Red Pill, Blue Pill
The images in her head have taken over. They gnaw at her mind until she draws, giving them a proper place in her sketchbook. Images of a whole other world begin to appear, and soon she finds herself stuck in a mental sanatorium. Clary quickly forms a disturbing bond with another patient; they both share the same delusions, fulfilling what the other is missing. | Clace. Mental Hospital AU. Rated M. TW: mental illness, mild violence, sexual situations.
Let's get this out before I have any messages about this topic: While I've taken multiple psychology courses, both high school and college levels, and done a decent amount of research to create realistic characters and traits, I am in no way an expert in mental health. That being said, you may find some info you deem questionable. Please kindly let me know if I've botched anything horrifically, otherwise for the sake of this story just let it go, kids. Anyway, here we go. . .
It couldn't have been any earlier than 5:00am. While fragments of the first coming light could be seen, the birds hadn't started chirping, and the night's chill still was clinging in the air. Sleep came to Clary in bits and pieces. She laid awake most the night with the images of something trying to claw it's way forward. Without her sketchbook to give the vision a home, her nerves were fraying and uneasy.
Clary was reduced to gently tracing her slim fingers along the cinder block wall, attempting to keep track of the lines she 'placed' there. Even with a good eye for art, it was hard to follow without a physical image coming to life. The curving lines kept tangling, and her frustration only growing by the second. She wanted to scream out, tell them keeping her away from any form of paper and pencil was butchering her dwindling sanity even more. Despite never wanting to say it, Clary knew she was sick; no clue with what, but she was sick. This sickness had earned her a bed in this place.
All he could focus on was the dull ache radiating from his hand, holding it out and stretching his fingers back and forth a few times. His knuckles were raw and covered in dried blood, the first yellowing shades of a bruise blooming. The room was quite dark, but looking down he noticed he was no longer wearing his black jeans or t-shirt, but rather some form of linen pajama bottoms.
His body felt drained and strangely lethargic. Sitting up he took in the scope of his injuries; arms and chest covered in various cuts and scrapes, all beginning to scab over, feeling the underlying bruises across his back as he stretched, head pounding from what felt like a crescent shaped cut between his left temple and eye. As his eyes and fingers continued to skim across injuries, he tried to piece together how the fuck he'd gotten here. Jace had no idea how he'd gone from an such intense fight to this unfamiliar space.
Small blurb, very small, just wanted to see if anyone likes where this is going? Updates soon. - Leah