The downfall of evil chap 4
A week had passed, and the incessant bitterness that plagued Jonathan grew fractionally smaller every day. Mostly, because he refused to see or talk to anybody. Suppressing down hunger and thirst for the first two days, Jonathan rejected any knock that came by on his door, and spent most of his time either thinking, reading or sleeping. Thinking brought back memories, and he really hated memories so it narrowed it down, for the most part, to sleeping and reading. The books were mildly interesting, mundane books from what he gathered. Although he wasn't really engrossed in them, he was able to use them as a distraction. It kept his mind away from hunger, and away from the sinking depression that threatened to crawl and poke its way into the depths of his mind and settle in there for good. Jonathan was adamant on living now that the decision has been made for him, and a small part of him still held a spark that kept his mind from plummeting into darkness. If he talked to anybody else, he was sure it would go away; the will to live. Isolation felt empowering, a chance to gather up some lost wits, ones that were splattered during the confinement in his cell. Admittedly, he was still incarcerated, but at least this time it wasn't in darkness, and men weren't causing him to bleed, which was also a bonus.
Jonathan's actions were not lost to him, they sometimes replayed in his mind when he was in a state between sleep and consciousness, when he couldn't help but wander into dark territory. He knew he was his own worst enemy. But still, as long as he didn't talk to anybody, he could find some way to balance the situation out as much as possible.
And for the first two days that's what he did. The wounds he had on his back were still a nuisance, like gushes of sizzling rocks constantly weighing him down, but slowly even they began to ebb, the pain faltering to a tolerable ache.
He slept for more than was strictly necessary, and read, and then slept again. By the third day, he found that a plate of food and a half full glass of orange juice were sitting dutifully on his desk, the smell enticing him out of an almost sound sleep. Jonathan sensed a sudden painful clench in his stomach at the sight of food, something he almost seemed to forget about, and the smoked salmon with a side dish of rice had him almost drooling as he rushed out of bed. Searching for a fork and seeing there was none, he picked up the food with his fingers, uncaring of the messy way he was eating. He ravished the meal, flavors mixing salty in his mouth. After swallowing mouthfuls, his body was grateful for the nourishment, and he felt a pleasant warmth. The orange juice washed away the dryness in his mouth. It felt good to enjoy food without anxiety, to feel some sort of normalcy at least in that aspect of his life. The plate was licked clean, and set aside as Jonathan felt a burst of energy surge through him.
After that day, he had food brought over to him every day, and for the first time since his "transformation", Jonathan felt like he was regaining his strengths. There were further attempts at getting him to talk to other people, but for the most part, people didn't barge into his room except to bring him food. He often heard knocks at his door, and he either responded with a "go away", or ignored them completely. He continued in such a cycle, detached from reality.
On the coming Thursday, while Jonathan was mindlessly flipping a page on his book, a knock was heard on his door. At first he did what he usually did, ignored the noise.
"Jonathan, open the door! It's not funny!"
"Go away, Clary. Please." He looked briefly at the door, and then dropped his eyes back to the book.
Days beforehand, Clary would be walking away from his door right about now, muttering under her breath something about how he should be more social, but not today. In response to his dismissal, he heard the unexpected twist of a doorknob. In a hurry he fled from his spot on the bed to the other side of the room, blocking her entrance with his foot. Through that tiny crack where his foot collided with the door, Clary could see him.
"I thought I told you to leave." The presence of another human, especially Clary's, was making him sickeningly uncomfortable. He just wanted to be left alone, and he couldn't even be given that.
"You need to go out! You can't stay here locked away forever. You need to meet people-"
"Who exactly are these people? The only people who want to meet me are those who want to kill me. I am asking you one last time Clary. Leave," he said bitterly, moving his foot before slamming the door shut. For a full minute he stayed, standing in front of the door, seeing if Clary would dare open it again. His features softened when he heard sobbing from the other side, and knew that it was because of him. It wasn't that he didn't want to care, but some part of him knew it was better like this; to not to get attached to someone who could potentially care for him. It would only end badly for them. And maybe a more selfish part of him hoped the colder he acted, the colder he would become... the sooner the other side of him would resurface and all these feelings- all the guilt and nightmares- would cease to exist.
It was a foolish hope to return to, so he decided to stop thinking about it and go back to reading the new book he started. Shortly afterwards he was interrupted again.
"I told you Clary, go-"
"This isn't Clary," answered instead a masculine voice, which made Jonathan drop his book.
Jace.
He immediately sprung up from his bed and opened the door. Jace never came to visit him, not even once (even though Jonathan had a vague suspicion that he was the one to blame for the disappearance of his fork) and if Jace would trouble himself with showing up, it must be for something other than a casual chat.
Jace studied him quizzically, somewhat bored, and then said dryly, "Oh good, you're not dead."
"What do you need?"
Jace gave the slightest tip of a cynical smile, rolling his eyes as the words came to him easily. "Robert has required me to alert you that in two days you start your training."
The blond gave Jonathan a second to respond, but Jonathan was loss for words. He just stared back at him, unblinking.
"My training?" he asked nervously, thinking "training" a code word for another means of torturing him. "I finished all my training-"
"Not under the supervision of the Order, you haven't. You'll be training with me. With me and Clary." Without noticing, Jace was jamming his fingers into the wooden curve of the door, leaving a few scratches, before he stilled himself to continue. "I would rather our conversation be kept only at training, and that afterwards you will make sure I see as little of you as possible. See you on the field."
Jace was not lying when he said Jonathan's training would start in two days. At the time of six thirty, loud, repetitive knocks woke Jonathan out of an uneasy sleep. Sighing, he gathered the physical effort to stand up from bed. Still drowsy, he was about to go and find a set of clothes to shrug into when a hand grabbed him and hurled him from the bed, leaving him on wobbly feet.
"Here are your clothes." The disfigured blond shoved a pair of wrinkled clothes into his hands, and pointed to the bathroom. "You have ten minutes, make it quick, Clary and I are waiting downstairs. And make sure next time to wake yourself up, or I would be left to use other means to wake you up."
With the door closed behind him, Jace had left the room. Jonathan felt like shoving the pillow into his face, rolling over and going back to sleep. But he knew the consequences would not be worth the trouble, so he got up to wash his face and to prepare himself for a long day.
Later, he was rolling down the stairs in the clothes Jace brought him. All things considered, Jonathan looked passibly presentable. He was no longer the cowering mess he was when he showed up; no longer was he stinking of sweat and blood. It didn't feel like anything irrevocable was amiss with him, his features creased from stress, but the physical disabilities were more or less healed. At least on the outside.
Jace was waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase, dressed in the same clothes he was wearing earlier; a white shirt that clung to his body, outlining his muscles, and training pants that reached his ankles, making him seem taller than he was. Clary was standing in her usual spot next to him, in an entirely black attire.
"It took you too long to get ready."
Clary gave Jace a pointed look at the comment, and then turned to Jonathan with a smile on her face. She looked radiant, and cheerful, or at least like she was trying her best to be.
Jonathan tried to not look directly at her, feeling his cheeks heat up.
"Smiles won't lead to any progress in your training," Jace snapped the smile out of Clary and made Jonathan jump a little. "Best you save your energy, can't afford to be sloppy."
The walk to the training center at Idris passed in silence. Jace walked with caution, making sure no sudden threat would appear while Jonathan was near them.
Feeling uncomfortable at Jace's wary exterior, Jonathan kept his gaze down. It was clear that just his mere presence can cause the others to be in harm's way, and he did feel the slightest bit of guilt tugging at him... but then again, if Jonathan had it his way, he wouldn't even be leaving the house. So it wasn't really his fault, right?
Clary, obviously not enjoying the tension, looked as though she wanted to say something. Every time her mouth opened however, it closely tightly shut once more. She went stiff and balled her fists in aggravation.
After a few minutes of uncomfortably walking side by side, they reached their destination. Jonathan lifted his head up, and saw a large crowd of people, mostly teenagers, staring back at him.
"You're late," said a man from a group of adults in the area, most likely a coach. "Clarissa, join the rest in combat training." The coach pointed towards a small group of teenagers which consisted mostly of females. Clary, giving Jonathan one last reassuring smile, left to join her team. Some welcomed her with smiles on their faces, probably asking about her well being. He felt glad that she wasn't receiving too much hate about her decision to protect him. The last thing he needed was more guilt.
"Jace Lightwood and Jonathan Morgestern," the trainer snapped Jonathan back to attention, and turned his gaze towards them, "come after me."
Jace followed the coach, with Jonathan walking behind him like a timid cat. They were no longer in eyesight of the group, walking into a smaller room with yoga mats and training equipment. There was a mirror in place of one wall, and much room to move around, with all the equipment pushed to one side. Catching a glance of himself in the mirror, Jonathan saw that he looked pretty shaken up. He brushed his fingers through his hair once to straighten it out, breathing out a nervous sigh.
"Wait here," the coach instructed them, and walked through another door, deeper into the building. When he returned, he held two folded pieces of paper.
"These are your training programs," he told them and shoved the papers into their hands. "Your father had no doubt told you about your special arrangement?" he asked, giving an inquiring look towards Jace.
It took Jonathan a few moments to realize that he was talking about Robert Lightwood.
"No," Jace answered simply. The matter that he was here with Jonathan, instead of training with his group, already started to make him suspicious.
"Well," the trainer cleared his throat. "It has been instructed that you will be training Jonathan Morgenstern in combat, at least until everybody returns to their Institutes-"
"I'm sorry, but with all due respect sir, I would rather train with my friends and family."
Jace looked irritated, inconvenienced, and his tone was rather sharp when he talked with the older man in front of him. Taking care of Jonathan was the last thing that he wanted right now.
"I am quite aware of that. I apologize, but these orders are given straight from the Inquisitor. I think he was led to believe you wanted this responsibility." He gave Jace a skeptical look. "After all, you did defend the young man in court."
Jace glared back at him, and his teeth were scratching one against the other. "I don't need to justify myself to you."
"Very well then, don't make complaints over something you caused yourself."
Jace's glare turned murderous, but he decided to stay quiet, before he did something he might regret. He told Clary he would behave.
"As for you," he turned to Jonathan. "The parts that do not include physical activity, you will learn and be tested on. Once returning to the institute in New York you will study alongside everyone else. Is that clear?"
"Yes sir," Jonathan answered, keeping his head bowed down.
"Then I guess that's it for now, you have the training program, go by it. You do not need me."
With a final nod, he exited the room, leaving Jonathan and Jace alone.
For a minute, there was silence. Jace did not move from his spot. He just stood there and blinked, staring at the space the trainer occupied only a few minutes ago.
"I am sorry that you're stuck here, Jace." Jonathan rubbed his shoulder uncomfortably. "I know you'd rather train with your friends, I'd encourage it. Trust me I don't want this."
"Give me the training program," Jace snarled. "I feel the need to blow off some steam."
Jonathan handed it to him, feeling anxious. With a single look at the paper, he dropped it aside, uncaring.
Jace, walking to the edge of the room, started going over possible weapon choices. He stopped once he found what he was looking for. In a cabinet of weapons; two swords, made for dueling. Notably, not that sharp. As shadowhunters, they needed to be prepared to fight with anything, being it sword, or knife, or maybe even a large stick. Jace had fought with a sword before, and was feeling rather in the mood for it. Also he didn't want to ease Jonathan back into the game, better start off tough while he's still sloppy.
"Alright, get your mark set," he said, throwing him the sword. Jonathan caught it uncertainly.
"Uh?"
"I said get in position. We've begun."
Jace positioned his legs far apart on the mat, and raised his hands in a ready stance. Before Jonathan could wreck his brain to follow, Jace began to fight.
In a few quick moves, Jonathan had himself pinned to the floor, with Jace's boot digging into his spine. His cheek was sorely in contact with the mat.
"Get up," Jace told him simply, unsympathetic.
Jonathan got up hesitantly to his feet, keeping his eyes in line with Jace, as to not lose sight of his opponent. He was hopelessly outnumbered in strength, and the only defense tactic that seemed wisest was to avoid any blow.
A drop of blood was trickling from his lower lip, and his feet felt light under his heavy weight. His hair was standing in awkward positions, some lost on his face, the rest ruffled backwards in messy strands of white.
"You're weak," Jace noted and hit him again with his sword.
"Water is wet," Jonathan retorted, and blocked his blow. "Do you really want to state the obvious?"
Clearly not amused, Jace answered with another blow to his side, barely blocked by Jonathan's own weapon. "See you've gathered some confidence. What is it, not scared of me anymore?"
Blocking another blow, Jonathan refrained from answering, barely coherent enough to keep up with Jace's attacks. It wasn't that it ever sliced him, but whenever their swords kissed, and his movement had to be sharp, Jonathan felt more weary than before. He should have trained instead of reading, he realized. He should have foreseen something like this happening.
Jace, who seemed peeved that he couldn't get Jonathan off his feet again, and that his attacks were met with feeble defenses, released a stronger blow with the tilt of his weapon. He aimed his sword in a quick, speeding motion to Jonathan's right, and in the last second, while his opponent was confounded, switched his motion to the left. Jace was uncomfortably close to him now, with the sword tilted sideways on his chest. Smiling, Jace let his guard down, giving Jonathan room to duck, and reappear on the other side of Jace's peripheral vision. Spinning, they continued to battle, Jonathan's fatigue evident on his face.
They have been fighting for a while now. Blow after blow after blow. It could have been 10 minutes, or it could have been hours. It seemed irrelevant with how out of shape Jonathan felt. His face was pale, and his motions were slow and clumsy. In the duration of a single battle, he managed to serve and deflate every attack that Jace gave him. His lungs were burning.
"Jace?" he wheezed. "Can we take a break? I can't-"
Jace lurched forward, making Jonathan jump backwards in fear. For Jace, the fight didn't tire him out as much as it infused his adrenaline; his nerves were on edge.
One step forward from Jace, one step backwards in retreat from Jonathan.
"I, I can't really go on any longer," he said between breaths, barely keeping himself on his feet.
"Why won't you fall?" Jace enraged, flinging his sword with enough momentum that it could have decapitated Jonathan if he hadn't ducked last second. The sword narrowly missed its target, and a few white hairs were left on the ground.
"On your feet."
"I can't."
"On your feet!"
In a daze, Jonathan found himself standing. Jace hissed under his breath, and circled his sword between Jonathan's, until he felt like he was losing grip, and then yanked hard enough to disconnect Jonathan from his weapon. In his force, the weapon slid over a few meters from their current position. Knowing his imminent failure, Jonathan stared blinkingly at his lost sword. Jace, not hesitating, pointed his own weapon to Jonathan's neck with an outstretched hand. He finally let himself breathe heavily, a sort of deranged smile upon his lips.
"Okay, you won, now can we-"
Jonathan felt the air blow out of his lungs mid sentence, as Jace turned his weapon and pushed the tilt against his chest and knocked him off his feet. Sprawled completely on the floor, he began coughing, new bruises arising from the fall. It felt like someone had taken his bones, broken them, and then put them back into place.
"Again," Jace ordered.
"What?"
"You have another hour of training."
Jonathan sat uncomprehending on the floor, unable to physically pull himself back up. He continued to cough excessively, and the anger in Jace's eyes dwelled a bit. The adrenaline wore off, and now he felt the tiredness seep into his bones. But as he had stated, there was another hour of training.
So in the end, he got Jonathan back on his feet, and they continued to fight, albeit less aggressively. It felt good to let out his anger, and now that he had, he might be able to properly train him.
When the clock struck 10, and a signal was given that training was over, Jace left the room immediately, leaving a breathless Jonathan behind. Jonathan's cheeks were tinted red from effort, and his body shook from the intensive training he had just endured. Surely enough, he just wanted to take a shower and lie down on a couch for a few hours until his bones reshaped themselves to their normal state once again. Unfortunately, he soon figured out, he had to take a shower and be at the next lesson in 20 minutes.
In the shower, Jonathan realized how truly sore he is. When the water hit the scratches left from the sword, Jonathan winced at the burning sensation.
Washing away all the bloody marks, he stepped out of the shower and put on a loose shirt and long pants. He was no longer sweaty and smelling of feet, which was something.
So far, it felt as if though nobody recognized him. Maybe it was because Jonathan made sure to hide in the shadows, content not to speak to anyone.
Unobtrusively, he followed the directions he was given to the next lesson. As time passed, he saw more people appearing to the side of him. Soon enough, he already began to feel the uncomfortable stares. It was followed by hushed whispers, and less hushed conversation questioning his presence.
Inevitably, he was faced with confrontation.
"Hey there."
Turning around, Jonathan was greeted with a sneering look. Jonathan was a rather tall person, but still he felt small next to the older man who had a good few inches on him, and a lot more bulk.
The man gave him a hard look. "I heard you were punished. Weren't you sentenced to rehabilitation or something? What are you doing here?"
Jonathan, not sure about the man's intentions in the conversation, answered carefully. "It has been decided that I should join the shadowhunters in their training, if I ever hope to think of...helping them."
"Isn't that JUST like the Inquisitor to make such a weak decision?" The man, whose green eyes held laughter, scoffed. "He wasn't emotionally stable to run such a trial. It's weird how you got scott free, since everybody here thinks you are better of in prison, or better yet, dead. I don't know what sort of protection you have with the law men, but you better believe that you will never be accepted as a shadowhunter."
Others gathered around, listening intently to the conversation. A circle was formed where Jonathan was standing, his "lay low" strategy gone to the gutters.
"I, it's not really my decision-"
"No, you listen. I suggest you get the hell out of this place, and leave the rest of us alone. We already have to clean up your mess, we don't want you here reminding us of things we want to forget. Go to a REAL rehabilitation program, somewhere far away, some might call it a psychologist, get your issues fixed. You don't belong here." The man, likely to be at his late 20's, motioned to the rest of the people who were giving him hateful looks. "Nobody here likes you. The war is over and we'd like to move on. But not with you. Trust me, I am a mild one. There are people right now trying to get tail on you and hurt you. Do yourself a favor and leave."
Not giving Jonathan room to comment, he walked away, shoving him with a rough shoulder. The second the bulky man left, the circle that had formed quickly disapitated. It looked as though some wanted to comment, but then there was class to get to, and people ended up leaving without a word, but looking quite angry.
The hallways were cleared and only then did Jonathan realize that he forgot the directions he was given while being confronted. Shaking with irritation, he kicked the wall. Ow. he thought. What a horrible fucking day.
5 minutes of anxious searching had led Jonathan to a classroom with the number 544 written on top. Finally.
While turning the knob, Jonathan clung to the distant hope that his teacher would be perhaps more understanding than his peers, and might forgive his tardy.
Waiting by the doorframe, he cleared his throat to get attention. "Excuse me?"
It felt odd to address a teacher, since the only teacher he ever had was his father. And his experience with his father teaching him wasn't that great. Were all teachers condescending and unrelenting? He couldn't really know.
Belatedly, he noticed to his great dismay, that the teacher wasn't there alone. Wasn't I supposed to have private lessons? he thought in horror, while staring back at 20 pairs of eyes glued to his presence.
"Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern, I appreciate that you bothered to bless us with your presence," the teacher said with a rigid frown. Jonathan still in shock, just stared back, apparently looking confused because the next thing the teacher said was- "It means you're late. Come in and sit down."
Jonathan swallowed his spit. Giving the teacher a nod of affirmation, he walked into the classroom, and awkwardly sat down in the last row, in a seat that looked the most isolated. On his way there he felt whispers, and sneers, and complaints; a quiet uproar slowly brewing just because of him. Taking out his used Ancient Latin books, he tried to look anywhere but at the teacher.
No one continued with the lesson.
"Excuse me," a young woman raised her hand, and did not wait for permission to talk. "I believe Sebastian got confused, this is Linguistics, not jail. Maybe someone should point him in the right direction?"
The majority of the students burst out laughing at the comment, and others nodded their agreement. A few even clapped their hands. Jonathan shivered at the use of his old name.
"I believe just yesterday we learned how to neutralize a demon, maybe we can have our very own experiment?" One student quipped, laughing.
"I do not have demon blood anymore," Jonathan murmured, the others barely catching.
"What is it? Guys can you believe it? His father's experiments have finally worked, he managed to create the first ever talking garbage!"
The guy stood on his chair while saying it, and his eyes glowed as the other's laughed, quite satisfied with his remark. The shadowhunter was relatively short, with a big nose, and dark eyes. Jonathan swore he remembered him from somewhere. Maybe he has seen him in the war? It didn't matter. He just wished people would stop looking at him. He couldn't even comment anymore since his voice has gone dry.
"Quit it Sam, you're not funny," a pretty brunette rolled her eyes, not joining the others in laughter. "This is a serious issue. I lost an uncle in that war."
"Hey, I didn't put him in the class!" the elder teen, who now Jonathan knows is named Sam, glared back at the brunette.
"Yeah Anne, stop being such a bitch about it. It's not Sam's fault they let a murderer into our institute."
"Anthony, language," the teacher finally spoke out. He slid his glasses closer towards his eyes, and gave Anthony a serious look.
"I didn't know they let murderers get a degree nowadays anyways," Anthony continued, uncaring of the teacher's scrutiny.
"Anthony that's quite enough."
"But Mr. Gonzalas, didn't you tell us before class started that Sebastian was responsible for the entire war and that having him here is why voting for Robert was the biggest mistake you ever made?"
Jonathan retracted back on his chair, his breath catching in his throat. He truly didn't belong here. The teacher didn't even have an impartial view, it was wrong to put him here. Being in a closed place, with so many people, it made Jonathan feel claustrophobic. He felt suffocated. It was like a recurring of the trail. Jonathan was about to flee the classroom, damn the consequences, but then the teacher spoke.
"WILL EVERYBODY BE QUIET. This is ridiculous, I will not have talks of politics in my classroom. I am aware of what I said, but right now, as of this moment, I swear the next person who even makes a comment about... his appearance here will go out and never come back in! Am I clear?"
"But Mr-"
"AM I CLEAR? I am a linguistics teacher, not a prosecutor, now turn to page 132. We are learning the functions of different accented letters. And I want complete silence."
The rest of the lesson was uneventful, but peacefully quiet. Nobody said a word, all Jonathan heard was the teacher talking, and his head pounding. He took notes, but he already mostly fluent in Latin, so he didn't need to pay much attention. People have, thankfully, stopped paying attention to him. But he knew it was only temporary.
Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tick Tock.
It felt as if though time stood still. The noise the clock made matched the pounding in his head. Jonathan managed to suppress a groan. By the time the lesson was over, he felt mentally exhausted.
He vaguely wondered when the day will be over with. He recalled that the next lesson, he an was due in the tracks. Running; finally an activity that requires no interaction with other people.
Leaving the classroom behind as quickly as possible, Jonathan returned home and changed back to his training clothes. Once finished, he went in search for the tracks.
He found himself outside relatively fast, after seeing a group of teeangers his age gathered around one of the older buildings of city. He followed the trail from there straight to a grass covered field and from there onto the tracks. Upon arriving, Jonathan realized that, for a change, he was not late. Looking around, he saw groups of people around chattering mindlessly, and some individuals busy doing stretches. He felt a calm wash over him, as he awkwardly made way to sitting in a far distant place where no one could see him, left to his thoughts.
Currently, he was leaning against the bleachers, and the shade gave him a comforting chill. It got quieter, and more peaceful. Jonathan isolated the noise around him, and sank deeper into himself. Letting his guard down for the very first time that day, he started thinking about the entire situation he was stuck in, and how he got to it. He sighed and closed his eyes shut. Ever since Jonathan was a small child Valentine has taught him to be better than everyone else. He had withheld all of his father's trials- whether it was that one time Valentine forced him to enter a cage full of rampant animals and made him stay there, to toughen him up. Or that other time when he was three, and his father locked him up in the basement till dusk, leaving him to deal with his fear of darkness for the very first time. He never complained- even when Valentine visited Jace more than him, he never said a word. He kept quiet and did as he was told. There was no incentive, no rewards for good behavior, only a small nod in return. And it was enough.
It made Jonathan realize that even in hardship, there is comfort in family. As little as Valentine had provided, it was something. Now that his mind was clearer, he felt that yearning again- for family. He remembered the dream he had of Clary, of him and her sitting on a throne while the world burned down in front of them. How he wishes he could just accept her attempts at reconciling, flip over a new page and pretend nothing happened. She didn't leave him, he reminded himself, it was Jocelyn who left him. Maybe she didn't truly despise his company?
Which led him to another thought. If he had not been turned wicked, had he not possessed the demon blood that coursed through his veins, could there have been an alternate universe where he and Clary would be close? That he would be doing all that sibling nonsense with her, like... whatever siblings do he did not know, but he bet they would have done it.
In a short while, everybody started running, and unaware, Jonathan joined them, still in deep thought. Alongside the sweet memories of his sister, his thoughts trailed to darker territory. Jonathan could almost recall now, in perfect detail, how it felt like to murder Sebastian. How easy it was to carry his name, to take on a different man's identity. Back then, Jonathan was a skin he wanted desperately to peel off, happily stepping out of it and into a new one. Right now, it couldn't be more different. He wanted to be called Jonathan again, to wash and rid himself of the old skin, Sebastian's skin which tainted him far beyond redemption. He wanted to stop feeling so unclean, to stop feeling as if his skin was soaked in blood he couldn't wash off in any shower.
Reminiscing in bad memories, Jonathan didn't even notice when a foot suddenly blocked his path. In a few seconds' time, Jonathan crashed into the ground, slung painfully onto his side. The bruises weren't really damaging, but it did snap him out of his reverie and put him on high alert.
"Way to go champ!" Jace waved at him from the other lane, and continued running, smirking slightly to himself.
Jonathan wrinkled his nose in response and pushed himself back up, wiping the dust off his clothes. He knew that nobody would stop and wait for him, and the one who had tripped him was probably way gone and snickering to himself by now. He was now far behind, struggling to close the gap between him and the rest of the group.
He bit his lip and continued running.
He was supposed to be better than everyone else. He gave up his childhood for it, he had given up his life for it. Then why was it so hard for him to prove it?