CHAPTER TWO: Welcome To My World Of Pain

They weren't scars, not exactly.

A scar is implied to have no meaning, no reason of existence. A scar was something you received in a car crash, or a fire, or from being bit by a wild animal. A scar was a sign that you were weak, and something more powerful than your had been able to leave its mark on your flesh.

No. These were not scars. They were carved so delicately, etched under the skin of his body with such care and emotion and pain that they were so much more. They were a part of him, a part of something greater than just his mind and soul. They were something other worldly.

His father had once told him, when he was a small boy, that ancient warriors would paint their skin with the marks of an angel before going to battle, giving them strength, agility, fearlessness, amongst many other abilities. It was all he had ever wanted: to be fearless.

But he wasn't fearless. In the middle of the night, when the monsters would crawl from under his bed, and the dead lady's sharp voice would cut through the air, he would be afraid and helpless against the creatures of the night. The only thing he could do was stay awake and wait for the peak of sunrise. It was the hopeless seeming nights that made him wish he could be without fear.

So that was what he had done. He had drawn those designs—runes—on to his arms, carefully making each intricate line steady and perfect, so that he had 'fearless' written on his skin in a million different places.

With the knife he had found in kitchen drawer.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The day past long and uneventful. Alec found himself repeatedly thinking about the night before; between passing periods, in classes—which wasn't acceptable in his eyes because school was a place for knowledge, not personal issues. But he couldn't help it. He'd felt Magnus' eyes on him in Ancient Civilizations (the only class besides Art that they shared), during lunch, in the halls, trying to drag him out of his mental capture. Every look from his best friend made his conscious swell with guilt. What would Magnus say if he knew about the things Alec had dreamed in Italy?

While he wasn't occupied with wondering why the medication was wearing off again, he actually enjoyed his first day back. Alec had gotten into all the classes he signed up for in the Spring, including all the extra courses that his parents were unaware of—and would probably have their say with him if they found out. He had two classes with Magnus, one with Simon (physics. Oh joy...), three with Jace (Ancient Civilizations, Chem., and AP English), and the rest shared with the members of the swim team, in which he was the star.

Alec got into swimming around the time he'd begun to question his sexuality. At the time he'd been just as socially awkward and shy, at fourteen. He tried out for the Alicante Angels at fifteen, when he was freshman, and the team had welcomed him with opened arms. Of course, being as closed and awkward as he was, sharing a locker room with a bunch of muscle men seniors had been his absolute nightmare. He wasn't certain about anything at that age, but the fact that he had to hide, ahem, his arousal from them just two weeks into the year, he wasn't to let the idea go that he might be gay.

Part of the reason that coming out was an issue for him was that he wasn't sure how the guys on the team would feel about having a gay team member. As the only openly gay persona in the entire academy was Magnus, he didn't exactly have anyone he could ask. He'd lose his fangirls as well, which were still following him around after four years of polite rejection. Jace didn't understand it, Alec knew that much. Why he kept turning down the hottest girls. And why would he? What did he have to lose? His happiness? Yeah. That.

But, it was still only part of the reason.

"Alec. Hello? Alec? Are you in there?" Alec looked up from his easel startled. Magnus was standing next to him, waving a hand in front of his face.

They were in art, their last block of the day. Already the teacher had assigned a project ("be sure to capture the essence of the koala in your painting, as well as an emotion you feel uncomfortable with" Screw it.), so they were lined up in rows in front of a white canvas, ready to express their most undesired feelings about a marsupial.

"You're doing it again," Magnus sang accusingly, bring his small brush back down on the canvas. While Magnus was making great effort to at least make his project resemble a koala, it looked more like the small animal had thrown up on the page and rolled around in it.

Alec pressed his lips together and exhaled deeply, staring at his canvas which was still completely blank.

"I know," He spit out. "I know, I'm sorry," He blinked harshly at the paint palette in front of him, waiting for inspiration to strike.

"I just want to know why you keep drifting into space. I'm not boring you, am I? I can tone down the Paris talk if you want," Another known fact about Magnus was that during the summer he'd won a contest from Victoria's Secret (why Magnus was involved with a women's underwear company Alec didn't know) to Fashion Week Paris, air travel included and all. He'd spent the summer learning the newest trends and watching anorexic models strut down a runway.

"No, of course not," Alec hoped he sounded convincing. "I just...have a lot..." his voice receded. "On my mind..." Alec picked up the brush for the first time and drew it across the canvas, curving to form the ear.

Magnus didn't even hesitate to respond. "Alright, so let's talk about something else. Like Italy, which seems to be a topic you're avoiding." He waved his brush at Alec. "Did something go down over there that I should know about?" He teased, hoping to bring Alec's eyes to life, something he'd been waiting to see all day.

Alec bit his tongue and paused.

"Oh, so something did go down in Italy." Magnus set his brush down on the grey table in front of him, crossing his arms and leaning his hips against the surface so that he was facing Alec. "What happened?"

Alec appeared to be a bit flustered upon how to answer, he noticed, but Alec picked up his brush again and continued to work as if the acknowledgment hadn't bothered him a bit. "I don't want to talk about it,"

But being as persistent as Magnus was, he didn't let it go that easy. "Did you, I don't know, hook up with someone? Get a dirty tattoo? Wait—were you the one who got drunk with Robert Pattinson?"

"What? Magnus, stop. Nothing happened in Italy."

"But something did happen in Italy—you just said—"

"—that I didn't want to talk about it. You know me, Magnus. If it was important enough for you to know, I would tell you." Magnus knew the conversation was over. He turned back to his easel not really hurt, but a bit frustrated from the lack of trust coming from Alec, whom he shared every bit of his life with.

"Fine. No need to be such a grip about it,"

Alec did feel a little bad, but telling his best friend that he'd been having heavy dreams about him was not an option. Alec had never had feelings for Magnus before. He knew that Magnus was gay, or bi anyways, and had for a while—like, six years, but being gay did not mean you wanted to make out with every man you saw. There were still people you liked and people you didn't. Alec didn't like Magnus. Maybe.

But dreams didn't mean anything, right? Half the time they were nightmares when Magnus was in them, spinning and feeding, blowing apart with no real direction.

He couldn't make Magnus deal with a problem that wasn't his, when he had many worse things to deal with.

"You aren't, um, actually going to turn that in, are you?" Alec asked hesitantly towards the bell. Magnus felt a smile tugging at his lips. When he looked over beside him, Alec was staring at his canvas with interest. There was a grey blob, and a green line...and that was about it. Alec's didn't look much better.

"Right." The grin finally captured his lips. "I will if you will,"

. . . . . . . . . . . .

When Alec was little, he thought the world was square. It only made sense, considering the black and white world he'd grown up in. One step into grey and off the corner of the earth you went. However, the world is not square, and nothing is black and white unless you choose to think of it that way. Alec did not know this when he was ten years old. Before he was introduced into a world of color and lights and procedures, being different was bad, it made you not right, wrong in every way; turning left instead of right, crashing into the depths of hell where the mad people reigned…Alec had been different and that scared him. He would crawl under the blankets at night wishing and hoping for the next morning to be full of sunshine and music and—but it wasn't. Every fucking morning he would awake to the demons that lived in his mind.

Then he found out why he was different, and how…and everything changed. He found out that being different was okay, and that it didn't make you wrong, but right, in every single way. Almost. Almost right.

Because what could be right in your mind when everyone around you was hurting?

Jace had come to the Lightwood Mansion, with seven years of a childhood full of abuse and hurt, with a burn scar behind his left ear where his old adoptive father had lost control.

Jace Herondale had scars and haunted memories that showed Alec that being different and not normal was okay.

Alec Lightwood still did not believe that being different was okay.

Being different made you stand out; it made you crave for the attention that was given to you. But he didn't want that. He wanted to blend it, stay whole and right and sane.

You don't always get what you want.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Alec knew the second he opened the door to the Lightwood Mansion, things would not end well. Not in a "the world is going to burn down and all the kittens are going to grow fangs and kill every last human being" kind of not well, but a more subtle not well, like "all the sisters in the world will lock their brothers in a closet until they tell them who they lost their virginity to" not well.

And it was true—that had happened to Alec when he was sixteen, although he was a virgin. Still was. It wasn't something that embarrassed him, really, it was just awkward when the other guys were talking about getting it on with their girlfriends when one, Alec didn't have a girlfriend, two, Alec didn't want a girlfriend, and three, if he told anyone that it would just be more awkward.

But not well. Yes, it did not end well.

The Lightwood Mansion could only be described so many ways, since it was a pretty basic house. It was huge, and white, and surrounded by little palm trees…that was about it. The small lawn was always green, the windows were small, although there were many, and it was two stories and square-like. It lined up in a row of other mansions in the Upper West Side, so it wasn't as definable as one might think.

"But anyways, now I'm stuck with a bunch of freaking freshman until—"

"Jace," Alec interrupted. His adoptive brother had been droning about his day, how awful it was and how much better it could've been; what girls asked him out and which girls absolutely repulsed him. All girls repulsed Alec. "I don't care," He smiled innocently from the passenger seat as they pulled into the driveway.

"Well you won't tell me about your day so I have to have something to—"

"Because you haven't asked me. And I wouldn't tell you if you did. It wasn't that interesting,"

"Would you stop inter—" Alec stepped out of the car and slammed the door.

He trudged up the front steps and opened the marble door to met with a blast of cold air. The Mansion was cold, always. It was his parent's personal preference. Alec thought it matched their personalities. Of course, Alec was always cold even without the air conditioning on. His body never warmed up, not even after—

The inside of the mansion was also stark white, with high walls and ceilings, and carpet. Vases full of natural grey and orange flowers lined the entrance hall adding the only color in the entire estate.

Now, if he could only make it to his bedroom without—

"Mr. Lightwood," A scraggy voice said behind him, just when he'd reached the bottom of the staircase. Alec mentally groaned before turning around. Hodge Starkweather, his parent's assistant stood at the doorway to the kitchen.

Hodge was in his late forties, already sprouting streaks of grey within his brown hair. Frown lines laced his forehead and glasses sat on his nose, giving him the appearance of a librarian or a history teacher, both of which he use to be.

Before Alec could attend public school—a part of his parent's fear that he would lash out in public and embarrass them—Hodge tutored him in History and English while another assistant taught him Math and Science. That was through fourth grade. Fifth grade was the first year he was allowed to enroll in public school with Jace and Isabelle. It was where he met Magnus and Simon, and unlikely friendships were formed.

Simon was a gamer nerd, Magnus was still actually relatively subtle with hair and makeup, Jace was a player even at eleven, and Alec was the shy reader who sat in a corner and ignored the rest of the student's teasing.

"Yes, Hodge?"

"Was your first day back pleasant?"

"Sure, I guess…" Alec tried to be enthusiastic, but the headache he had recently received was not allowing it.

Hodge cleared his throat. "Well, your mother wished that I see to it that you accept this," He held out a small bottle, clear, and filled it tiny purple and white pills. Alec starred at them. These were the backup pills his therapist had been talking about, in case of a public emergency. Just one pill would numb his body for hours on end until he could get to his regular medication.

He was apprehensive to take them, seeing that he'd never believed in doctors, and the fact they had the right to take over your body and make it do what they wanted it to do. They could cut into it, look at you while exposed, give you things to take pain away when really all it did was provide a short term solution to a long term problem.

He took them anyways, having to force his hand to move several times until he grasped the bottle in his hand.

"Um, thank you," was the only thing he was able to say before going upstairs and locking himself in his room, turning up his music so loud so that the only thing he could hear was the beat of his diseased heart.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The dress was still too long, but any shorter and you would able to see the girl's crotch. The shoulder aspect is nice though. The way it kind of curves down and then—fuck it, he thought.

Magnus tore the sheet from the note book and crumpled it up before tossing it across his room. He still needed three more pieces to finish the collection he'd been working on in his free time. All the dresses so far were edgy, ripped, high fashioned, but he needed something now that tied it all together and he wasn't really having any luck with that at all.

Magnus made his own clothes. He designed them, cut the fabric, and sewed the pieces together so he didn't have to pay for high priced designer clothes like everyone thought he did—because he actually couldn't afford that, unlike popular belief. People would often ask him where he got his clothes and the answer would always be "Oh, I ordered it online from a private retailer in London," because nobody actually made the clothes he wore. He was his own designer.

When he wasn't busy with friends or school, or making new things he could wear in public, he'd begun to design his own original line, going under the name Punk Wedding. Magnus didn't actually like the name, but it was all he had going at the moment. The dresses were supposed to show the demon inside you, instead of the angel that everyone sees. And so far he thought it was coming together nicely, but he wasn't finished yet and couldn't seem to grasp the inspiration to finish.

He thought of himself as the best candidate for the Cherrytree Enterprises next designer. He had tons of experience but not the money, which is why he applied for a scholarship. But why do you need a scholarship for a job that's going to pay you? Being a designer was an individual solo job, even when working for a company. You had to be able to provide your own fabric, machinery, materials, and the whole lot. Magnus could barely afford to keep himself dressed, much less a bunch of top notch models that used real animal skin and not faux stuff like he did.

Magnus sighed and flipped through the sketchbook, looking at the rest of the line trying to figure out what he had and what he needed. His eye caught on a colored page. It was the only design he'd ever colored, so that his she-demon of an ex-girlfriend could approve of it. It was the dress he made Camille last year for homecoming; it was a light cream and stopped at the knees, poofing out in an oddly Victorian kind of way. He had topped it off with a red wire corset just to add some color. He had to admit that she'd looked nice in it. Magnus wondered if Camille still had it—

Holy hell, Camille.

Magnus' eyes flew opened. Magnus had written Camille's number down as the emergency contact for Cherrytree Enterprises. If they hadn't been able to reach him in Paris then they would have called Camille.

Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap. Magnus shut the sketchbook in a hurry and reached for his phone on the bedside table, pulling it from the charger.

Lucky for him he still had Camille's number on speed dial.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Isabelle Lightwood did not understand love in the slightest. It was like math. No matter how many times she put in the right numbers, the answer would always come out wrong. She got A's in math. She should have this whole thing figured out—at sixteen years old, she did not need to use a calculator—or in this case, Yahoo! Answers.

Love just…never worked out the way she expected it. It wasn't like in the movies, or sob-worthy romance novels she read. The teenager couldn't just walk into bio class suddenly see the love of her life sitting in her chair. There were no happy endings for her.

Now, a lot of people would say and agree that she'd barely lived. How could she find love in such a short amount of time? But those people didn't understand that Isabelle had looked everywhere for this foreign concept of love. First, she started with her parents, when she was a little girl. Just like every other child, she wanted to show her parents that she was just as loveable as other kids, but they'd turned her away with the excuse that they had work to do. Second, she tried to flirt with a guy in third grade. The guy had told her that girls were gross. Third, she kissed a guy in sixth grade. They began to date (Isabelle couldn't even remember his name now) but in the summer he'd broken up with her. The next year she lost her virginity to a ninth grader because she read that once you slept with someone it formed a special connection. The next day he moved and never called her again.

It was at that point that she realized she scared love away. Something about her just repulsed love.

Then she gave up. She started dating guys for their looks and they would date her for the sex and money. She wasn't necessarily a whore. She didn't sleep with just any guy who walked up to her. She didn't cheat or make them pay. Once she'd played enough with whoever it was she gave them what they wanted and then they left. There was no love there at all.

Recently she had begun to date a junior—Meliorn—, and for the first time ever she felt that foreign concept of love. They'd dated for two weeks during the summer when Isabelle dropped the bomb. She'd pulled out a condom at his house (he was emancipated), and he'd practically died. He revealed to her that he had never actually gone all the way before and wanted to wait. Wanted to wait. That in itself was a totally foreign concept for Isabelle—she was so used to guys throwing her around and making her buy them things that she was taken aback and a bit embarrassed.

Was that love? Was waiting love? Isabelle didn't know. But she did know that for the first time since she was a child she had hope for this idea of love.

Isabelle hurried down the steps of Taki's carrying a brown bag the size of her torso, filled with Chinese food for dinner. Her parents were once again out at some meeting making her and her siblings fend for themselves.

She hurried down Park Avenue in her pink Jimmy Choo heels, about to turn off so she could cut through Central Park and shorten the walk (she'd wanted to catch a cab, but the six o'clock traffic was horrifying) when she collided with another figure and was sent tumbling down on the sidewalk. The bag was thrown from her hands and the box cartons spiraling across the concrete.

"Fucking hell," She murmured under her breath. "Watch where you're going!" She shouted. She hurriedly reached for the cartons in hopes that none got trampled by the mobs of people around her.

"Isabelle?" She glanced up, getting to her knees. In front of her was the infamous Simon Lewis. She'd seen him in the halls and with Alec or Jace sometimes. She never went out of her way to talk to him. "Isabelle, oh my god, I'm so sorry. Really I didn't mean—I was just walking and—" Isabelle was partly surprised that he knew her name, but then she really wasn't because he hung out with Alec all the time.

"Simon, uh…" She trailed off, a bit confused, as if she didn't know what to say.

"Here," Simon hurriedly helped her throw the boxes in the bag, hair flopping around his head. Isabelle was too stunned to speak.

She shook herself over the fact he was helping her and stood when he offered her a hand.

"Uh, thank y—"

"Really, I'm sorr—"

They spoke simultaneously, stopped, and then laughed awkwardly.

"So, uh, you know my name?" Simon said, more of a statement than a question.

"Well, sure. Alec talks about his friends all the time,"

"Oh really? What kind of things?" He asked. His smile was contagious and Isabelle couldn't help but grin a bit.

"I know you're in a band—that sucks," She teased. Isabelle wasn't sure why she didn't just walk away right now. Girls like her didn't talk to guys like him, and when they did they were dethroned.

Simon laughed, bright and lightweight; something not a lot of guys could pull off without seeming fake.

"Um, I should go," She said, jerking her thumb across the street. He was actually making her nervous.

"Right—I'll just, um…"

"See you at school?" She offered. Simon's eyes widen just a fraction and then nodded.

"Yeah, sure…" She gave one last smile before turning and disappearing into the crowd of people.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Alec's room was bland, unlike his sister's which was bright purple and black, covered top to bottom with clothes and magazines. His walls were milk coffee colored, and a single person bed sat in the middle, with a small desk in the corner next to his dresser. No closet. The only other door led to his bathroom.

Alec sat on the counter top in only black nylon sweat pants, watching his reflection, waiting for it to not mimic his motions, breathing patterns, blinking. He thought it would, it always did. It might not lean with him, or it might smile, or frown, or it might start silently screaming. One time it jumped off the counter top completely. But no. This time it did nothing but stare back at him.

He'd always hated reflections of any kind. In water, in a mirror, in a car window, in polished wood…It was like someone else was watching you. You can't get rid of reflections. No matter what you do, they will always be there, wearing your face, making you watch them so they won't move without your consent.

It was a little odd, he thought, brushing his shagged bangs out of his face. Usually, if he didn't take the pills before nine o'clock (they lasted for twelve hours at a time. Nine in the morning and nine at night), and they started to wear off for good, colors would start blending and object would fall apart, and the old lady would start screaming, but not tonight. He hadn't taken the pills this morning or so far tonight, just to see what would happen, and all he'd gotten was a small headache. What if he was becoming normal? What was normal? Magnus? Jace? Isabelle?

Alec sighed and took one glance into the mirror before hopping off the sink; his toes met with the cold tile floor. He popped open the pill bottle and was about to dump the contents into his hand to get one out—he stopped himself in thought.

What if...what if he didn't take them?

A/N: AH! Only the second chapter and I'm already having trouble piecing the plot together. I'm not so happy with this chapter, mainly because the story hasn't even begun yet. Each of the characters has a pretty detailed back story that will take a while to explain. Hope I'm not boring you? I'd be bored...

Anyways, I'm a review whore! So please satisfy my needs and leave a review :)

xxShar [is thinking: Isabelle Lightwood is a b**** to write. Sorry, I don't actually swear. I just make the character do it.]