Just wanted to thank you guys for taking the time to read this story- it's going to be at least 10 chapters, I'm not sure I want to make it very long as I have trouble motivating myself to write. Reviews are much appreciated as i'm very inexperienced and have much to learn! I'm going slightly OCC, but not enough to make these characters my own. All characters belong to Cassandra Clare- none belong to me!
Clarissa Fray would have had to guess that her mother had just grown tired- tired of not her, but the responsibilities that had accompanied having a life dependent upon you. In fairness, Clarissa needed to remind herself her mother had done what was most beneficial for her child, and that it had not been very easy to let go of someone you loved so fiercely. Despite this, Clarissa couldn't help but be beyond hurt that her mother, Jocelyn, fought her own alcoholism to no avail. It was troubling, really, to see her mother destroy her body and mind with bottle after bottle- and she knew too. But, Clarissa remembered what her adopted grandmother, Dorothea, had told her.
Little Clary had only been a few years younger then, she had just entered the 9th grade and had been readjusting to her demotion to "bottom of the food chain," leaving middle school. Her mother had called her during her last class and slurred to her apologetically that she would have to take the bus home, and excitedly explained to her she was going to a Sublime concert tonight with her new boyfriend- she had wanted to make sure Clary new where she had left her EBT card for dinner tonight. Clary had not known if she wanted to sob or sigh, she didn't like her mother's boyfriend one bit. He incessantly fed her mother's drinking problems and had been the cause of her new drug addiction. Confronting him did no good, his rationale was if she had less alcohol to drink, less pot to smoke and less meth to snort, then she wouldn't do so much. Or, he tore his fist through the wall in a show of dominance and power, beat her mom brutally and left drunk to whatever hell-hole he crawled out of. Clary felt an even stronger need to shield her sensitive mother from this man, but she had done that to no avail.
She may have been young, but Clary was not stupid and she knew the ten extra minutes she gave her mom every morning to "wake up" was a period of time in which her mother would snort her good morning pick me up- and in a sick way Clary ignored this and needed to pretend her mother had baby powder on her nose and not meth. She can recall clearly the days before this conversation; her mother's boyfriend had detached the battery cables to the Honda so her mom couldn't leave for her job interview. Tiredly, she wondered if that was why she had to take the bus- which normally isn't an issue. The bus provided a type of independency that gave poor Clary some much needed peace, for neither her mother nor her mother's current suitor could prevent her from attending school. Opening her wallet, she could feel fear squeezing the last shaky breath from her lungs as her eyes raked over empty contents. Her mistake, she loathingly realized, had been letting some kid from her english class take her last three dollars to buy himself lunch. She had always been too generous for her own good, and now it had come back to haunt her. Panic closed in ever so slowly, with numbing feelings of trepidation cascading down her body like cold droplets of water. Begrudgingly, she dialed her grandmother's number- something she had avoided at all costs. Her grandmother was a stern, pudgy woman with little moral compass or conviction. She cared for her mother, but in a cruel detached manner in which lead her mother to have multiple dependency issues as well as a constant need for affection.(Which, she found in men) Clary bit her lip anxiously as heard her phone ring once, twice- and abruptly was answered by a female's gruff voice.
"What is it- don't you have better things to do then to sell me vacuums? Because the only thing that needs to be sucked up around here is your bullshi-"
Clary cut off her grandmother meekly,
"Madame Dorothea? It's Clary- could I trouble you for a ride home?"
Her answer was complete silence, and the phone made a "click" as it hit the receiver- leaving little Clary with a whiny dial tone as her closest comfort. Clary Fray was a stubborn, strong-willed and capable woman, but even the strongest of us fall prey to human weaknesses and Clary could not help but feel more alone in this world than ever. Letting her eyes gloss over and her eyes drift down to the ground, her fiery locks hung heavily against her as a barrier between herself and the world. Slumped on the ground, her knees scraped against the pavement of her high school's parking lot and the sun shone down threateningly against her pale, freckled skin. People stepped by, no one that she had known personally. Her slender frame rested delicately on the ground with her back to a wall, and time passed unnoticeably around her. She hadn't known how long she had pitied herself on the ground for until she had heard the obnoxious honking of a 1970 sickly green VW Beetle making rounds in the parking lot. There in the front seat she could make out the wrinkled mauve skin of her grandmother, her thick grey dreads and a swirl of astounding colors seemingly swimming on her shirt. Each pattern mesmerizing and intricate in its own peculiar way, and almost trance like Clary darted towards the vehicle- unsurprised her grandmother couldn't see her through her clouded, grey eyes. She opened the passenger door with a groan and slid awkwardly into the tattered seats.
Vaguely, Clary recalls the scent of cucumber wafting through the old car. She had been angry, relieved, saddened, and jovial her grandmother had made her way towards Clary in her time of need. Feeling so much at odds with herself, Clary opted to sit in silence until the very end- where she would tersely thank her grandmother and leave as quickly as possible to her small apartment in Escondido. Her train of thought had collapsed as her grandmother had shot her hand to Clary's leg and squeezed it roughly.
"It's not her fault- though im sure you like to think it is."
Dorothea's gravelly voice had taken on a lilt, and her appearance became even more car had shuddered and groaned, it was as if the car had agreed with her words. Raising both her eyebrows, Clary shot an openly befuddled expression in the direction of Dorothea.
"Who's?"
"Your mother, she is very ill. You know some of us are born wired a certain way- and your mother functions in a way that's chaotic and beautiful. She's manic depressive you know, and brilliant. She'll never want it easy- she'll never want to be alone. You need to stop being such a child and choose to love your mother for what she is and isn't- or leave her."
Her reperie was softly interrupted by her father, Luke. Piercing blue eyes regarded her from of the corner of his eyes, their intensity only heightened by the reflection of his glasses. He turned quickly to assess Clary, his shaggy brown hair twisting in all directions and his glasses slipping slightly down his long nose. His mouth gaped open and close, similarly to a fish Clary noticed in amusement, before he let out a long ragged sigh.
"Clary…... I-"
He cut himself off abruptly in embarrassment, and although he kept his eyes locked onto the ever- expanding road in front of him- Clary couldn't help but feel uneasy as she had the feeling he wasn't paying attention at all.
"Clary, you know I've always loved you. And your mother- she's not ready to take care of herself." Let alone you… the unspoken words hung heavily in his toyota tundra.
"I know you want to take care of her- so do I. But you aren't living your best life alone with her in that small, dirty apartment."
Clary left her face impassive and let nothing leave her mouth- she didn't want to project her feelings of rage and hurt unto Luke. After all, the best years of her life had been when her mother and Luke were married. She never knew her real father, he had supposedly left with her older brother once Jocelyn had gave birth to little Clary. He was a jealous man, or so she had been told, and couldn't look at Jocelyn without questioning her loyalty to him. She hasn't spoken to or seen them ever- really. Luke had taken it upon himself as Jocelyn's closest friend to help care for Clary, and they couldn't help but fall in love sharing such a huge responsibility.
They had ten years of marriage together- littered with camping trips and Disneyland and much more. But, after some time Jocelyn fell back into bad habits- she numbed her nightmares with substances and Luke couldn't watch the woman he loved more than anything kill herself in front of him. She begun to steal from him and cheat, and accused him of wanting Clary all to himself. Clary had blamed him only at the time, Jocelyn and her were forced to leave the house they all three had shared together in San Marcos because they could no longer afford it on their own. She couldn't hold down a job and Clary was too young- so they moved to a low rent ghetto where anyone from sexual predators to college graduates could live. It had not been a safe place to live, but Clary had grown fond of the seedy apartment complex, affectionately named "Pandemonium." But- here she sat, with a man she didn't think still held such love for her. He taught at Alicante High as an AP Art History professor in San Diego, California- a relatively new public school in which worked as an academic experiment of sorts. It's goal was to diversify its students and to make exceptional education available for all races and social classes- sort of a "No Child Left Behind" campaign in the city. Clary would be attending the school soon, a thought both compelling and terrifying. Luke seemed to take her encompassing silence as a positive response, and breathed out a weary " Thank you, Clary," before pulling off the freeway in the direction of her new home.
Clary could feel her shirt greedily sticking to the sweat off her back, acting as a loose second skin. Her hair had been pulled forcefully into a tight, frizzy ponytail to keep her vibrant curls clear out of her face. Her jeans felt cumbersome, and painful after having them glued to her body for so long. She glared at her new mortal enemy- her bitch of a bedframe before closing her white bedroom door with a soft , resounding "click." Pulling up her shirt to her breasts and pressing her sticky back to the cold door, she slid down to the ground with a breathy "ahhh." She was lucky Luke had a truck, and seemed experienced with helping disheveled woman rearrange their lives- though she speculated that's what had gotten him into his mother's pants. Clary supposed his home was comely, in an odd way. It was mostly filled with crammed bookshelves and empty picture frames- a couch and coffee table sat in the living room, with no TV. That was the extent of furniture in the house. The kitchen was small and clean, with no pans or utensils left out-The only bathroom sat upstairs, separating his and Clary's rooms. it was as if he rented himself a tiny library. Idly, she wondered if there had been pictures of him and Jocelyn before he could no longer stand to look at them together. Due to sheer exhaustion and boredom, Clary removed her jeans and climbed onto her unmade bed, all the while mumbling about heavy bed frames and itchy sheets. She flipped onto her back, staring at the plain, white dry wall surrounding her at all felt isolating to look around at such unfamiliarity. Some color would be nice, she had thought decidedly and let herself be comforted that if her life were to be thrown upside down during her last days of summer- she at least had her own space to decorate and enjoy. Her last thoughts before sleep took her in its clutches were of picture frames filled with colors- oranges, purples, blues and greens running profusely out of its corners to solidify into luminous gold eyes.
