Title: Strength
Summary: It's only one thing he doesn't have.
Notes: This was inspired by something a friend of mine is going through. She doesn't read FF or Mortal Instruments, so I doubt she'll ever see this, but it's dedicated to her. I deal with some serious issue in here, so I'll say it here. This fic involves self mutilation and depression. Just so you know. It's a very real topic and a very real sort of incident.
No, I am not promoting it. No, I am not saying it's okay. I'm saying that if you or someone you know is harming themselves, you need to find help now. I know your friend - or you - may not want it, but it's important to let someone know before it goes too far. It's difficult, I know from seeing my friend. She still refuses to get help, no matter what I do. But it's important to know that someone is always there for you, even if you feel utterly alone. There's someone out there who cares. There's likely several someones out there.
Now, I'll be perfectly honest. I'm not sure who this narrator is. It could be Alec, it could be Jace, it could be Robert or Valentine or Sebastian or any male Shadowhunter there is. It could be a girl, too. It could be anyone. I just chose to use the pronoun "he" and so this turned into a fic about a boy. I don't think who it is really matters. Just want to put that out there.
I will say it again: This fic features self harm. I felt the message was important to get out to those who need help - you will find it. I promise. This is dedicated to a friend of mine.
Disclaimer: I don't own MI.
He's not the first Shadowhunter to hold a weapon and consider it.
It's what they do. It's what they know. It's their job, even. He knows the feeling of stabbing a dagger through skin and into flesh. He's done it to countless demons, a handful of Downworlders, and fellow brothers in arms a few occasional times.
Would it really be hard?
The seraph blade is light by nature, but feels as heavy as the burden he feels on his shoulders. He holds the glass like weapon up to the light and murmurs a name. It lights up immediately and hums happily in his hand.
He could do it. The Institute is large. Chances are that nobody is anywhere near the weaponry. Chances are that nobody has a clue where he is, anyway.
He pulls back his sleeve and observes the thin, silvery white scars that cross and trace over his pale skin already. Will another one really make a difference? But no. Not there. It's too noticeable, it's too risky to break the pattern of the flowing scars.
He tugs the hem of his shirt up instead and runs his fingers over the bare expanse. It's smooth as marble, especially compared to the raised scars on his arms and back.
It's out of place. It doesn't belong. Sort of like him.
He knows there's no way to force himself to change. He's tried countless times. But it's impossible to transform your insides. He's given up on that.
It's easy to alter your skin.
He drags the blade down his hip lightly, so the cool pressure sends shivers up his spine but doesn't leave a mark. He can do this.
He's not the first Shadowhunter to spill blood.
He presses down harder and it sears through the skin. Droplets bubble to the surface and he bites down on his tongue to keep from making even a whimper. His mouth fills with a metallic taste and he feels lightheaded with adrenaline, but he continues to draw and trace figures on his blank canvas. Red paints the white surface in a swirl by the time he drops the blade. His steady hand finally gives way to trembles and he pulls his sweater down, even though it stings the open wound.
Strength. He drew the strength rune. A smile tugs on his lips and he retrieves the first aid kit and an old polishing rag from the supplies. Now forever tattooed on his skin is only one of the things he didn't have – strength.
What's next? What else does he not have?
He cleans the blade with meticulous care before replacing it on the shelf, exactly where it was before. It doesn't glow much anymore, though it's hardly done any heavenly deed. He only feels the urge to take it again, to dig it deeper into his flesh.
He restrains and wipes away his masterpiece with a sterile pad. A pang of remorse hits him, but the red lines remain behind, though not as vivid as before. The scrapes are clotting. There's no need for a bandage.
He runs his hand over the level surface again. Most of it still doesn't fit in.
He decides to come back tomorrow. Maybe it'll be closer to normal, then. Maybe he will be.
He's not the first Shadowhunter to harm a being.
He hopes he's not the only one to harm himself. Because then he's even more of an anomaly than he thought.
Note: To those of you of there reading this, please. Don't lose hope. I don't mean to sound like a motivational speaker or a pamphlet, but please. You can't. There will always be someone within your reach that's reaching out for you, too. You are strong. You can get help. It's not anything to be ashamed of. You can do it. I believe in you. So many of us do.
(Again, I haven't got a clue who this is in the story. I admit, I thought it was Alec originally, and then I saw the possibility of it being Jace during several points in his life, particularly when he thought Clary was his sister. But the truth is, there's no way to know for sure who's doing it, there's no way to find a mold, because nobody fits it. Smile at everyone. Even the happiest person might be hurting inside.)