Brooklyn
4755 Dancing Dove Lane
Apartment 12
"Five minutes, Clarissa."
She rolled her eyes at the name. It didn't matter how many times she asked, begged, pleaded to be called Clary, in the eyes of New York Children's Services, she would always be Clarissa Fray, sixteen, a Ward of the State, orphaned, unwanted.
She had been placed in so many homes, she lost count after a hundred.
"Hurry up."
With a sigh, she heaved the worn duffle bag she had had for too long onto the bed, and began to pile her few possessions into it; the tomboyish, second hand clothes that never seemed to fit quite right, her torn, tattered pairs of converse, and the art supplies that her best friend, Simon, had so kindly given to her every year since they were six.
"I'm coming!" Clary shouted back.
She reached for the final sketch book, only for it to slip from her grasp, strewing papers across the faded, stained carpet.
"Great." She mumbled.
She sat, tucking her legs underneath her as she began to gather them all together.
One in particular caught her eye.
Clary blinked in surprise. She was an artist, she could recall almost every piece she had ever created, and yet...
She couldn't remember drawing this.
It was an oddly familiar piece, symmetric, open, the lines curved, and crossing.
What surprised her the most was that she had not drawn it once, or twice, but at least a dozen times, with dark, heavy, permanent ink, spread out across the page.
"What..."
There was a heavy knock against the wood of the door. "Clarissa!"
Quickly, she gathered the pages, shoving them into her bag. Despite her hurry, the image never left her mind, and for a moment, she wondered if she was hallucinating, but there it was, page after page filled with the same symbol.
"When did I..." Clary suddenly felt as if she couldn't breathe.
It wasn't possible. She would have known, noticed herself drawing that... Whatever it was she had drawn.
"Clarissa!"
"I'm coming!"
Why was she drawing this?