Hi! This is just a one shot that I came up with. It seems really long, but it's not overly long. It doesn't have many long paragraphs.
This fic is rather dark, probably the darkest I've ever written.
DISCLAIMER: Nope. Still didn't write M.I.
Enjoy.
Clary's hands were cold as she locked the door from inside her apartment. Every part of her was freezing, despite the thick woollen jacket and scarf that bundled around her and the beads of sweat that trickled down her forehead.
Peeling off her damp coat and pulling off her shoes, she dumped the items on the floor by her door. Her brain was numb, acting on instinct and habit. It wasn't until she caught her reflection in the small rectangular mirror above the hallway cupboard did she snap out of her haze.
She looked awful. The type of awful that made you want to just choke on your own spit right then and there.
Dull, torn eyes stared back at her, surrounded by colourless skin. Her pale red hair fell in ugly, tangled locks around her brittle neck, her thick woollen jumper hanging awkwardly on her body, the sleeves falling off her shoulders.
Choking on a sob, Clary turned away in disgust. She had never liked the way she looked, but over the years, as she got older, she just seemed to get uglier and uglier.
Shaking, she forced herself to stare back at her reflection. Her trembling lips contorted into a scowl.
Ugly. Pathetic. You're disgusting, you little slut. Who would ever want you? Who?
Nobody, that's who.
It was the voice again. Clary knew it was the only part of her worth anything, if only because it spoke the truth.
It was also the part of her she hated the most.
But she deserved it. She knew she did. It was her penance, her only way to redemption from what she did.
"Of course you deserve it. You deserve everything you get. You deserve the same thing every other whore does."
She froze. It was a different voice this time; a real one. Not a present one, more like a memory. His voice, like the other, spoke the truth; nothing but the whole truth.
But his voice was not wanted. Not accepted.
She didn't welcome his tone like she did the other.
Because the other was her own. The first voice was a creation of her own mind, something she'd formed by herself. It wasn't real.
But this voice was very real and somehow it tore her apart more than her own self destruction ever did. She almost couldn't believe it. She hadn't heard that voice in five years. She thought she'd outrun it when she left that house.
But here it was.
Clary let out something not unlike a wail and fell into a ball on the hard linoleum floor, folding her arms over her chest and rocking back and forth.
"Filthy, filthy, filthy. Your mother would be ashamed. But you won't see her were your going; you won't see her in hell."
"I'm s-s-sorry." She stuttered through her sobs. "Daddy, please. Please, it wasn't my fault."
"Not your fault? You can't blame this on anyone else Clarissa."
"But Daddy, he was so strong. He said he wanted it. I wanted to stop but he just kept on touch-"
"Enough!"
Slap.
"You foul, foul little devil. I swear on the Lord, if I had known this is what you would become, I would have ridden of you before you could take even one tainted breath."
Slap.
"Momma," She moaned, gripping at her hair, her nails digging into her scalp. "Momma, help me." She felt something warm and sticky trickle down the back of her neck, like somebody was pouring warm syrup over her head.
"She can't hear you." His voice snapped. "Even if she could, she wouldn't help you now."
She ignored him.
"Momma, I need you. I don't want it to hurt anymore."
"So end it. Do the world a favour and remove one more evil creature from it."
Clary stopped rocking. What if she did?
It was so simple, so easy; she couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it earlier. She laughed out loud at her own stupidity.
Picking herself off the ground, she stumbled over to tiny set of three benches, a sink and small fridge that apparently classified as a kitchen. Nothing like the kitchen she'd had growing up, with its shiny marble bench tops.
On the bench closest to her lay a half set of cheap cooking knives. She had no idea where the other half was; they were already missing when she'd bought it from the pawn shop.
With trembling hands, she plucked one from the wooden block, gripping it tightly by the black plastic handle. The blade shone attractively in the stark fluorescent street light shinning in through the half open living room window.
Light bounced and glinted off the metal, flashing beautifully despite the age of the knife.
So pretty, she thought to herself, tracing her finger along the sharp edge.
Clary shook her head, remembering what she came to do.
She jerked, pressing the blade to her soft, lily white wrist. Not yet breaking the skin, she marvelled at how close the blood seemed. She couldn't help but think about how vulnerable humans were, with just a thin sheet of skin keeping them from bleeding out and just a piece of cloth saving them from violation.
She applied more pressure to the knife, hissing and sighing in relief as the thin sheet broke and thick, dark red blood seeped from her wrist, running down her arm and hand in rivulets. The more blood she spilled, the lighter she felt.
Grasping the knife in her other fist, already covered in blood, she ran the metal deeper across the other wrist in one swift movement, not wasting any time with this one. The dark red ran faster now, dripping onto the floor and the bench in front of her. She couldn't even feel the pain, not now.
Clary began to feel sleepy, more than she ever had in her life. Her knees buckled beneath her, and without warning she found herself slipping to the ground, a pool of red liquid gathering around her. Absent mindedly she found herself worrying about the thick, dark gray jumper. The blood would definitely stain, and it was her favourite after all.
She decided to worry about it later.
White dots appeared in her vision, and her head began spinning. She closed her eyes, smiling.
The voice was gone. His voice was gone.
As her mind danced on the edge of sleep, she thought she could hear something. A floating, tinkling sound, like piano, maybe.
Like music.
Xxxx
Isabelle wondered idly down the street, swaying slightly in her walk, smiling at the tiny rivers of stars floating in little swirls at her feet. She did notice the people staring at her as she passed them.
Of course they were staring at her. Isabelle Lightwood was very pretty.
The raven haired girl giggled out loud at her own vanity. If Alec had been there he would have rolled his eyes.
Alec. He would be angry, Isabelle knew this. She frowned to herself. He would yell. She hated it when he yelled. And he yelled a lot. Not always at her, though. Sometimes he yelled at her friends.
She hated it when he yelled at her friends. They were all really nice, tall men; they always kept her safe when she was out on the street by herself. They would hug her and say nice things to her, like how her hair smelled nice, and how pretty she was. They protected her as well. That's why Izzy didn't understand why Alec didn't like them. That was all her big brother ever seemed to want; for her to be protected.
That's why he always bleached her clothes when she came back from wandering. She didn't think it was necessary; she liked the pattern the red made on the bottom of her skirt and on the sleeves of her blouse. It was pretty. But Alec said it was bad. He said that if people saw, they might take her away from him. Even the thought made Isabelle start crying.
Sometimes Alec tried to give her pills. But Isabelle hated the pills, even more than she hated yelling. They made her feel sick, and whenever she ate them she couldn't see any of the pretty things.
"Don't worry about Alec, you know how he is." Isabelle turned towards the voice. "Always worrying about nothing."
"Max!" She cried happily grasping the little boy's hands. They laughed and span together, round and round. The man from the video shop stopped and stared at them. Isabelle waved and he looked away, quickly.
Isabelle's lower lip trembled. What did she do to make the man not like her?
"Fuck head." Max's voice turned rough.
"Max!" Isabelle giggled despite herself. "That's a rude thing to say."
Max just shrugged. Isabelle hummed, and watched in awe as little orange bubbles fell from the sky and bounced in the air around her. Max laughed at them, and Isabelle giggle with him.
They started walking, nowhere in particular.
Soon they reached the bridge. Isabelle had always loved this bridge. So big; it must have taken hours to build. Alec called it the Brooklyn Bridge. It was so pretty right now. Twinkling lights hung above them, held in the air by millions of tiny little bluebirds. Max and Isabelle walked along the edge of the railing, cars whizzing and honking by. Isabelle loved the way she could feel the vibrations of the cars passing in the thick metal wires. It felt like music.
She leaned over the wire, feeling the cold night air blow in her hair. It was almost like she was flying. Almost.
Almost was not good enough. Growling in frustration, she swung one leg over the metal railing, and then the other. Holding on with both hands, on the tips of her bare toes, she leant out over the river. So much better.
Below her the river was perfectly still, like glass. Underneath the glass flashed different coloured lights, playing a silent tune, just for Isabelle. She laughed again.
"You can let go Izzy!" Max yelled above the sound of traffic.
"But Max! What if I fall?"
"You won't fall Izzy! You can fly!"
Delighted, Izzy looked over her shoulder at Max.
"Really?"
"Of course. Everyone knows you can fly, Izzy. Even Alec."
She frowned. "But why wouldn't he tell me?"
"He's scared, Iz. He's scared that if you knew you could fly, you would fly away from him and never come back."
"I would never fly away from Alec! I love him!"
"I know. You need to show him! If you show him you can fly, then he won't be so scared!"
Izzy thought about this. It was a good idea. She didn't want Alec to be scared anymore.
Letting go with both hands, she jumped, soaring from the edge of the bridge.
Max was right. She was flying.
Xxxx
Jace opened the piano lid, none too gently. His head was spinning, pulsing in his skull. Shaking hands gripped his hair and he rocked himself slightly. He needed a distraction.
Everything was quiet in his apartment, the cheap, dingy thing it was. The piano was the most valuable thing he owned. Even that was just a cheap, broken thing he'd found in a junkyard and rebuilt himself.
Somewhere, in the distance, he thought he heard wailing. He shook his head. This was getting bad. He shouldn't be hearing things. That was a bad sign.
Oh this was bad. So very, very bad.
He breathed in deep. Distraction. It was all he needed. Something to keep his mind off it.
Breathing hard, he placed his fingers on the keys and started to play. He played a familiar tune. A lullaby, one he knew so well. He remembered, strongly, a woman singing it to him. She'd had such a beautiful voice; high, sweet, perfectly on key. He remembered her as if it was just yesterday. He remembered the way she would smile at him, the way she would dance to The Beatles and Nat King Cole. He remembered the cracked, popping sound of the old records. It was all so clear; he even remembered the lyrics to the lullaby. Closing his eyes, he sang softly, under his breath.
Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes
And save these questions for another day
I think I know what you've been asking me
I think you know what I've been trying to say
I promised I would never leave you
He stopped slamming his hands down on the keys, the notes mashing together into an ugly mix.
"No!"He screamed. Standing up, he knocked the piano seat out of his way furiously. The chair toppled over, the lid opening and sheets of music manuscript spewed out across the room.
He screamed again.
The wailing had stopped, replaced by blaring sirens. It made Jace's mind throb in his head, so painfully. He couldn't take it anymore. He needed it.
Shaking, Jace sank to the ground, his back pressed against the wall.
There had been a time when he hadn't needed it. There had been a time when he had never even dreamed of it. But that was a time when he was happy. He hadn't needed anything really. He had been oblivious, carefree and invincible.
But then she left. Then he'd stopped being happy and started being unhappy. Not just sad as in blue, but sad as in a sort of uncontrollable down that never left. It was like being shrouded in darkness that overwhelmed him and suffocated him, tearing away at his heart and his soul until there was nothing left.
For a while he'd managed to survive off of music. The soft, melodic tinkle of the piano chords and the twangy strum of the guitar strings had kept him grounded. When he was playing he escaped, and for a few minutes everything was okay again.
But then the music stopped working. He lost all interest in it. The chords and strings could not comfort him any longer. He needed something stronger. At first he'd tried alcohol; that worked for a while. But the alcohol, like the music, eventually stopped working.
Then he'd met Sebastian. It was Sebastian who introduced him to the monster. And before he knew it, it had its claws around him. It swallowed him whole. And it had felt so good. He just needed more and more.
He was still under the demons gaze when he met Maia. She was beautiful, with her honey coloured hair and coffee coloured skin. He couldn't remember much of his time with Aline. He was sure at one point he convinced himself that he loved her. So many nights they spent together binging and touching and laughing and touching some more. Then she disappeared out of the blue, and he found he found himself hating the monster, pulling away.
It wasn't until he was sober that he realised maybe he didn't love Maia. Maybe the thing had just made him think he did.
For five months Jace resisted it. He'd been doing so well.
Then, two weeks ago, Maia showed up at his door. And she looked so good. So with it. He envied her.
Jace pulled up the sleeves of his black shirt, exposing the clusters of round, purple bruises.
But he needed it. He needed it so bad.
No. He had to kill it; had to destroy the thing that had torn him apart. He had too.
He had to kill the monster.
Xxxx
Alec paced the streets of Manhattan nervously, searching desperately for the raven haired girl in the pink dress.
He rushed down the streets, looking down every alleyway, peering into every corner. He had to find her. She was all he had left.
He turned right onto a side street, not bothering to notice anything that wasn't tall, black and pink. He approached a public restroom and stopped, hesitating. He knew how likely it was for Izzy to go into one of them. She would follow anyone who promised her a compliment or a bit of cash. She'd done it before. Gulping, Alec held his breath and walked in.
Once inside, Alec was immediately hit with an awful stench. He had no idea what it was, but it burnt his nostrils just to inhale it and made stomach acid rise in his throat. Gagging, he looked around the grimy, tiled area, ducking to check underneath the bathroom stalls. Nothing.
"Looking for something?" Alec spun on his heel, startled. The man behind him was tall, yes, black haired, yes and pink, yes. But not Izzy. He was undeniably Asian, and seemed to be coated from head to toe in a thin sheet of glitter.
"I'm looking for my sister," He told the man. "She's about Yay high, dark hair, pink dress?"
"No, sorry. I haven't seen her." The man took a step towards him, "However, I can give you something else. Something I can tell you're looking for." He purred, wrapping an arm around Alec's waist. The black haired boy jerked backwards, eyes popping out of his head.
"I'm sorry," He told the man unsteadily, "I-I-I don't know what gave you the idea, but I'm not- I'm not like that."
The taller boy chuckled breathily. "I'm sure you're not." He pulled something out of the pockets of his leather trousers.
"Here," He winked an olive green eye, "In case you change your mind."
Alec snatched the napkin up, not bothering to look at it before he shoved it in his pocket.
Back out on the street, Alec ran a hand through his hair, trying to clam himself down. Taking a deep breath, he sat himself down on a curb. It did, actually, occur to him that he looked like a homeless man, but he couldn't care less.
There were only five or so other people on the street; a few homeless people and a couple of hookers, waiting on the corner.
Suddenly, the silent air was pierced with the sharp beep of his cell phone. Izzy, he thought. Heart racing and palms sweating, he put the phone up to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Mr Lightwood?"
"Yes?"
"This is Simon Lewis of New York Community Hospital..." The young man's voice trailed out, and Alec could hear nothing but white noise.
Some part of him must have been listening, because before he knew it he was in the back of a cab, en route to New York Community.
The cab driver at the wheel looked at him curiously through the rear view mirror. He was a young, Hispanic man, so young that Alec wondered whether or not he should even be classified as a "man".
"You feel alright, hermano? Alec didn't answer. The only thing he could think was that he was alone.
He was completely alone.
Xxxx
Maia laughed, giddily, the euphoria sweeping through her like a tidal wave. She had forgotten how good it felt; how it made everything seem so much brighter. Why had she even stopped?
Her actions seemed so ridiculous now. She couldn't think straight now, couldn't feel the seeping emptiness that swallowed her when she was down. And she loved it. Who needed thinking? Who needed it when you had this?
More. She needed more of it. She needed enough to consume her like the loneliness had; but this wouldn't feel the same way that did. This wouldn't be like that at all.
The loneliness used to engulf her, drench her in its misery. The loneliness and the fear made her feel like she was drowning. But this, this made her feel like she was floating.
No, not floating. Better than that.
This made her feel like she was flying.
Xxxx
Simon yawned, running a hand through his messy brown hair. He couldn't count how many hours he'd been on shift, was it ten? Twelve? He didn't even know.
And it hadn't been an easy day, not at all. But then, there never was an easy day at New York Community's ER, where he worked.
It was just that today had been particularly hard.
He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was just that today, people seemed to hate themselves more than usual. In the time since he'd arrived at the hospital at seven this morning, right up until now, there had been three attempted suicides, one successful, two overdoses and a case of self harm gone wrong. The thing that got to Simon most was that none of them were really any older than he was.
He couldn't understand it. Couldn't understand how somebody could despise themself so much that they try and tear themselves out of the world like that. Or that somebody could think so little of their own worth that they destroy their bodies and minds. Simon wasn't full of himself, and he certainly didn't love himself, but he still had that small amount of respect towards himself. He knew he had to keep living; if not for himself but for his family and friends. For the people who loved him.
Maybe they don't have anyone that loves them.
But that was ridiculous. Everybody had somebody that loved them. Right?
There was a buzzing, and a vibration at his hip. Glancing at his pager, Simon sighed again and abandoned his already late dinner. It didn't matter; he didn't feel like eating much anyways.
"Hey," he said to Kaelie, the blonde nurse's assistant who was seated at the nurse's station, flipping through a file. "What's up?"
Kaelie motioned to a tall, dark haired guy about his age, sitting motionless on one of the hard, waiting room chairs.
"Brooklyn Bridge's brother." Kaelie let out a huff of breath. "Needs to identify the body."
"So you called me up to do it?"
"Naturally."
Oh God.
*One Hour Later*
Simon flopped down onto the office chair and groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose in between his thumb and forefinger.
"How was it?" Kaelie again. She was walking up to the nurse's station, carrying a tray with a vile of blood in it and a signed form.
"Painful." He replied. Kaelie's eyes were sympathetic. Death was the one thing that united the Doctors, nurses and nurses assistants and paramedics in this hospital. It was the one thing they all understood; the one thing they had in common. There was no way a medical personnel could go through with a career here and not have to notify a next of kin, assist with Identifying a body or be with someone in their final hours numerous times. It just wasn't avoidable.
The man, Alec, hadn't cried when he saw the soaking body of his only sister. He hadn't wept, wailed or even got angry. He just sort of stood there, nodding.
"Yes, it's her. That's my sister."
Simon almost wished he had cried, or wailed, or gotten angry. Just to know that he was dealing with it would have comforted him. The ones that didn't cry were always he hardest to talk to. He knew he couldn't get emotional with these things, but it was hard not to feel uncomfortable.
"She was his only family member, Kaelie." Kaelie looked at him. "She was the only person he had left."
"He must have friends or something. There has to be somebody out there for him."
Simon shook his head. "I don't think so Kay. You heard what the guy who saw her jump said. She was talking to nobody."
"So?"
"So," He continued, "chances are he spent all his time trying to keep her out of trouble. By himself. I doubt he had time to even make friends."
They were silent after that, and Simon began filling out the Lightwood paperwork. After a few minutes he felt a presence, somebody watching him. He looked up.
Jace.
"Jace," he said, stumbling out of the chair. "What are you doing here? Are you hurt?"
Jace had come into the hospital near fifteen times over the past two years, and Simon had taken an interest after he overdosed for the third time last year. The guy was a meth junkie, but Simon knew better than to make assumptions about someone based on an unhealthy lifestyle habit. The guy had issues, sure, but Jace had a certain look to him. It was a tortured look, with his paranoid, bloodshot eyes, more so than any other addict he'd seen. Simon knew about the bruises and the cuts along his arms; straight and precise, like a tally.
"Simon," Jace voice was raspy, like he'd been crying, or screaming, or maybe both. "I think I need help.
*Three Hours Later*
After calling a couple of contacts he had up on the state medical board, signing a lot of forms and pulling a lot more strings, Simon finally managed to get Jace accepted into one of the more decent Rehabilitation Clinics. They would keep him in the psych ward overnight, and in the morning he'd be transported to the clinic.
There wasn't really anything else he could do; it was all up to Jace now. Simon prayed to God that he'd be okay. He felt like maybe his faith in the world and in people was hanging in the balance.
As he walked up the hall, back towards the Lightwood paperwork, he heard a screaming, or a wailing. Frowning, he followed it. He stopped, reaching one of the ER wards, where the wailing-screaming reached climax.
Sticking his head behind the curtain, he saw Luke, one of the residents and Kaelie trying to calm down the source of the screaming. She was a tiny little thing, didn't look older than twenty one.
Her hands and ankles were bound to the bed railing on either side of her, and Simon could see why. There were white bandages wrapped around her wrists, stained red along the inside. She was a slasher. They saw about five of these a week, and that was on good weeks. They were often the same people. They slashed; they were admitted to the ER. They were kept there until their stitches came out and they managed to convince the idiot of a psychiatrist that the hospital had on hand that they were fine. And then he saw them a week later, same injuries as before. And thus the cycle continued.
Some did it for the attention, trying to make up for their parents neglect or abandonment. Some actually did want to die. Those were the ones that screamed. If they were smart, they cut down the wrist. You can't stitch it up when it's vertical, or you just cause more bleeding. Those are always the ones that don't make it.
It was always an awful thing to watch the screaming ones. They looked so desperate, so broken. He didn't know why, but this girl, despite being in her early twenties, broke his heart more than when he saw girls and boys as young as eleven or twelve coming into the ER with bleeding wrists. Maybe it was because she was so small. Or maybe it was because, with her red hair and small frame, she reminded him of a friend he'd had once, a very long time ago. Her face was contorted with her shrieks, the tears pouring down her cheeks in streams, and every time she screamed her back would arch off the bed, like she was being torn open from the inside out.
He couldn't look at this anymore. She was too broken.
Back at the station, he looked at the clock. 1.00 am. His shift had ended two hours ago. Fetching his bag from his locker and sliding on his coat over the hospital scrubs, Simon signed out. On his way out of the hospital, he passed by Jordan and Aline, one of the regular paramedics. They were pushing a young biracial girl on the stretcher in front of them.
"Hey," He greeted Jordan, "What you got?"
"Overdose," The younger man answered. "Civilian found her in the alley at the back of the Pandemonium."
"She going to make it?"
Jordan shrugged, "It's not likely."
"Shame," He said softly, and made his way towards the subway. He just hoped he'd be able to get even an hour sleep before his three o clock shift that afternoon, but he doubted it, not with the Lightwoods, Jace, the redheaded girl and the OD floating around in his head.
Simon usually liked his job.
But it was days like these when he wished he'd been teacher.
Review?
That was really long. Thanks to those who stuck around until the end.
If you didn't understand any bits of it, just PM me or ask in a review and I'll explain.
FYI, "monster" is like a slang/street/nickname for methamphetamines (or meth)
Please review; let me know what you think.
Love,
Beth.