Hello. This is just the beginning of a story in the theme I'd read and loved. As said in the summary, extremely OOC and AU, but I'm just hoping you will like it. Tell me what you thought in a review, if i should continue, exct.
Just a run down-short term summary.
Clary lived with her abusive father until one night she murders him and is forced to run than meet jail time. She runs into Jace Wayland, an assassin/vigilante and ends up getting sucked into his games of mind teasing and killing. Clary is forced into their company, and she tries to battle ruthless killing instinct, unrecognised feelings for said Jace Wayland, while figuring out why all her associates and "friends" keep dying.
***WARNING, I'm directing this story down a darker path, one many may not like, or at least this is my intention. The rating might change, don't know yet. If you don't like this style I am warning you of this stories possibilities in the future. Please try, but if you don't like the style I'm totally suggesting to not read my story. Graphic scenery, might be gross, again it was intended to be, please don't read if uncomfortable.
Also, wow this A/N is longer than expected, the summary is NOT definite. I might just happen to change the plot if i have an epiphany. Or a good idea. Just another warning for any potential readers out there who like to know what you're going to read. That's not me.
Hopefully you enjoy*** i really sincerely do.
She was late.
She couldn't be late.
Being late led to the suspicion, which stemmed the rage, that un-caged the beast. Being late meant that yet another bruise would decorate the bracelets stringing around her arms, the necklace at her throat, the lining of her slim stomach. More sore nights when curling onto the floor, coated in a thin layer of blankets, made her body audibly groan.
She hated being late,
she hated him.
Clary's soft footfalls, always soft for he just detested loud noises, seemed to ring and echo on the dim lit street of her slummy neighborhood. The darkness that festered in the alleyways between buildings seemed to swallow and drain, cascading into the streets and outlining the doorways so only the few stuttering lights provided refuge. But as Clary sped down the shadowed sidewalks she could only welcome the darkness, for it was all she had known, for it was the only time she was actually safe. Bursting into her front hallway Clary kicked off her shoes, aligning them with a nudge of her foot so he didn't have yet another thing to get mad about.
Her world was a blurry haze as Clary walked to the kitchen. It was just down the hallway, and Clary's bare feet seeped into the faded green carpeting, as she walked her hands shook lightly. Noticing this she calmed herself with touch.
Touch always calmed her.
She brushed her free one across the browning paint of the hallways walls. Paint that used to be white. Clary remembered it from a time when things were better, when her whole family was still with her, was still alive.
Slowing her steps to a normal pace she past the living room, where Clary slept every night on the grungy carpet. Past the coffee table that was staked high with used mugs and plates Clary was supposed to clean up.
She hadn't done that either in her rush to leave this morning.
Another thing he'd be mad about.
Her fingers brushed the old paneling of a chipping door and revealed their cluttered kitchen. The only part of this house that Clary was in more than her father.
Her father.
He stood there, on the tiled kitchen floor, face stoic and set with resolve. For a minute it was silent and calm and Clary could take the sight of him in.
He was holding a dirty mug in front of him, plates in the sink behind him were collecting from the breakfast he had to make himself this morning. In the waist band of his week-old jeans, his hand hovering just slightly above, was a steely, black revolver. Its leather grip was a molding black with fingerprint smudges glinting in the light, telling its mass use. The metallic wink of the trigger shone from its hiding place behind the barrel.
Waiting to be pulled.
Clary realized through her blurred mind that he'd already readied the gun, an empty cartridge laying on the table beside him.
Clary didn't speak for she knew it was better not to instigate an even more dramatic response. Yet she could practically feel the devilish man adding up all of her "mistakes", bundling them together into one gigantic one and working himself up, up, and then higher still, overloading with the rage and uselessness of the girl before him. He just had to explode...
"Clarissa," he said calmly, softly. It always started out in a whisper.
It ended in screams and shouts.
But this time they don't have to be yours, an innocent but tainted thought, not possible, a delusion of her temporarily incompetent mind. Her subconscious focused on the gun. Maybe he'll end it with a bang instead.
Though it was more probable the thought didn't frighten her. In fact, the blur on her world had lessened its leash and out came a fog, overlapping her brain. Shutting it down so the pain wouldn't process, the hurt wouldn't appear during the brunt of the attack.
How have you let him run your life so much that your own brain belongs to him now?
More delusional thoughts.
Your body, your soul, your mind.
Why not take it back?
Clary had never thought rebellious things before, the very thought of thinking bad things made feeling fester in her throat- a guilt. And she'd always blush when she was guilty, a tell-tale sign, thus leading to suspicion, then rage, then the beast.
The father.
Clary was pulled out of her mind with a snapping crack along her face, a blinding white light cutting the fog until it settled once again and the only words were "I'm sorry, so sorry, I didn't mean to." The thoughts still lingered though, unusual for this time of assault. And as wave after wave of blinding light, sometimes red, sometimes white, racked her brain they stayed. Steady. Persistent. Thoughts about him. Thoughts about the now shattered mug. Thoughts about the gun in the pants. But only in segments. They weren't entirely clear, like a conversation between two people on telephones where you could only hear one end. Or a walkie-talkie, breaking and crackling half way through the sentence.
"Listen to me when I talk to you, you ungrateful little brat! I bet you don't even know what you did wrong! You're just a stupid, useless whore!" Clary was on the ground, a throbbing pain in her ribs where she'd felt his boot connect with soft skin, as he looked down at her. His beady black eyes matched the snuffed corners of the walls, clashed with his blinding white hair. His face was the epitome of rage, and frightened her more than his flying fist and muscles.
Frightened her more than the hands around her neck.
Suddenly he was there, crouched with his hands pinching her throat. It was already red and sore and the skin of his hands twisted the purple bruises so the stretched skin stung her entire neck; like the piece of flesh felt as one entity. His fingers were so long that they almost wrapped behind her ears, and he grasped hold of the tiny red hairs on the nape of her neck as he slammed her head backwards into the wall. Clary felt through her blurry haze as the drywall gave beneath her skull, the plaster running onto her forehead, down the bridge of her nose, and catching on her lips.
That's when the thoughts broke through.
Put your hand on his forehead, shove his face back.
Take your arm and slide it up then slam it down on his wrists. Break them. Breathe.
Then grab the gun.
And shoot.
Clary didn't realize what she was doing until the blood had soaked her hands.
She pushed her feet up and kicked him in the chest, not pushing him away, just enough to weaken his death grip on her neck.
It was almost like following an instruction manual as Clary ducked from his grasp and grabbed the revolver, it slight catch on his belt creating a massive catch of her heart, but soon she felt the leather turning slick beneath her sweating palms. She'd taken his gun. She would get in so much trouble. She smiled as she aimed at his head, hanging as of he was knocked out cold.
Clary took in his silence and then screamed at him, raising her voice for the first time in years. "You were never a father!" She felt tears of rage stream down her face. "All I wanted was a real father! But you will never be him." Clary mentally scolded herself.
Like he cared.
"And yes, Valentine," she felt a rush at saying his real name. He never let her. " I do, in fact, know why you are so unreasonably angry!" Clary felt a lot like a dancer as she held the gun with both hands, gesturing with impaired hands, moving even closer to her fathers still form. "It's because I went to the goddamned hospital to fix an injury you created."
Wait...still form.
Clary nudged his hulking body with her toe. His flesh gave at the pressure, his body following the direction of forced movement. But Clary saw the movement of his chest and knew he was not dead. He was unconscious, vulnerable.
It would be so easy...
Clary couldn't help but agree with the whispered thought in her mind,
To just aim, grip, and pull. He wouldn't even fight back.
Just... shoot him.
And she could do it too. After all the years of suffering, all the weeks of broken bones and bruises left unhealed.
He did just try to kill her.
A flick of the wrist and he would be gone, the cause of your pitiful life resting in hell.
He wouldn't even feel it.
He'd be dead before he knew what was happening.
Just aim...
Clary leveled the gun with her emerald eyes. She stared down the barrel, sighting her kill, her prey, the shine glaring into her eyes as she pointed the tip at his feathery white head. And then... she thought she saw her fathers hand twitch, a flicker of movement in this everlasting tableaux.
Grip...
She felt her hand tighten around the worn leather, electricity pulsing through her. Her hands fit into the grooves made by her fathers own, rough and calloused as the material on the gun frame..
Her father. He was her father.
Clary's aim held steady, not wavering at the thought.
But she would have nowhere to go. She'd have to run from the cops.
Now the aim started to waver, silence hanging eerily in her house that by now should have been filled with pleas and screams of mercy.
Shoot,shoot,shoot,shoot. Shootshootshootshoot.
Her mind was screaming at her to follow the command..
But she shouldn't.
Clary lowered the gun.
And that's when he exploded off the floor. His face appeared in her vision first and those eyes, rage filled obsidian, left an imprint in her mind. It was as if she was suddenly reminded who stood in front of her. Of the many things he'd done to her.
Not her father.
Him.
You can kill the cops if you have to... her mind was a devilish bastard.
As her personal Satan ran towards her, alarm registering in his obsidian orbs at her gun-wielding hand, she gave in.
To her thoughts, that is.
Shoot.
It was a squeeze, a slight catch, then an even harder tug and suddenly a thunder storm erupted from the metal pieces in her hands. There was a slight change in sight, a clash of lighting and sound in her senses. Tastes of lead and ore and earth.
When it settled his blood coated the grungy kitchen wall in splatters and drips, flecks decorating her cheeks and nose and lips. A surge of power overcame her as she took in the coated ceiling, the walls, her kitchen looking like a fan had ripped apart a bag of raw meat. The red paint hidden in his body dripped beautifully off of her old icebox, the rivers and stream running the walls pooled in the grooves of the tiled floor. In place of his face was a body, marred hole.
Perfect, well done. She praised herself. Praise was aloud now that he was gone.
She promised herself she'd never regret what she did. Wiping the red freckles away from her cheeks she smiled, dropped the gun.
Hurrying now, Clary grabbed a bag of clothes she'd always kept packed, made her way over to the fire escape at one of their tiny apartments' windows, and she clambered onto the metal scaffolding.
The night no longer symbolized a due date, an alarm, a time to be home. The slummy streets of her neighborhood looked like a beautiful euphoric heaven, the lamp posts a hazy yellow that stretched on and on into the night. As rust and dirt flew along the gentle warm breeze, metal and sirens droned on beneath her, a motorcycle roared to life in an alley nearby, and shadows festered and consumed even more light, Clary was not afraid of anything.
She was in the night, her home, and her city, a mother.
She was proud.
She was strong.
She was free.
Finally.
Review with your thoughts please? Should I continue?
This interpretation is very OOC, almost to the point where I want Clary on the brink of insanity. She'll be developing a lot as a character, I think.
Jace will be in the next chapter,
depending on if I will make a second chapter, (Can you guess where she'll meet him?) and I'm hoping to just write freely with this story. With loose minded characters its so easy to write a story that can do so many things and go so many ways. But it'll definitely have a plot.
ANYWAYS, let me know what you thought, favourite parts/parts i should look over and such.
Thank you for reading, follow, favourite, review, Lovestory112.