Hint: There's a reason as to why Clary's the way she is.
I'm Going Under:
~Clary~
"So...what did he say?"
Something about the look on my face kept Isabelle from asking about Simon until we were officially turning off of his street. I was grateful in a way, but the guilt I felt was so overwhelming that in that moment, as the music played softly around us, I couldn't do anything but drive.
We sat in tense silence for at least ten minutes. I could only imagine that Isabelle was swarmed with thoughts about what went down between us, and, knowing her, she was most likely thinking the worst. I wanted nothing more than to tell her that Simon did like her. That his feelings for her were just as strong as her feelings for him. To assure her. But because I couldn't, because I couldn't make it just come true, I felt miserable.
This was going to tear us all apart.
How would I be able to cope without my best friends? They were my steady rocks; the two people that I knew would always be there for me. Isabelle and Simon didn't even know how much they meant to me, they didn't know that they were the ones that were helping me...move on.
Her voice was soft when Isabelle allowed herself to try again. "Clary, I can handle it. He doesn't like me. I get it. You don't have to protect me."
What should I tell her? 'Oh, I'm sorry but Simon actually likes me. He didn't even have a clue that you were in to him.'
How could I tell her the truth?
"Um," I stifled, keeping my voice as collected as I could. "Isabelle..."
She already looked crushed. I couldn't do this.
"I think...you should talk to him about it."
I hoped that she'd leave it at that. I wanted her to crank up the music and start laughing. I actually wanted her to start telling me all about the bimbos in her chemistry class.
But instead, she sat there staring at me in utter disbelief. Her eyes said it all: you're really not going to tell me?
"Clary."
"Isabelle...Simon––he-he..."
"Just spit it out Clary! I'm not blind," she sputtered as if I had insulted her somehow. "I saw his face while you were talking to him. He looked pissed afterwards. And you, you look like you're about to burst into tears. Him finding out about me liking him couldn't of been that horrible. What happened?"
I tried to focus on the road, but it was nearly impossible with tears blurring my vision and so many different things running through my mind.
"You know what," she suddenly spat. "You're unbelievable! If you were really my best friend you would tell me! I tell you everything."
"I tell you––"
"Bullshit, Clary." She raked a hand through her hair and turned her steely gaze out the window. "I'm so mad at your right now that I could spit nails. You tell me everything? Whatever."
It was easier to defend myself when I didn't look at her. Whenever I looked at Isabelle it just reminded me of everything she had helped me through. It just reminded me that our friendship was on the line.
"Yes," I said through clenched teeth.
"You still haven't even talked to me about your da––" then she cut herself off immediately. Her anger vanished, replaced with overwhelming solace and regret.
My dad?
I laughed, my throat dry, tears finally spilling over. "About what?! About my father? I can't! Isabelle, I think about him every goddamned day, I have nightmares about him every goddamned night. I'm so sorry that I can't bring myself to talk about him! I think you can connect the dots."
I knew that I had no right to be angry with her, especially not right now, but how could she...use him against me? She only knew that my real dad had been abusive, but the extent, she had no idea. I only willed myself into talking about him––to her––after I had lived in New York for about a year. She'd noticed the scars on my lower back and, because she had been my only real friend at the time, I told her.
For two years she never brought him up, and secretly, despite how stupid it was, I hoped that she'd forgotten, but now I knew that she thought about him every time she saw me.
Did she honestly think that I was ready to tell her everything?
She didn't know the half of it.
My grip on the steering wheel tightened and my knuckles were turning white. A few sobs involuntarily escaped my mouth and when I tried to hold them back, they only got louder. Just the thought of him.
His vile stench of alcohol and musk and cheap cologne suddenly filled my nose. I was back in our old motorhome. I could hear my mother screaming from the kitchen. I could hear his belt whip through the air in horrifying lashes.
His fingers were suddenly in my hair, yanking me to my feet.
It was all coming back to me in unpleasant flashes.
The size of his hands.
His black eyes.
His voice.
I could see my mother holding me against her chest as the man she'd once loved and trusted hit her own son. My brother.
Jonathan––
"CLARY!" Isabelle screeched, her hands violently shaking me, pulling me back to reality.
There were bright lights.
There was honking.
Isabelle was screaming.
~Jace~
We lost.
Even with five seconds remaining, the stands were all on there feet, alight with hope. I could hear my name being chanted. Jace. Jace. Jace.
And then it was all over, like that.
The first game the St. Xavier's Shadowhunters had lost in nearly two years.
And even though the other team had possession towards the end, I couldn't help but feel responsible. I should've passed to him...I shouldn't of rushed...I shouldn't of waited then...I called the wrong play...I wasn't focused enough.
I let everyone down.
Ever since I started at St. Xavier's, I was a star on the field. I never disappointed. As a freshman, though I had only been second string quarterback, I was clearly better than the senior, first string quarterback, Dave Pattinson. And I got to prove it too.
The first game of the season, he sprained his wrist before half-time. We were down 7-20. At the time, I was one of the smallest players on the team and Coach Warden, being twenty pounds smaller with a bush of a beard, was very hesitant to put me in. But he and I both knew that I was their only hope. He'd grumbled under his breath, "We're gonna lose anyways...might as well."
No one had believed in me. I was only a freshman after all.
As soon as the whistle blew signaling that the third quarter had begun, I could hear the groans, I could see hundreds of disappointed faces without even having to look towards the crowd, but my heart was pumping with excitement.
Their lack of confidence in me only gave me satisfaction.
I was born to play football. I knew the game like the back of my hand. Though I had been small, I was fast, I was strong, and I had heart.
The ending score: 29-20.
We went undefeated the entire season. Everyone knew my name and respected me. I was no longer another stupid freshman, I was Jace Wayland, the quarterback that happened to be a freshman. I was suddenly invited to senior parties, hit on by even more girls, and on top of the world. I was no longer alone.
And it seemed to get even better as I got older. I was always a cute kid––let's be honest––but I was taller now. A lot taller. And I had more friends than I ever thought possible. I had fans and people that truly believed in me.
But tonight, I let everyone down.
We lost.
By two goddamned points.
~Clary~
I jolted into action. Seconds before my truck and a Hummer made a fatal sandwich, I jerked my steering wheel to the right, narrowly returning to the right lane. The Hummer's horn blared angrily in my ears until I could no longer hear.
My heart was lurching out of my chest.
Not only could I have killed myself, I could've killed Isabelle and whoever else was in that car.
I braced myself for Isabelle's wrath, but it never came. I peered over at her and she looked just as shocked as I felt. She was holding a hand to her chest and her eyes were bugging out of her head, her mouth ajar. "Clary...what?" She whispered.
"I'm so sorry Isabelle," my voice quivered. "I'm so sorry." I repeated it over and over, hoping that it'd make me feel better, no matter how selfish, even though I didn't deserve it, but it only made me feel worse. The initial truth of what almost happened just kept sinking in deeper and deeper.
I could've been responsible for destroying the lives of who knows how many people.
"I'm so sorry," I cried.
She paused, sucking in a breath. I heard her shift in her seat and then I felt her hand on my shoulder. "Clary, it's okay...When we were––It was like you couldn't hear me," she said. "Were you––Are...are you okay?"
I nodded, my movements craggy and uneven because of the sobs still racking through my body. "I'm...fine...a-are you?"
Isabelle sighed. "I didn't mean to bring...that person...up. I'm really sorry Clary. I didn't know you'd...react like that."
"I'm going to take you home," I told her.
"What––Clary, I thought I was sleeping over?"
I just wanted to be alone. I wanted to feel guilty and be able to just think in the safety of my bed. It was times like these when I desired to see Simon. When I wanted to be alone, it wasn't that I actually wanted to be alone. I just wanted to be able to talk and get everything out without any interruptions and more complications.
Simon just listened to me. His kind and quiet nature comforted me. He cleared my mind and made the perplexity of my problems so much easier to comprehend. It was that reason alone why he knew so much more about me than anyone else, from my father, to my brother, to the accident that ultimately compelled my mother into moving us to New York.
No matter how much I loved Isabelle, she didn't want to just listen. She wanted to put her input in, scrambling things even more. She didn't know the things that Simon knew and even though I had a reason for it, it still made me feel awful. She was just as good a friend as Simon, but I just wasn't ready to tell her. I'm not sure I'll ever be.
Even with that said, she was still helping me––with the very things that she had no knowledge about––by just being there for me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I just don't feel good."
"Clary if this is about––that, please don't push me away. I promise I'll never mention it again."
"No, I have a-a headache." And that wasn't necessarily a lie, my head was throbbing at the moment, screaming at me to lie down.
She didn't argue, but I could tell that it was killing her.
There were so many things to worry about.
I needed Simon, but he most likely hated me.
"Clary...can we talk tomorrow about this––not about...your...dad, but Simon?" Isabelle asked carefully as I pulled up in front of her gate. I still flinched as she said 'dad'.
I punched in the code, struggling to keep it together. I knew that if I said no, she'd be even angrier with me. But when I told her the truth, there wouldn't be much of a difference. "I guess," I sniffed. There was no avoiding it.
She deserved to know the truth.
But then I'd lose her too.
I pulled around the fountain and she gave me an awkward-sideways hug before she opened the door. "I'll have Alec or someone bring me over tomorrow, if that's okay. I'll call you first," she smiled. "I hope you...feel better."
Then, she jumped down off the seat and gave me a single wave. I gave her a tremulous smile as she closed the door, and I watched as she disappeared inside her house, my heart crumbling.
What on earth did Simon see in my anyways?
As soon as I was inside our home, I heard my mom shuffling around in the kitchen. I took in a waft of familiar paint fumes, scented candles, and leather.
Our apartment was tiny and its walls were all painted a boring tan color. However, my mother's paintings that decorated nearly every square-inch, set an aura of excitement. There were no photographs, anywhere, those just dug up memories neither of us wanted to dwell on more than we already did.
Though it was tiny, it was very cozy. The living room had a very large window that overlooked all of the lights and crowded streets of New York, a plush red couch, a small coffee table, and a TV. Two steps to the right, there was our kitchen. It had all the fundamental equipment any ordinary kitchen would have, but we rarely used the stove or oven. We loved our small, shiny black microwave.
The main room branched out to two different, very small rooms, each with their own bathroom.
Even though I've grown accustomed to our apartment, It'll never change my mind about moving back to California as soon as I graduate from high school. The two years my mom and I lived there with Jonathan were the happiest days of my life.
It was still, to this day, home to Jonathan's lifeless body and his soul.
When he died, Mom wanted to get as far away from the San Fernando Valley as possible. But I couldn't wait to go back. It was truly the only place that I felt safe.
The only place that I ever saw my brother smile.
Only a few more years and I'll be with him again.
"Clary? Is that you?" My mom called.
"Yeah," I said, trying to put on a convincing smile before she saw me. But it was hopeless. I was an ugly crier and the evidence was still very noticeable. My eyes felt swollen, my cheeks were hot, and puffy, and probably the same color as my hair, and I still couldn't rid of the sobs that just wouldn't leave me alone.
"Are you all right?" I could hear her alarmed voice get louder as she got closer to me. Then I saw her tall, slender figure appear from behind the corner. One look at me and she was running to my side, wrapping her arms around me with all of her strength.
I welcomed her embrace and fitted my head in the crook of her neck. I cried into her warm skin and let her soothe me. She held me like that for a very long time and rocked my body gently from side to side.
"What happened?" Her fingers stroked my hair and rubbed my back.
"Just a really bad night," I sniffed, my voice heavy with tears.
"Is this about Isabelle?" she whispered calmly. "I thought she was spending the night?"
I let out a deep breath. "She's only part of it."
"Do you want to talk to me about it?"
I shook my head slowly. I didn't want to have to tell her about the almost-accident; she'd freak and wouldn't let me drive on my own ever again. And I also didn't want to tell her about Simon and his crush on me.
Simon was over at our place almost as often as Isabelle. It'd only make things even more awkward.
There was that part of me that wanted to tell her everything and gush about how mad I was at myself––she was in fact my mom––but there was that stubborn block in my brain that prohibited me.
The cons just outweighed the pros in this instance.
I felt her kiss the top of my head and, with her arms still wrapped around me, she lead me to the couch. "I'll make us some coffee," she smiled.
Coffee sounded amazing. I drank coffee every morning and, of course, whenever it was available. I loved it almost as much as I loved my salt water taffy.
She turned on the TV to reruns of Full House and returned a few minutes later with two mugs in her hands. "Thank you," I said, and she curled up beside me, kissing my temple.
"You know that I love you Clary, no matter what."
I nodded. "Of course. I love you too."
I knew my mom loved me, she said it to me every day, but it still gave me reassurance every time she said it.
I've lost so many years of my childhood, my brother, and possibly my two best friends, but I'd never lose my mom.
The next morning, I found that I could barely open my eyes. I was still wrapped in my mom's arms and my coffee from last night had spilled slightly onto my lap. I sighed and made a move to get up until I realized what it was that had woken me up so early.
Someone was pounding on the door.
Sorry for the long wait! I was pretty busy and I still haven't been able to edit so...hope it's okay. Thanks so much for your reviews. Please feel free to leave any suggestions(:
Until next time!
