This is my first The Mortal Instruments fanfic, but definitely not the first fanfic I've written. I've been trying to rewrite this story since like... I don't actually remember, and it still isn't finished. I suck at these things. Most of my friends say that it's very good, but I'm not satisfied. I mean, the grammatical errors, typos, and everything - including the narration techniques. It sucks. Look, I know I'm pulling myself down, but it's what I've done since I started writing a story. I'm not really confident.

By the way, sorry for the typo-grammatical errors.

Anyways, I'm apologize for that. Read and I hope everyone enjoys.

Disclaimer: Last thing I checked, my name is not Cassandra Clare. I wish it is, actually.

Prologue

One thousand and ninety-five days.

An insignificant period of time that I had spent inside the white room, where darkness devours me. I had been concealing myself away from the nightmares that have haunted me for years, and from the one I fear most. I used to call him father. He started hitting when I was eight years of age, and it was too hard to reminisce. I never told mother, or anyone, because fear had already consumed me. He had done other things, and I was too dumb to say anything.

Turning my head sideways, I noticed the remarkable scratch on the wall, made out of blood. It was my first sign of rebellion. I ran my nails against the surface until my fingers bled, smearing the plain color. Distantly, I could still smell the faintest scent of the stain. The other patients were screaming in pity and despair. I remain on the bed. My wrists are bruised, cuffed with rusted metal—certain that I wouldn't escape.

Again.

I hear the door push open, and light breaks apart of the entire darkness. Lifting my head toward the direction in response, the nurse steps in with a silver tray in between her fingers. She wore a tight uniform, pale as milk, and her dark curls held through with hairclips. I stare as she form another cunning smile on her red lips, and drop the tray over the desk. She prepares for the injection. I feel my heart heave, as she strode towards me, and her hand pulling my arm out.

"Ms. Fray." I hear her call me. The way she pronounces my name is even more horrifying, and I move away from her. "You need to take your medicine." I knock the syringe out of her fingers, and she steps back in astonishment, gasping in angst. Strike. Her head shakes, gesturing her hands over for help. Two men enter my cell, dressed in white uniform, and grip on my arms—their nails digging into my skin.

I move away. I wriggled, but it is useless. I scream sharply, but they hear nothing. I cry, allowing vast amount of tears stain my cheeks, but they feel nothing. The needle pricks deep into my arm, and I can feel the viscous fluid seeping through my tightening muscles. I stiffened. Tears spill out, as the men drop me over the bed, and I cannot move an inch. I watch my chest rise and sink rapidly along with every burning breath I exhale with every minute spent lying there, motionless.

Anger rushes through me as another man came in. I wished none of these is true, but my eyes say differently. He stands before me, his hands clasp together and his lips forming a wicked smile. I wish he had died, and that I wouldn't have to be here. I wish he ended it all when he had the chance. I wish none of these had to happen.

"How dare you come here?" I choke out.

I winced in too much pain, the metal touching my bruises. The drug has already taken over my entire body, and I am too heavy to sit up and lunge at him. He must have ordered to inject me another drug to weaken me.

"Clarissa, my dear."

I ragged my breaths, dragging myself away from him. His face tilts nearer, and his scent makes me want to vomit.

"I'm here to kill you." He pulls out the gun from his back—similar to what he had used to shot me six years ago. The tip brushes against my skin, and I trembled with fear. "And I won't miss again." His statements sounds very promising—reminding me that it was a mistake that he had missed before. I should have been gone six years ago, and he would have been satisfied. His lips touch my forehead, before moving backwards, and level the gunpoint directly into my eyes. I fluttered them shut, tears breaking out.

One gunshot. One piercing scream. And shallow darkness.

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