I have always believed there is a turning point for everyone. A moment in their life that defines them, a moment when their perspective changes, when their very essence becomes something else. It can be good, or it can be bad.
For me, it was bad. The moment that defines me, the turning point in my life, broke me.
I will never forget the way I felt that night, the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was crumbling, tearing from the inside out. However, unlike any other time, any other break up, this time, I was alone.
It wasn't a break up. It wasn't one of those times when you get upset and move on. It left me empty, longing for the caring touch of my mother's arms around me, comforting me. For the deathly look in my brother's eyes whenever someone said anything hurtful to me. The way my father would smile at me, tell me everything would be okay.
Even now, on my way to yet another foster home, another city, another school, the pain of losing everything was still a mist, engulfing me until I couldn't breathe.
This time would be different. That's what I've been telling myself for the past two years, every time the social worker showed up. Every time I was sat down and told that it just wasn't working out.
This time, I knew better than to hope. No one wants something broken. And I was beyond repair. I had learnt this the hard way, through rejection, after rejection.
The car pulled up in front of a... mansion. It was by far the nicest place I had been yet, the stone walls looked medieval, but the flower arrangements and well sought after bushes and greenery made it look modern, sophisticated and... strangely, homey.
I walked slowly up the gravel drive, my social worker, Siobhan, at one side. Neither of us had said anything yet, the silence was tense, and I was groping for some feeling of familiarity.
The one bag I had, was mainly filled with paints, brushes, note pads, and other art supplies, a few sets of clothes, and at the top of the pile, was a photograph of...me. Old me, when I was still happy, still... me.
Clutched to my chest was my sketchbook, and my mother's. They were by far, my most prized possessions, one of the few links to how life used to be.
I was pulled out of my thoughts by the large oak door opening, a strict looking, middle-aged woman smiling brightly at me.
Her black hair was pulled back tightly into a plait at the back of her head, reaching past her waist. She was beautiful.
She made her way down the quartz stairs, her eyes bright, a loving expression etched on her face.
What really surprised me, was the overwhelming hug she pulled me in, her motherly instincts peeking through, reminding me painfully of my mother.
"You must be Clary. I am so happy to finally meet you. I'm Maryse." she said in a chipper tone, sincerity practically oozing off of her intimidating figure.
"Hi." was all I said. She must have got that I wasn't in the mood for smalltalk, as she shot me a sympathetic look, while I was trying to read her eyes. There was... recognition in them. What was that about?
I hadn't realised the handful of people slip in behind her, and as I did, she shifted her attention to them.
"This is my family, my eldest son Alec," she said gesturing to a raven haired boy, his lanky frame making him look really tall, but the muscle peeking through his cashmere jumper showed how strong he actually was. Next was a female replica of Alec, but where he was lanky and buffy, she was curves and tan skin everywhere. Maryse introduced her as Isabelle, her daughter, who was my age. Isabelle looked like the kind of girl I would like to draw, her hair, much like her mother's, was raven coloured and reaching way past her waist, adding to the whole model look going on.
Next to Isabelle was a brown haired boy, whose name was Max and was nine, but in reality looked about seven. His glasses were too big for his face, his dark brown eyes wide, as he clutched a manga comic book to his chest.
I smiled at how much he reminded me of myself, before everything happened: innocent and nerdy.
Maryse's husband, Robert, was huge, his broad chest and shoulders seemed mismatched with his loving face. The most striking thing about him, something only Alec had inherited, were his blueberry blue eyes, their depth reminding me of the ocean.
My attention was caught by a flash of gold, my eyes wandering, to see, three golden heads, two sets of gold eyes, and one set of blue ones.
The contrast between them and the Lightwood family was ridiculous. While they were all dark blues, browns and blacks, with mainly pale skin, the golden group resembled angels, all golden hair and skin.
"These are our very close friends, the Herondales. This is Jace," she said pointing to the younger of the three, a golden god, with a smirk seemingly plastered on his face."...Celine, Jace's mother," she said, gesturing to a blue eyed woman, short, compared to her son, "... and Stephen, Jace's dad." she concluded, pointing to a seemingly older version of Jace.
They all said hi, Celine smiled brightly, and, to my surprise, enveloped me in a warm hug. Over Celine's shoulder, I could see Jace smirk, and Stephen smile and shake his head in a loving manner.
Isabelle smiled brightly at the exchange between me and Jace, her eyes fleeting between our faces.
Maryse ushered us all inside, muttering something about it being chilly.
"Uhmm, I should probably go." Siobhan said, seemingly happy about how it was going so far.
Without waiting for Maryse to argue, she spun on her heel and briskly walked to her car.
I raised my eyebrow, while Maryse just smiled, and headed inside. I stayed behind waiting for everyone to file in before me, but Jace stopped, inclined his head towards the door and smiled encouragingly. I gave a half smile, muttering a swift thank you and went through the door without looking back.
That's the first chapter done. Let me know if you liked it. Thanks for reading! :P