A/N: M'kay, guys, this is just... kind of nothing. xD Short little Alec drabble. I was just trying to get back in writing mode. I didn't like this at all - or really enough to read it through twenty times, so my apologies for any typos - but I felt bad for not posting all summer. Here's something! I'm almost done with the third chapter of Oathbound. Really. I am. It should be up in a week or two.
I just wanted to thank you guys for being so amazingly awesome, btw. xD You all rock. Realllll hard. Thanks to all of you, for reading and liking my stuff, even though it's not as great as lots of other's work out there. It means a fricking lot!
Alec's silenced voice was raw, his shut eyes burning with dull malice. Still hands throbbing, sickly breath scratching against his pillow.
It was one of those nights again. The term sounded so average, not at all like a head-splitting heart-scratching hell. Indeed, there wasn't much to imply that Alec was living a hell, nothing that anyone noticed, anyway. Sure, he got amazingly, unaccountably angry sometimes. But didn't all teenagers (avoiding looking at Jace and Isabelle, who were never quite as terrible as he)? Wounds he couldn't explain sometimes appeared on his arms, but what Shadowhunter could remember every one of their wounds? Sure, maybe Jace, but he didn't get that many. He was quiet, more reserved than even a Nephilim teen should be, but everyone had known he was shy all his life. It was just part of his personality. And sometimes, just sometimes, he opened himself up, let someone look into his eyes and see the torture roiling there, watched them gape at the pits of hell burning blue in his irises.
That nobody could explain, but it was only one thing.
Only… one.
He was only one person.
With only one thing wrong with him.
One… was enough to create an abomination.
One was enough to send him screaming through his room, knowing full well nobody heard or paid any attention to the sound, tearing at the walls, the floor, the bedspread, the books and weapons scattered throughout the room, himself. To scratch his throat with vocalized anguish, to bleed his heart out into emptiness. It was enough to keep him from moving, looking, acting, breathing, thinking correctly.
One was enough to hate oneself with sickening detestation, to resent the world not quite as venomously but enough to send his sight awry nonetheless.
A homosexual Shadowhunter was enough to stir thick turmoil, not surprisingly.
Just… one.