Breakfast was nothing to write home about—cornflakes, juice. The best part was catching Jace watching her over his solitary coffee when he thought she wasn't looking. But that was over soon, and Alec was leading her to Dr. Starkweather's room, and the cornflakes and juice were churning about uncomfortably.

Clary wasn't particularly sure what she was expecting as Alec opened the door for her. Part of her expected a leather chaise, which she'd lie on and discuss all her childhood traumas while a tight-lipped professor wrote out a prescription for lithium.

But instead she was greeted by another classical room, small, but flooded with light from the single bay window. It was sparsely furnished, with a squashy sofa on one wall, and a gathering of armchairs facing it. It was all done very casually, as though it was a space for a friendly chat as opposed to counselling.

"Take a seat on the sofa, and Hodge will be here soon." Alec smiled, and left her in the room. Hodge? That must be Dr. Starkweather.

She did as she was told, perching herself on the edge of a fabric cushion. This sofa was probably composed of ninety percent tears.

It was barely a minute before a figure bustled through the doorway. Clary wasn't sure what she'd been expecting—but this wasn't it. The man before her looked as though he should be in a library as opposed a psych ward. He was wearing a very worn tweed suit, and it seemed to be straining at the edges. He pushed thin framed glasses up his nose before extending a hand. She stood and shook it.

"Clarissa, hi. I'm Hodge Starkweather."

"Hi. Just call me Clary." She replied curtly. He'd probably read her file, what was the point in doing a big introduction?

She sat back down on the sofa, and he took the centre armchair, fumbling with the bursting manila file in his hands. Clary had already made her mind up; she'd decided weeks ago—she wasn't telling Hodge anything. It was her business, and she wasn't going to lay out all her weaknesses in front of a stranger. It was just embarrassing, and she wasn't partaking. Clary didn't need therapy.

"So, Clary. Are you settling in ok?" he lifted his eyes from the file, giving her a smile.
That wasn't a particularly loaded question. Wasn't like he was delving into her deep-seated fear of clowns or anything.

"Uh, it's ok. Didn't sleep so well. But everyone seems nice, and my lobotomy isn't scheduled 'til next week."

Hodge allowed a small smile, but otherwise ignored the jab.

"Anyone you're particularly attached to at this stage?"

Clary was hardly going tell Hodge that Jace did unmentionable things to her unmentionables. She went for a shrug instead, "Everyone's been nice enough."

Hodge nodded, "That's good to hear. It can be a little daunting to start with, but you'll get used to it. And once you're settled, I'm sure your sleeping will work itself out as well."

"Not going to prescribe me something to knock me out?" she joked again, and Hodge shook his head with a little smile again, taking a note. What was he writing?

"Contrary to popular belief, we actually try avoid prescribing drugs, unless we deem it absolutely necessary."

"That's a shame, I could've had a proper ward party with a few pills." She said dryly.

Hodge's brows creased, "Have you used pharmaceuticals recreationally in the past?"

Clary pulled a face, "No, that was just a bad joke." No more of those jokes Clary, or he's going to be jotting down all sorts on his little notepad.

Hodge nodded, but didn't jot anything down. "So why do you think you're here Clary? At the clinic?"

Clary frowned, tugging at her long-sleeves. "Isn't that on my file?"

"I'd like to hear it from you." He responded calmly, and Clary knew that they were officially past the small-talk bit.

"Well I was backed into a corner. My mother said it was twelve weeks here, or she'd report my—"

The word died in Clary's throat, and a silence filled the room. Hodge waited for a few moments before probing,

"Your?"

"My 'suicide'" Clary flexed her fingers in an air quote gesture around the 'suicide' word. It had Hodge scrawling frantically on his notepad. Clary held back a sigh.

"Why the air quotes?" Hodge asked quickly, his pen poised on the notepad.

Clary shook her head, but refused to say more. Now they were getting into the topic of 'things that Clary had pre-decided she wasn't talking about'.

Hodge's pen lifted from the notepad, and Clary relaxed.

"Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself? Hobbies, your favourite class at school?"

It felt like a summer camp for fucked up kids, "Uh. I am—was a big fan of drawing and painting. I like swimming as well. I don't really know." She shrugged.

"You say you 'were' a fan of painting and drawing. What makes you say that?"

Clary began fiddling with the hem of her sleeves, picking at a loose thread.

"I encountered an artistic block of sorts, about ten months ago. Haven't been able to draw since."

Hodge nodded, taking more notes, "Was there something that triggered this block?"

Yes. "No."

Hodge raised his eyebrows—she knew he didn't believe her—but he didn't push it, simply jotting something down once more.

"We have an art therapy class, do you think that might help?"

"I doubt it." Clary responded sharply, and a silence fell on the room, "How long does this session go for?"

Hodge looked at his wristwatch, "Usually I try reach an hour. But it's only been ten minutes."

Clary tapped her food on the hardwood floor—an indication of impatience. Hodge ignored it.

"I'm still curious about the air quotes around the word suicide. Was it not your intention?"

Now he was coming forward with the heavy questions, and Clary sighed.

"I don't know. I wasn't thinking about it at the time. I just went a little deep." Clary froze up. She'd never talked to anyone about it before—not even her mother or Luke—the ones who had found her.

"And then what happened?" Hodge probed again, and it seemed Clary's list of 'things that aren't talked about' was shrinking under the shrink's gaze.

"I passed out, and woke up in the hospital." Clary responded shortly, looking at Hodge's shoes. They were old-fashioned loafers, but under his slacks Clary spotted two odd socks—one grey and the other turquoise.

She could feel Hodge's eyes scrutinizing her.

"You don't like talking about it?"

"No, I don't." she responded quickly.

"Why's that?" his pen was poised.

Clary sighed, "I think that's obvious. It's… embarrassing."

Now she'd caught Hodge's attention, he was observing her with a renewed interest, like some sort of test subject. Clary couldn't meet his studious eye.

"Why is it embarrassing?"

Clary didn't like this. She felt on edge and uncomfortable—she'd barely met the man and now he was trying to coax personal information out of her that she wouldn't have even told her mother.

"Your socks are odd." She replied blandly, at a terrible attempt to change the conversation topic. Hodge seemed to soften, and he leant back in the armchair.

"My washing machine seems to eat them up. I never have a matching pair." He replied lightly, resting his pen.

"You should choose a colour and stick with it—then they'll never be odd again." She suggested.

"Why don't you want to answer my question?" he tried again, and Clary knew he was going to be like a dog with a bone.

"It's a strange question to ask, and it doesn't really have an answer. I also don't see the point in talking about it."

There was a silence, and Clary chewed the inside of her cheek. Would he make her tell him?

"The main point in these sessions is trying to help figure out why you decided to do what you did, so we can help you find better coping mechanisms in the future. To figure that out, it helps if we discuss what drove you to do it in the first place."

Clary's body tightened, "No."

Hodge's pen couldn't leap to the notepad fast enough, "No?"

She stood, fisting her hands so Hodge couldn't see them trembling. "I think I'm done for today."

And with that she walked to the door, flinging it open.

"Clary, I—"

She didn't even pause to listen as she walked down the hall.


She stormed into the rec room—and heads lifted.

"That was quick." Magnus commented, before turning back to his book.

Maia shrugged, going back to her laptop.

Isabelle was the only one who didn't lose interest. "Play Scrabble with me Clary!"

"Where's Jace?" Clary responded, sitting opposite the dark haired girl.

"He's training. You don't want to play with him anyway—he always thrashes me at Scrabble. I'm convinced he makes the words up but then he manages to produce a dictionary and they're in there." The girl frowned as she opened the Scrabble box, laying the board out on the coffee table between them.

"Jace trains? For what? Is he getting the training wheels off his bicycle?"

Isabelle gave a low chuckle, "He's really into Aikido. It's a martial art or something. Do you want to choose your own letters?" Isabelle held out the green bag, and Clary fished around inside.

"So is that what he's in for? Going kung-fuey on someone's ass?"

Isabelle looked suddenly uncomfortable, and Clary bit her lip. Do you always have to put your foot in Clary?

"Sorry, I just don't know what the etiquette is—" she said quickly, pulling out her seven letter tiles.

"The etiquette about asking why someone's in the psych ward? It's ok. Just assume that if they haven't told you, they don't want you to know. Some people are more open than others, and Jace is on the more private end of the scale."

Clary nervously tugged at her sleeves, and Isabelle pretended not to notice.

"You've known Jace awhile then?" Clary knew she should stop picking up the Jace topic—but she couldn't leave it alone, like the slowly healing scabs on her arms.

Isabelle smiled, laying her tiles out on the little rack,

"We became friends on our first admittance. We kept up outside of Fairchild—when Jace was on the radar of course. I hadn't heard for him for a few weeks before this re-admittance, and he was here by chance."

Clary knew it wasn't any of her business, but she couldn't help herself… "So you're like… together?"

Isabelle inhaled so sharply she choked on her own saliva. She took a minute to recover before looking to Clary, "God no." she croaked with a smile, "No, Jace and I never clicked like that."

Clary blushed, "I just figured as you're both pretty people and all…"

Isabelle smiled, patting Clary on the arm, "You're sweet. But honestly, hooking up with Jace would be like hooking up with my brother."

Clary flinched, fighting the darkness that swarmed her mind. She didn't realise her nails had broken the skin of her palm until she felt the wetness of blood.

"Of course." Clary replied coolly, Isabelle was watching her curiously, not bothering to hide the confusion on her face. "Do you want to go?" Clary nodded at the board.

With this Isabelle's attention was back on her tiles, away from Clary. It gave Clary a moment for wipe her bloodied palms against her jeans.


It was barely fifteen minutes before Aline stuck her head into the rec room, announcing that Clary had visitors. It was probably a good thing—she was totally thrashing Isabelle at Scrabble.

Clary scooped her hair into a ponytail as she walked for the nurses' office. It'd be her mother with her swimsuit, maybe Luke. But Clary bit back a squeal as she recognized her favourite nerd lingering awkwardly in front of her parents.

"Simon!" she cried, pulling the boy into a tight hug.

"Hey, Clary." He murmured, returning her hug with just as much gusto.

She greeted her mother and Luke with a little less enthusiasm, but they didn't comment on it. Alec suggested they sit in the dining room, and Clary turned on the jug in the attached kitchenette for coffee. One thing Clary did find herself missing—freshly brewed foamy cappuccinos. All they had was instant.

"How was your first night Clary?" Jocelyn asked gently, as Clary took a seat opposite.

"It was ok, it's a bit weird sleeping in a new bed, but I should be ok." Clary replied, looking to Simon beside her, "Should I show you my room?"

Simon nodded, and they stood.


"Hello MTV, welcome to my crib…" Clary said, opening the door to her room. Simon took one look around before stepping inside, easing himself onto the bed.

"This could do with some more springs." Simon mused, rocking on it.

"At least there's no leather cuffs attached to each corner." Clary joked, and Simon snorted.

"Yeah, in all honesty I'm a little disappointed. Where are the people rocking in foetal position and whispering in tongues?"

Clary laughed. Simon was one of the only people who could manage to make her laugh these days, "That's what I said! I think this is just the first level crazy though. Sorry to disappoint."

"And you haven't started planning a revolt against the oppressive staff yet?" Simon joked.

Clary turned her face into an expression of mock sincerity, "Shhh! There's microphones in the walls."

Simon actually jumped, looking around anxiously, and Clary broke into peals of laughter.

"Simon, oh my god. You watch too much TV." She said between giggles. The boy visibly relaxed, before his face turned genuinely serious. Clary knew he was about to say something intense, she could almost see him forming the words in his mind. She'd known Simon almost all her life, and he'd been nothing but her best friend that entire time. She could probably read his expressions better than she could read her own.

"I know you hate us for it Clary. But I'm glad you're here. I miss you like hell, but you look… lighter. Not like that night—"

"Don't." Clary snapped, and Simon froze. He was probably the only person in the world who knew close enough to the truth, but he didn't know the whole truth. No one would know the whole truth.

"Are you ok Clary? Seriously ok? Not like putting on a brave face for Jocelyn, but actually ok?" Simon stood—Clary only just noticed he'd grown slightly taller.

Clary took a shuddering breath. She wouldn't cry. "That's a big question Si."

Simon pulled Clary into a hug, resting his chin on her head. Sometimes with Simon Clary could pretend it was as it had been. Easy.

Clary took a few gulping breaths as she tried to settle her nerves. She wouldn't cry.

"Who's that creep looking through glass of your door?" Simon asked, and Clary whipped around. But the glass panel was entirely empty.

Clary shot Simon a look, "Are you seeing things? Do you need to be admitted Si?"

Simon shook his head, "He was definitely there. Golden hair. Arrogant looking."

Of course.


Clary was sitting on her bed, waiting. Once it had set the fear of God in Clary, and she could barely move for dry retching and full body shakes. But now, she faced it calmly, gifted with the ability of cutting herself off. It was as though she would watch from above. Yes, Clary was down there. But she wasn't really there. Clary took a few deep breaths as footsteps sounded from the hall. She could get a weapon—she'd thought about it. But she'd never overpower him, and she'd face his wrath later. And if they saw him hurt—questions would be asked. Questions Clary wouldn't—couldn't answer. Questions he'd made sure would never be asked, and answers he'd made sure would never be believed. She'd tried before, to tell. He'd found out. Being close with the school admin—he'd dropped a few comments about Clary's wavering sanity. She was in and out of therapy, she was attention seeking. Nobody really wanted to know, so they'd eaten it up. The doorknob was rattling now, and Clary let out a wail. Even though she'd told herself she wouldn't show fear—she'd gone and betrayed herself. Again. Clary needed to keep him out. She knew there was a way. She'd asked her Mom for a lock—but this was an open doors household. Her mother thought giving Clary a lock was Clary cutting herself off from the family, the slippery slope of the destruction of the family unit. If only she knew.

Clary looked around desperately, there must be a chair or something she could jam under the door handle—like in the zombie movies she and Simon watched every Scary Movie Saturday. Clary was never sure how that worked to keep people out. But there was no chair in here anyway. Clary had to hurry; he was moments from getting inside. The only thing in the room was a solid looking dresser. She hurried to it, half lifting half dragging it across the ground. As soon as she rammed it against the door, the handle ceased. Clary wished she could breathe a sigh of relief—but she knew he'd find another way in. He always did.


Clary awoke to a frantic tapping on the glass. She sat up quickly, wiping the drool away from the corner of her mouth. Alec was rapping on the pane of glass, an almost disappointed expression on his face.

"Clary?" he sighed, before pointing to the dresser that was jammed against the door.


A/N: I'm sorry to say there will be a fortnight break on this story. I'm literally moving across the world, so I'll have no internet access for a fortnight at the most! I'm super bummed out because I was just getting into the flow of this story. But I promise that as soon as I get access to internet, you guys will have a new chapter. It'll be a fortnight at the longest. Again, really sorry, but don't give up on this story yet!