What Their Eyes Don't See, a mortal instruments fanfic

AN: Firstly, I am sorry I haven't been writing/posting/updating anything.

My account was fucking up on me, and it literally takes ten minutes for the whole thing to load, and it repeatedly deleted everything I wrote. It took me twenty minutes just to send PMs. :( I can't write like that. Screw that for a joke. Until gets that shit straight, I wasn't going to be writing...So I'm celebrating the "normalness" of my account again, thank God..

Song: Invisible, by Skylar Grey

Rating M for: Cutting/Language/Drugs/Bulimia. If any of that offends y'all you may want to hit the cute lil' red x.

Universe: All Human/OOC.

Disclaimer: Cassie owns Mortal Instruments...Duhr.

Clary

...

I'm still not sure when, exactly, it started to happen.

Maybe when I was a little girl. The little weirdo who would sit silently in the corner, ignored by everybody.

It didn't really hurt my feelings-well, it did. But not as much as it did as I got older. When I was four, I had my crayons, paint brushes, markers, and colored pencils as my friends. My books. I could draw different worlds for myself, make myself a ruler or a queen, the most beautiful sorceress in the village.

I would be the one who always got the handsome prince, when in real life, he didn't notice me.

I take these pills

My father was always busy. Always talking into his Blackberry, kissing my mother and I on the cheek, before marching up the stairs and to his office.

I don't have one memory of him reading me a bedtime story, helping me blow out the candles to my birthday cake, or shopping, or anything else regular girls did with their doting fathers.

I always thought it was because I wasn't a good enough daughter.

To make me thin.

Even Mom didn't pay much attention to me. She was always doing something...Never there at my school to eat lunch at school with me. Mothers of my other classmates would visit our school. Eat lunch. Visit. Read out loud during class.

Why didn't she ever do those things for me?

I had it better than most, I knew. I had a stable home. My parents were together. I had money.

But I was lonely.

I wanted to be noticed, just once. Maybe twice.

I dye my hair.

I dyed my hair, when I was eight.

Three other girls in my class had red hair like mine, and I thought maybe, maybe if I had a different color of hair, people would notice me some more. Know my name, smile at me, call out to me across the cafataria.

Get him to notice me.

Mom never gave me any money, so I had to ride my bicycle down to the drugstore, and slip the box beneath my shirt, and run out.

My hair was black.

It was so ugly.

I did get noticed. Once.

My classmates snickered and guffawed at my stark black curls, awkward against my pale, freckly skin and big green eyes. Ridiculous.

Even my own teacher had to smother her laugh.

I cut my skin.

I didn't get it.

Did I say the wrong thing?

Was it because I was ugly?

Should I have talked more?

Worn prettier clothes?

Straighten my hair?

Why was it that I was always the last person picked in P.E., the last person anyone chose when we had to partner up for projects?

I wasn't good enough for them to remember.

To notice.

I was eleven, now.

Hair still black, because bad attention was better than none at all.

You know what was really sad, though?

My hair has been black for three years. And my mother just realized it last night, at dinner.

She said I looked like the girl from Evanescence. I looked emo.

That comment made me feel lighter, happier. Even though she said it like an insult, she'd said something.

I walked into the Girl's Bathroom, fourteen minutes late to class, ringing the rain water out of my hair. I had to walk to school today, because Mom and Dad went to an ultrasound.

My mother's pregnancy is making Dad stay home more. Look up baby names on the computer. Pick out colors for the nursery. Clothes for the little creature.

I should be delighted that Dad and Mom are acting a lot more like parents, now.

It just sickened me that the thing that's causing them to do so isn't even alive yet, within just a few months, and I haven't even been able to have a conversation with them for eleven years.

I heard a gagging noise, and stiffened.

A girl was making herself throw up.

I never understood why people did that, if you didn't like your weight, just diet.

Shuffling behind one of the stall doors, I waited until I heard a toilet flush, and the girl leave the stall.

Isabelle Lightwood. The most popular girl in sixth grade.

Is that why people...Like her? Because she's thin?

And beautiful. I sometimes hated her beauty.

She walked out of the bathroom, teetering slightly on her high-heels.

Curious, I poked my finger experimently down into my mouth, sliding into the back of my throat.

I choked, and stumbled to the toilet as I felt bile rise.

I was never doing that again.

I did do it again.

After lunch.

You know what I've been wondering?

If I was ugly.

I was thin...Really, really thin. Thinner than Isabelle Lightwood, actually.

Nobody even noticed.

I was twelve...twelve-year-olds were supposed to be thin, right?

Then why didn't anybody like me?

I walked into the Girl's Locker Room, and began undressing, pulling on my over-sized T-shirt.

I heard a giggle.

Scoff.

Loud laugh.

"Ew."

"She's so-so skinny."

"I see her ribs. Crap, I see bones."

"Is it humanly possible to have that many freckles?"

"Damn. Ugly."

I peered over my shoulder, noticing that some of the girls were staring at me, scorn written across their faces.

Swallowing my embarassment, I pulled on my shorts and sneakers, head bent as the sniggering girls left the locker room, remarks about my weight and looks echoing behind them.

I touched my face. Freckles.

I hated my freckles.

So much.

Ew.

Ugly.

...Freckles.

Skinny.

I didn't go to P.E.

I walked, instead, to the Girl's Bathroom, across the hall from the Locker Room.

The stall lock slid shut behind me, and I rested my head on the door, and inhaled shakily.

What's wrong with me?

What did I ever do to them to make them hate me so much?

My parents.

My classmates.

I wasn't even young enough to make-believe being a queen anymore.

Pain was filling me...on the inside, it was hurting me so much...

I sat down and tried to breathe, but I was just in so much pain some much pain somuchsomuch.

How do you get rid of emotional pain?

I couldn't take a motrin for that.

Starbursts of pain exploded in my chest.

Ugly.

Skinny.

Oh...I hope it's a girl. Wouldn't a daughter be amazing, Jocelyn?

I had to get it out, I needed to release the hurt. Somehow.

Rocking my small, curled body back in forth, I remembered a documentary I saw in science class. About how some people pricked their fingers when they had a fever, the blood drawing healed them, somehow. Or back in the Medieval Times, when they thought that taking blood would make the patient feel better.

I thought of the scissors I'd taken from Art Class, to cut my bangs over my eyes; maybe if I looked mysterious, people would approach me more.

One time wouldn't hurt.

I'd said the same about throwing up.

But it'll be just this once.

Just to make this pain stop.

I pulled the small scissors out of my binder pocket, and unsnapped them, biting my lip hesitantly. I'd never liked hurting myself. And the sight of blood kind of sickened me.

Just this once. Then I won't do it ever again.

Don't think. Just do it.

I pressed the blade onto the paleness of my skin, and a sharp hiss broke through my lips as it sliced through, smooth as a knife through butter.

And cut my skin.

There was a brief pinch...but then a peaceful, blissful feeling washed over me, and my head fell back against the wall.

The pain was gone.

For now.

The only sound in the empty bathroom was the soft drips of the scarlet beads of blood, trickling down my arm.

I stared into the nursery, my vision green with envy.

She got everything.

Rosie.

Bubble-gum pink walls. White-lace curtains.

I got barf-green blobs, and off-white sheets Mom hung from the rails.

I stared at Mom and Dad holding baby-Rosie, cooing about how adorable she was, crooning in muffled voices how proud they were of her.

She didn't have to do anything.

I scowled down at my hands, clutching angrily at the doorknob. Bright angry red slashes cut through both wrists and forearms, obvious and noticeable.

Impossible to miss.

They'd been newer, fresher ones.

They'd gone unnoticed.

Uncovered, yet nobody saw them.

It's like I'm freaking invisible.

I try everything

To make them see me.

Cheerleader.

Perfect.

I spun around in the tiny little uniform, rolling matching gloves over my arms to hide up my scars; it'd been harder than I'd thought to quit. I was still working on it, but really, it wasn't like I was using. Or attempting suicide.

And it makes me feel good. Why should I stop?

I smiled with the other girls, laughed at their jokes, which I didn't get.

But they knew my name. If they'd remember it was "Clary" and not "Claire", then it'd be nearly perfect.

But all they see

Is someone who's not me.

I was fourteen, now.

In officially three minutes, my birthday would be over.

I'd achieved a lot, over middle school-high school came after summer vacation-lost weight. Had Isabelle Lightwood's phone number. Dyed my hair brown. Found a way to get rid of the pain. And I had friends. Sort of.

Why didn't anybody show up for my birthday party?

I told them. Texted them. Emailed them.

Oh, well.

I fought to smile, despite the fact I could feel myself start to tear up. They shouldn't feel bad, if they've forgotten it was my birthday, today.

My parents forgot, too.

Wiping at my cheeks with a shaky hand, I sat up and reached over to the nightstand next to my bed, and grabbed the razors I'd been using. Easier than scissors.

Pain, pain, go away.

Come again another day...

Even when I'm walking on wire.

I dropped out of cheerleading.

Isabelle Lightwood immediately replaced me with a pretty blonde girl, Kaelie.

Good riddance.

I cut the razor in sharper, deeper strokes, mascara-stained tears dropping into the bathroom sinks, mingling with the scarlet droplets.

Guess what I saw today?

A girl, sitting on the floor in one of the stalls, her eyes glazed over.

Unsure what was wrong with her, I grabbed the bottle of pills sitting in her lap.

Painkillers.

She was high.

I crouched down next to her, recognizing her as a girl from my Spanish class. "Maia?"

She looked over at me. Yeah, Maia. She was the one who had the junkie boyfriend, Jordan. Apparently he wasn't the only junkie in their relationship.

"Maia? Do you need me to get somebody?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Nnnoo," she slurred, and smiled at me. "Perfect."

I pulled the bottle out of her grip. "I don't think you should have anymore," I told her, and patted her head. "Feel better."

I probably shouldn't have taken that bottle.

Because that night, when I was in my bathtub, I though back to that container I still had in my backpack.

Perfect.

I wonder how it feels to be perfect.

I'll tell you what it felt like.

It felt fucking wonderful.

I rolled over on my bed, a numb fire spreading through my veins, like hot blood.

Even when I set myself on fire.

The container rolled out of my open hand, and I chuckled at the clattering noise it made.

I crawled out of bed, but I fell. So I crawled.

Down the hallway, to my Mom.

She didn't look at me. "Clarissa, go to bed. You have school tomorrow." She was bouncing the two-year-old redhead on her knee, eyes glued to the TV.

"Nnnnooo." I think I was drooling. Ha. I swatted at the hanging saliva, and squealed when it slapped my cheek.

Mom didn't even glance in my direction.

Why do I always feel invisible,

Invisible?

I cocked my head at my reflection.

My hair was black again. Straightened so that it fell down over my white shirt that I had to get from the children's section, because I didn't fit in the adult's. Black skinny jeans that hugged my thin legs.

I looked pretty enough. Not too much makeup.

Didn't I look pretty?

Every day I try

To look my best.

No.

Not thin enough.

I knelt in front of my toilet, not even bothering to make sure Mom or Dad weren't walking past the bathroom.

Even if they heard, they wouldn't care, anyway.

I slid my finger down my throat, and emptied my shriveled stomach.

Even though inside

I'm such a mess.

Jordan stared at me. "Are you serious?" He demanded.

I nodded. "Your girlfriend gave me her painkillers..." I glanced behind me. "I need more. Please."

He sighed. "You're just a kid."

"Fifteen."

Raised blonde eyebrow. "You look nine."

I swallowed, and fought the urge to pull my razors out and bleed out my tears of frusteration. "Look, just..." I shook my head. "Please, Jordan? I'm desperate."

His expression softened. "Everyone who goes is." He nodded at his van, which I was trying to get into.

"Look, I really-" I began to pull up my sleeves, but Jordan stopped me.

"I really don't care," he said, softness gone. "You go in, get the shit you need, get out. Free if you keep your trap shut. Got it?"

I nodded.

Why do I always feel invisible,

Invisible.

Smoke swirled around the large backseat, coming from the five bongs sitting in a circle, and the two teens, sprawled on their stomachs in the front seat, smoking weed.

I crawled through, watching in fascination as one of the boys gave himself a shot, eyes rolling back into his head in pleasure.

So many teens in here...I'd never seen them before. Yet I'd seen them at school.

They're just like me.

I sat down in front of one of the bongs, and tapped it thoughtfully.

Then I bent over, and sucked a chestful of smoke into my mouth.

Here inside

I cry like hell.

I don't even know how long I'd been in there.

It was amazing. So amazing, how wonderful I felt, I began crying. And then the girl next to me, Aline, began to cry. She wrapped her arms around me, and rubbed her white-powder covered nose in my shoulder, her thin shoulders shaking as she whispered how lonely she was.

I was lonely, too. But she was hugging me. Talking to me.

I was still invisible. The clouds of smoke, the little glowing red bugs that buzzed around in front of me, hid my identity. But who liked themself, anyway? I could be whoever I wanted, in here.

"Don't let me go," Aline whispered. "Please."

I kissed the bruise on her cheek. "Don't let me disappear," I begged. "I don't want to fade away."

"Okay."

I was so happy.

I didn't need my razors.

Jordan kicked us out.

I shrieked and spat at him angrily, not in my right mind. I had wings. I could fly over him, scream lightning at him, hurt him with words.

Make him invisible with my tears for need of his magic that he kept stowed away in his van.

I don't remember how I got home, at eleven at night.

I was too tired, and nobody answered the door. I fell asleep outside on the front porch, let in by Dad at six in the morning on his way to work, who said nothing about my appearance or my lack of it yesterday.

You cannot hear

My cries for help.

The next morning, I headed straight for Jonathon's van.

Crawled in.

Sat next to Aline.

Powdered our noses.

Swallowed our happy pills.

What was the meaning of life before this?

Hair dye. Razors. Cheerleaders. Ignorant parents. Jealousy. Pain. Slenderness.

I laughed, hugging Aline close to me, screaming about the castle I saw.

Our castle. Aline and I would have a castle.

I try everything,

Yeah

To make them see me.

I was dressed in a beautiful green dress, Aline in red.

We danced, a golden-haired prince watching us and laughing, smiling crookedly.

Aline spun off, and the blonde prince caught me in his arms, and he was so strong, his eyes so golden and alive.

"Who are you?" He asked as he dipped me, like I weighed nothing. If I did weigh something, I don't think it would've mattered to him. His arms were strong, muscles hard. He would be able to carry me around everywhere, even if I didn't weigh eighty-nine pounds.

"I'm Clary." My voice was breathy.

He nodded. "Beautiful name for a beautiful girl," he said sweetly, and hugged me close, kissing my cheek.

Then he was gone.

The dresses.

The ballroom.

"Get the fuck outta here." Jordan slapped my face. "You've been in here for two hours, freak. Time's up."

My back arched off the floor and I yowled, raking my nails down his cheek, and he flinched in surprise. "No," I hissed. "No." I wanted to see the prince again, dammit!

He made the prince go!

But everyone sees

What I can't be.

The prince was so sweet. So handsome.

He noticed me.

He saw me.

He didn't ignore me.

"Why did you make him go?" I sobbed, and crumpled to the floor, banging my head against the seat.

"Hey!" Jordan grabbed at me, but I wouldn't stop banging.

I was hurting, again. I wasn't supposed to be hurting. I was in nirvana.

Even when I'm walking

On a wire.

Even when I set myself

On fire.

He let Aline and I stay.

"I'm Jace."

Jace handed me a sugar cookie from one of the snack tables in the castle, and as I ate it from his elegant fingers, I realized something; I wasn't going to throw up this cookie.

"That's a nice name."

He shrugged. "Nickname." He smiled at me. "Want to dance?"

I nodded, and he wrapped an arm around my waist, and led me to the dance floor.

Why do I always feel invisible,

Invisible?

I woke up, and sat up.

The prince's name was Jace.

He kissed me.

I had to tell Aline.

I crawled over to where she was laying, syringe in her hand.

"Aline." I shook her, careful not to touch the hand-shaped bruises her uncle left on her. "Aline, wake up. I have to tell you about Jace."

She didn't wake up.

Blood was leaking from her nostrils, trickling out of her mouth.

Her heart was still.

Every day I try to look my best.

I laid on top of her, and began to cry.

Aline was the closest thing I had to a friend.

We were going to be queens together.

We were going to be happy together.

I screamed and pounded my fists on either side of her.

It wasn't fair. Why was she dead?

Still sobbing, I sat up, and grabbed the razors that I kept in my backpack, and rolled up my sleeves, my hands shaking with my tears, which were splattering across Aline's bloody face.

Even though inside

I'm such a mess.

"Clary? What's wrong?"

I was sitting on Jace's lap, and he was running his hands through my hair, which was red. Weird. It hadn't been red in seven years.

"Aline." I buried my face in his neck. "She's dead."

She wasn't even at the castle.

She was gone.

"I'm sorry, beautiful." Jace kissed my cheek.

I didn't feel it, though.

I never felt it, when he touched me. Not really.

Because he wasn't real.

It was more of an illusion of a touch, the idea of a warm, calloused hand, touching me gently. Sweetly.

I really was alone.

Why do I always feel invisible,

Invisible?

I danced.

Danced.

My feet were beginning to hurt, but I didn't stop dancing.

I never stopped dancing.

Sometimes, when I'm alone

I pretend that I'm a queen.

It's almost believable.

My feet were beginning to bleed, now.

"Clary..." Jace stroked a curl behind my ear. "Shouldn't you take a break?"

I shook my head. "I don't want to stop," I told him. "I want to stay here. Forever, please."

"You will be my queen, here," he promised. "I love you, Clary."

I smiled at his words. "I love you, too."

Even when I'm walking

On a wire.

"Clary? Clary? Shit."

I opened my eyes.

Jordan, Maia, Mom, Dad, and a police officer were staring down at me. Red lights were blinking and there were sirens wailing.

I blinked. "Where's Jace at?"

"Who?" Dad frowned. "Clarissa, how long have you been using?"

I stared at him. Now he cared. "Fuck you," I sighed tiredly, no venom in my voice. My feet were sore from dancing with Jace, and I just wanted to sleep and never wake up.

Like Aline.

Even when I set myself

On fire.

I was laying in a hospital bed, not allowed to have my razors or painkillers.

Mom and Dad went home instead of on the ambulance with me.

No surprise there.

I was alone in the hospital.

Always alone.

I would never see Jace again. Never see Aline again. Never see my castle again. Never be so blissfully numb again.

A tear tracked down my cheek, and I kicked aside my covers.

And walked one my tiptoes across the room and to the window that over-looked eighteen stories above the city.

Why do I always feel invisible,

Invisible?

I opened the window, and stepped on the sill, looking down.

They would see me, now.

See me fall.

See what they've done to me.

This was all their fault.

Yes.

They would see me now.

I jumped.

Every day I try to look my best,

Even though inside I'm such a mess.

Aline hugged me, and I sat next to her on my throne, on Jace's lap.

We talked and giggled, our villagers dancing around on the ballroom floor.

I was seen, here.

I was their queen.

I was Jace's wife.

Aline was alive.

Why do I always feel invisible,

Invisible?

No scars remained on my wrists.

No dye in my hair.

No attempts at changing myself.

No more throwing up.

Jace pressed his cheek to mine. "You're home now," he whispered, as if knowing what I was thinking.

I nodded. "I am."

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