiled and nodded. She beamed with happiness that he'd actually liked it.
During Show-N-Tell, she got told to throw away the bubble gum that was in her mouth. She got up, and walked over to the little tin trash can the teacher kept next to the doorway. As she leaned over to spit out her sour apple bubble gum, her heart fell into her stomach, and she felt like she was going to be sick.
In the bottom of the trash can, ripped into hundreds of little scraps, was her picture of him.
She made sure not to spit on any of the scraps, and knelt in front of the trashcan, silently pulling each scrap out of the can ione by one, refusing to look up, knowing his eyes were watching her.
She shoved the scraps in the pockest of her overralls, and waited until one of her classmates was done showing off his artifical dinosaur poop, before she went back over to her corner, where she began taping the scraps back together.
In third grade, her mother died in a car accident.
She'd been close to her, and she missed a whole week of school because she couldn't stop crying, and for the rest of that year, she only drew with black pens, black colored pencils, and black crayons.
The funeral was quiet and private, just how her mother would've wanted it. Her dad sobbed throughout the whole thing, and her older brother remained expressionless, his dark eyes guilty. He'd been in the car with her, but survived with just a broken arm.
Her father told her it was survivor's guilt. She comforted her brother that night while he cried, and he told her who was in the car that had crashed into him and her mother.
He and his stepfather had ran a red light, and had effectively crush the entire right side of their mother's car.
The next week, when she went back to school, she looked at him in a new light, as a murderer.
He didn't look at her, once. At all. It was his way, she knew, of him saying that he wasn't sorry.
In fourth grade, during recess, she saw him and a pretty blond girl that was in their class, run behind a couple of pine trees, holding hands and giggling. She slowly walked over, and peeked through the branches, and gasped quietly as she saw the blond lean in and peck his cheek, staining his gold skin with pink lip gloss.
He blushed, and smiled, before leaning down and kissing her softly on the cheek, causing her to squeal.
It made her blood boil, watching them stand there, together. Still, she though them, though, holding hands under the pair of trees, blushes painted on their cheeks.
It looked...right, somehow. As if the pretty blond was meant to stand next to him. As if she was meant to be there, holding his hand.
She swallowed, blinking back tears angrily, and ripped the picture apart, tossing them carelessly, and letting them be carried away by the wind.
In fifth grade, she found out that her brother was best friends with him, even though he'd almost killed him and killed their mother.
Her brother would tell her and their father stories about hanging out with him; How they almost set fire to his sixth grade teacher's car, and how they would flirt and tease the cute girls that walked past them in the mall.
He told them that they broke that new boy's nose, just because he wore glasses, and was catching the eyes of his stepsister.
She felt betrayed by her brother, for hanging out with the boy that she hated and loved so much.
In the sixth grade, he began dating that pretty Asian girl, who no matter how nice she'd tried being nice to, always rebuked her advances in friendship ( They were neighbors, after all.) and would make snide comments on her hair and clothing.
That was the day that she dyed her once-fire-red hair a chestnut brown.
It didn't feel right, having brown hair. She felt fake.
But it was middle school, and the Asian girl had become more friendlier to her, and began to take her shopping.
He began to pay more attention to her, too. By the seventh grade, with her brown hair and tight shirts and min-skirts, he'd asked her out on a date.
They walked to the mall, where he was going to buy them pizza from the food court.
He told her to find them a seat while he got the food. It took him fifteen minutes to get twi slices of pizza, where there was a barely-there line.
When he came to their table, sliding her pepperoni pizza slice, she noticed him discreetly slide a thin scrap of paper in his jacket pocket. He did it so quickly, she could barely make it out, but she saw it. A phone number. It was then did she notice the thin outline of lip gloss on the underside of his jaw.
She frowned, and pushed her pizza away, betrayal curling in her stomach. She got up, ignoring his questions, and his calls of her name, and walked out of the mall.
He didn't follow her.
In eighth grade, she began to date the Hispanic boy that had just moved from Florida. He was sweet to her, and didn't hang out with him.
She dated him for most of the year, until she overheard him speaking to his friends one day during lunch, and he and his friends were hanging out in the library. She heard him say, in that thick accent of his, how much he like the girl he was dating, if only she was skinnier.
He was there, to her surprise, in the library, standing next to her boyfriend. He scoffed at what her boyfriend had said, and shooki his head, and told them about that one date they'd had, and how he was hesitant to gove her pizza, because she was already fat enough to make the chair she was sitting in to collapse.
She went still, freezing up from her position behind the bookshelf, watching the boys laugh and talk about her weight. Her brother was there with them, for God's sake.
Tears escaped from the corners of her eyes, and she quickly left the library, and hurried to the bathroom. She shut herself up in the single bathroom, locking the door and stripped herself till she was naked. She stared at her reflection, disgustedly.
She'd never thought of herself as fat. She'd accepted, long ago, that she had soft curves and baby fat that would probably never wear off.
She let the tears fall, and dropped to her knees, curling up in a tight ball, still naked. God, she was hideous. How could her father and brother stand the sight of her, let alone live with her? How could he have dated something as fat and ugly as her for so long?
She crawled over to the toilet, and shook her head. She wouldn't be fat, anymore.
Closing her eyes, she quickly slipped a finger into her mouth, and hit the back of her thoat.
It was ninth grade, and she'd been making herself throw up every other day, after every meal, and had dropped thirty pounds. She now weighed ninety pounds.
She felt pain whenever she'd look at him, and see his golden eyes survey her, his expression scorful. It was never enough. She dyed her hair for him. She changed her outfits for him. She date someone else, for him. She lost thirty pounds, for him. Yet she could never be good enough for him.
Never.
She began venting out her pain through cutting. Since her father and brother didn't even notice that she'd dropped thirty lbs., she doubted they even saw the scars that ran along her forearms.
Her mother would've noticed. That thought made her dig the razors deeper into her skin, not once flinching at the stinging pain it caused.
Blood trickled into the porcelain sink, staining it scarlet. She looked up at her reflection in the mirror, searching desperately for the girl that liked drawing pictures of sleeping blond boys, that liked snuggling with her parents during stormy nights.
She couldn't find her. That girl was gone, washed out like that brown dye was washed in; Thrown out of her body along with most of her weight. Thrown out in the trash like her old clothes. Dead like her mother. Drained out of this body like the blood that she spilled when she wanted to control the pain that she needed to feel. To make her feel more alive.
All she could see was a broken, damaged, painfully skinny girl, with dead emerald eyes that used to sparkle.
She sighed, washed the razors clean, and turned the water on, causing her spilt pain and achiness to be sucked down the drain.
Opening the bathroom door, she began to walk upstairs to her room when her dad stopped her.
He frowned, and looked her up and down. Then he told her she should cut off on the donuts. He told her she looked a little pudgy in the middle. He said she must've gained weight from Thanksgiving.
Even though all she had was a little bit of turkey and a two spoonfulls of mashed potatoes.
Tenth grade.
She was a the only girl in the school that was a virgin, even though she'd been dating that dashing Spanish boy since eight grade. He left her for the pretty Asian girl he'd been dating for only two years.
She was approached one afternoon in Biology ll, by him. His golden eyes had been burning earnestly into hers, and he asked in a soft voice, if she would go to the movies with him.
Finally. Finally, after eleven years of loving him from a distance, he was willing to give her a chance.
She smiled at him. It was a small smile, but it was the first time she'd smiled in three years.
Her answer was a quiet yes, and he'd beamed at her, and left the Biology room with a bounce in his step.
They went to see a romantic comedy, but neither of them laughed. She didn't because she couldn't. It'd been too long, and she didn't have in her to laugh at the lame jokes and the cheesy dialouges of the characters. She didn't have to look at the screen to know that the characters were going to get their happily ever after.
She should've taken that as an omen.
When the movie was over, they took a taxi to a cheap inn. It was dirty and sleazy looking, reeking strongly of alcohol, sex, and cigarettes from just the lobby.
He took her to their room, which had filthy sheets and beer stains on the carpet. She even thought she caught glimpse of a booted foot dangling over the edge of the tube.
She felt cheap and disgusting for losing her virginity in a room like this. But as long as it was with the boy she loved, it didn't matter to her. After all, she'd went through hell to be here.
The morning after. She woke up to an empty bed. Well, that wasn't true. He was sitting on the dirty old couch that was littered with used condom wrappers that weren't theirs, a cigarette dangling between his lips as he chuckled into the phone.
She listened to his conversation, laying in bed and kept her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep.
As much as she wanted to believe she was surprised, hurt, and angry about what she heard him say to whoever was on the other end of the phone, she knew she wasn't.
She was expecting it, actually. She would've been scared if things had gone to happily ever after from there. All good things never lasted, with him.
It was all a dare.
Who could get the anorexic, cutting, creep to lose her virginity first, got twenty dollars.
Because that was what she was worth. Twenty dollars.
That was how much her heart was worth. Her virginity was worth.
She waited until he'd left the room to get coffee, before she began to giggle. It was off pitch, and slightly hysterical. She was soon laughing until she was sobbing, crying for what he'd done to her, knowing how much it would hurt her.
She got out of the bed, still laughing through her sobs.
Walking on unsteady feet towards her purse, she pulled out her trusty razors.
(***************************************)
He walked back to the room he'd gotten at the inn, still feeling smug and pleased with himself that he'd so easily won the bet.
Sure, she was cute, if not a little creepy. But whatever. She was good in bed, and that was all that mattered. That was what his father taught him. Not that pussy that adopted him. The one who raised him like a man, with scars and discipline.
He shouldered open the door, frowning when he noticed that she was no longer in bed.
"Clary?" He called out. "Where are ya? I got you some coffee-" He'd walked aimlessly over to the closed bathroom door, opening it curiously. "Clary-"
"Fuck."
She was sprawled out, as if she'd fallen randomly onto the bathroom tiles. Blood gushed out from the slits that cut through both wrists, soaking her naked body. But what chilled him to the bone, and left him knowing that this image would haunt him for the rest of his life, was that, next to her dead naked body, she'd written her last farewell to him on the filthy tiled floor.
I loved you, Jace.