~ ClarissaAisling
One.
He was one Shadowhunter, with only one thing wrong with him.
On some nights, he would curl up in a fetal position, and cry himself to sleep. He would lay there, tears streaked on his pale face. Ocean blue eyes, filled with the immense hollowness and rage that was the sea.
He was afraid.
It was the most he could do to not scream and bellow to the world, for making his life a story of pain and torment. But when he was alone, he would bleed his heart out on to the cold tiles of the institute, head down, eyes red and raw. He would direct his anger to everything in his room, his books, his bed, the wallpaper, everything, anything, surrounding him that was strangling him, choking him, and swallowing the joy that could have been in his life.
And yet, unknowingly, he had begun to distance himself away from his loved ones, for fear of them knowing. He had pushed everyone away; even Magnus, and he would no longer feel comfortable around his parabatai, Jace. He thought that everyone wouldn't notice, although everyone did. But they loved him enough to realize that, some things, you have to deal with yourself.
His mother would often come into his room, lay one hand on his head, and quietly ask him if anything was wrong. He would slap her hand away, and, voice trembling, tell her to get out, and leave him alone. He would feel her sorrow, but in the end, fear won out.
Fear controlled him as a puppet-master pulling on the strings, weaving the puppet in a twisted dance. Fear was a catalyst, speeding up the spark that was a nightmare. He would flinch when his father laid a hand on his shoulder, cringe when Isabelle talked of boys; and his heart would pound whenever his father asked to see him in his study.
He wilted, slowly, his torment visible, tragic, and yet, in a twisted way, it was stunning. He was like a fallen angel, so very close to the edge, but unable to fall. His hair was a mess, heavy eye bags beneath his once-striking eyes. His face was pale and sallow, and he was twitchy, anything could strike him up, and he would get uncontrollably angry.
His mood swings were variable. A moment, and he would feel flames in his heart, scorching the last drop of water in him. A moment later, rivers of blood would be flowing out of his eyes, quenching the fire. There would be storms, waves, destroying all that was in its path.
Just one.
One problem was able to make him feel disgusted towards himself, and yet, not have the desperation to just lose himself in a haze of dancing fireworks and falling angels.
And he recalled one near-fatal night, where he lay under the stars, feeling the blade of the dagger that was strapped to his boots eat into his skin, and he traced the visible veins on his wrist, wondering how far and how deep he would have to cut, until he would watch, a tragic ending, as his life, his blood, seeped out through the gashes on his wrist.
Ever since then, he had lived in constant misery, dreading the day when he would be thrown out of the institute and disowned, and he would wander the streets, lost and forsaken.
He knew, deep down inside, that although some were not so accepting, others, like his family, Jace, Magnus, hell, even Clary would fight for him. They would love him, no matter what he was.
But it wasn't enough.
A homosexual Shadowhunter simply had no future in this world.
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