Disclaimer: The Mortal Instruments series belongs to Cassandra Clare
The walls were thinner than she thought they would be. Thinner than they should have been. She could hear them screaming. They screamed that they weren't crazy. They screamed that they didn't belong. They wanted to leave, to be free from the too-thin walls and their own never ending screaming. She wanted out too, but she never screamed. She never cried out desperately for the freedom that she knew was never going to come. That was what drew him to her at first.
They never really saw each other until it was too late. There was a streak of gold. There was a smear of scarlet. She heard his voice through the too-thin walls. He knew her silence.
They first saw each other through a hole in the wall. She knew it was there. She never said anything. They said enough.
When he found the hole, he called for her to turn. When she didn't, he called again. She didn't want to turn. She didn't want to know. She didn't want to know more than Them and the screaming and the too thin walls and his voice and her silence.
She turned.
He wasn't crazy. He wasn't insane. She could tell by looking at him. She could see the fire burning in his eyes.
He thought she wasn't crazy. She never screamed into the night as though she was being ripped apart by a horde of demons. She never hurt anyone. She never tried to. He thought she was scared, silent and scared of their shrieking neighbors and the awful songs they sang.
He was right. She was silent and scared.
He was wrong. She didn't scream. Screaming was for the ones convinced that they didn't belong. She didn't scream. She couldn't argue. She knew she belonged. She could hear the voices whispering and singing and shouting along with the chorus of screams.
He knew he was getting out. He knew he could count on them. He knew he would take her with him. He knew she didn't belong.
She knew that the screams were tearing him apart, piece by piece. She knew that the too-thin walls were slowly consuming him. They told her the wasn't much time left.
They shouted when the sun rose. They sang when the sun set. They whispered when green eyes met golden ones, their light dimming with every meeting. They bounced off the too-thin walls and crashed back into her, vibrating against the inside of her skull. They muttered along with him when They could hear him through the too-thin walls. They muttered about friends and family and why and why not. They cried when he cried, and They kept her awake when he couldn't close his eyes at night.
She knew it was too late.
They screamed. They wouldn't stop screaming. He screamed, their wails blending together in perfect harmony. She stayed silent, as though her silence could thicken the walls and kept the attacking sounds away.
He knew he was lost. He knew they were never going to come. He knew cold. he knew despair. He knew pale, lifeless, sunlight. He knew stone. He knew too-thin walls. He knew screaming. He knew her silence. He knew the purity of the silence, woven through the screaming chorus.
He knew she belonged.