So let me say first... I set out to write a play. And then I realized, I have no idea how to write a play. So I scratched the idea and wrote this.

Safe to say, I have no idea what to call it. And hopefully you're not super confused. But I think you might be.

Photograph

[The scene is a bedroom at the Institute. It is a boy's room, the decorations on the wall clearly reflecting his life and mementos from the past. A strawberry-blonde haired girl, star of many of the photos on the wall, is sobbing, her hands over her eyes. She does not dare to look up or over at what is before her. A boy with brown hair, the same age, looks up from his bed, one leg over the side of his bed, as he is getting up, the covers pulled halfway off him, and his chest is bare. His expression is blank, almost unfeeling to the people and drama around him. Another girl, petite and with dark hair, holds the covers up around her, staring in curiosity, but not surprise, at the other two before her.]

[It is the outside of a small tavern in the midst of the Downworld towns. A dark haired Shadowhunter with slightly pointed ears and a backpack stands on the sidewalk. Other Downworlders are a in a blur around him as they pass by, yet he is the only stationary one. His eyes lock on the camera, but in reality, he is looking across the street, seeing both nothing and everything at the same time. His hood is pulled up over his head, and he looks slightly lost, as if he is there, but not really. In his hand he holds a sheet of paper, his fingers clenched around it so tightly that you might this it held his future.]

[There is a young man, or at least, young in appearance, though his hair is a dusty white, hunched over a table set up in his room. Machinery is working, and he masters all of them. His hand is perched on the dial that controls the flame under one beaker, and his other hand holds a spoon that stirs the contents of a separate container. Yet, neither of these are where his eyes rest. His eyes, in fact, are focused on a bottle at the side of the table, a puff of white smoke rising from the brim. He does not seem to look at the overflowing pot, resting on a different table, behind him.]

[There is a young boy, the age of thirteen or fourteen, in a darkened room. He is tangled in in his bedcovers, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. his hand is twisted in the sheets and his mouth his open with a silent cry. In the cover of the night, and all of his innocence, he looks younger than he really is. His hair flops over his pillow and it matted down with a fine sheen of sweat. It is apparent that he is in distress, his body twisted on the bed and his posture stiff. One can only dare to imagine what is going through his mind. From the side of the room, a sliver of yellow light is barely visible, but it is evident enough that someone is opening the door, their hand on the door knob, peering in to check on the boy.]

[The hotel room is dim, but light streams in from the window. A dark haired girl, her hair messy and unkempt, sits up in bed, her eyes focused and looking down. There are various suitcases and bags on the counter in the background, but the main focus are the two in the bed. She is dressed in minimal clothing, yet everything is covered, and she shows little to no shame. Her eyes rest on the boy who is sleeping peacefully next to her. They are not exactly curled up against each other, but her eyes rest on him gently. His brown hair is messy from the sleeping position. One of her hands, though, is poised over the top of his head, smoothing down a stray strand of hair.]

[The boy, a thin but healthy teenager, kneels in the middle of a highly ornate pentagram. His hands are by his side, and his eyes are closed. A man in robes stands in front of him, holding a large glass in his hands. It is the Mortal Cup, and the man is a silent brother. His closed eyes are downcast at the Ascendent before him, and his stitched lips show little to no expression. A panel of other silent brothers stands to the side, hands clasped in front of them. The seem as if they are waiting, simply waiting, for the moment when the boy drinks from the cup.]

[A girl, blonde hair and blue eyes, stands alone in the middle of a club. The lights are colored and shining across her face, and she is facing the side. Tens of other people are around her, some together and some separate, but she is the one many are looking at. Her head is tipped to the side, a slight, thin, fake smile across her lips. Her outfit is extremely revealing, consisting of not much more than a bra-like shirt and mini skirt, but it doesn't faze her. The boy that she is looking at is older than her, tall and dark haired. he looks Asian, but the colored lights hide his true ethnicity. The smirk on his lips is brighter than hers, and his eyes are slightly unfocused, as he looks back at her.]

[It is the stairwell of an old house, the walls peeling and the decor rotting. A black haired girl, eyes dull and hair dyed, sits at the bottom, her hand resting over her mouth. She looks as if she is in pain. There are two other people, one a skinny boy who looks worried, his arm around her shoulder as his face is turned to her. His mouth is open, having just finished telling her something. The other person is a guy in the hallway, looking down the hallway in impatience. He is holding a seraph blade in his hand, ready to strike in an instant, and his mouth is downturned, awaiting the journey ahead of him.]

In a photograph, the personas of the people shown are limitless. They are everyone, anyone, even no one. They are whoever you make them out in your mind to be. Given names can mean nothing.

The scenes and events preceding the snapshot are yours to imagine, and the future is to be guessed as well. There is no definite ending, and no exact beginning.

Simply, they are pictures taken at random times, showing a slight glimpse into another life, another world.

Another person.

And then I sort of gave up at the end because I got bored and realized that stories are much more fun to write. Instead of... Whatever this is. :)

I hope you didn't hate it.

~Jillessa Heronstairs~