Once again, un-beta-ed, but I was excited to give you guys this update before I get super busy again. (I have to participate in the Science Fair and Historica-which is essentially a history fair-and my class has entered a video contest to win a trip. Plus I'd like to catch up on my reading!)
Secondly, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Ads S, the only person who left me such a lengthy, sweet review that touched base on all the things I wanted this story to be (and apparently is) without being able to put it in words. You are such a sweetheart and I hope you love this chapter.
I guess that this chapter also has a song? I'm going to say it does, because the chapter is named after it. So the song is Empty Gold by Halsey.
Okay, I'll shut up now, you go read.
Enjoy! :))
This house is much too big, I think as I stare at the front door, at the brass knob so cold to the touch, at my shiny silver keys, taunting me to just pick them up and be done with it—be gone. I bet the only reason he wanted such a big house was so that he wouldn't have to see me so much. Because it's not like he cares either way. He has girls throwing themselves at him left and right—there's no need for me to hang around like the stupid, naïve girl everyone thinks I am. Not to mention the deadweight I must be to Jace.
No moonlight filters in through the bedroom window, no strange shadows are cast upon the sickeningly, maddeningly plain walls, not tonight. If anything, it makes the house somehow emptier. I pick at my nails, attempting pointlessly to remove the paint stubbornly stuck to them—anything to keep my hands busy, to keep them from shaking with cold. Or is it the fear that he won't come back—that tonight will be different—that's making them shake?
My clothes are cloaked in paint, violet blue, ruby red, and pine green, fire orange—you name the colour, I probably have at the minimum, a swatch of it on my worn, spattered clothes. The corner of lip twitches at thought of Jace slaving over the stains, trying to get them out. Who said only women do housework?
And again, I think of how different my life would be if I did just up and leave without a word. Would he be worried? Would he stay up to until the latest hours of the night, waiting to see if I would come home to him? I snort unattractively. Both I and my over-active imagination, with its perfect boys that it loves so much to dream up, know that I won't leave.
My heart ceases to beat, jumping up and clogging my throat, blocking my airways. All this because the dreaded What If pops into my exhausted head: what if Jace is with someone else, right this very moment, while I sit here, worried beyond belief about him? Suddenly, the trees of loneliness morph into a forest, each tree closing me in further. And I must confess how hard it is to breath through the trees of loneliness.
I rub my temples. How did fame turn my Jace into—into this…thing—this empty gold? Was it all the pressure? Was it the cameras flashing everywhere he goes? Was it the constant attention? Was it, perhaps, the lack of privacy? Or was it just everything in general?
I drum my fingers against the stair for a moment, hesitating to pull out my phone. I only hope Izzy knows what to do, because I evidently don't. Holding my breath, heart still stuck in my throat, I dial Isabelle's number.
"Iz?"
"No, how'd you figure it out?" She snaps sarcastically.
I take a deep breath. "Well, at least we know your sense of humour is still intact at four in the morning," I laugh nervously, trailing off awkwardly.
"Clary," she sighs. "Why did you call me?"
"Do you, by any chance, know where Jace is?" I dig my nails into the palm of my hand, hoping the pain might give me some sort grip on my slowly, surely slipping calm. Breathe, breath, breath, breath, I chant internally, because despite Jace being a tall, muscular, force to be reckoned with, I'm worried sick about him.
"What do you mean; do I know where that insufferable moron is?" Isabelle demands, voice like a thousand nails scraping down a chalkboard. She sounds much more awake than she had only seconds ago. In hindsight, maybe I should have kept this…issue to myself.
Despite myself, I ask the painfully obvious: "you don't know where he is?!" Panic laces my voice, my pulse picks up, heart pounding against my rib cage like a hammer, each beat of the utterly useless organ proving to be more useless when all it manages to do is create more trepidation than the last beat—because what if he's hurt?
"Clary, I'm his publicist. Not his personal stalker." Isabelle sighs tiredly.
"Where is he?" I whisper, much more to myself than to Isabelle.
"Breathe, Clary, he'll come back—he always does." She sounds so sure of what she's saying, but what good are her words, meant to be gentle, and reassuring, if I don't believe them?
"Izzy—" I let out a choked noise so pathetic sounding I turn bright red, "—he's been gone all night—I haven't seen him all day."
"All this, just because he…" she mutters angrily, trailing off. "Look, I'd come stay with you but Max isn't feeling well," she tells me apologetically.
"Oh, I hope he feels better soon," I say, followed by a short goodbye, and then the line goes dead.
One day: I'm worried sick.
Two days: I'm panicking.
Three days: I'm going out of my mind.
Four days: I'm desperate and disappointed, hugging my toilet bowl every other hour.
Four days without Jace. Not even the media—who seem to know his next move even before he does—knows where he is, and all I can think is: whatever mess he's gotten himself into now, it's up to him to get out of it.
My golden boy could be dead, rotting away in some gutter, skin colder than ice, eyes dull and lifeless. The thought makes me sick—and not figuratively; I end up lying on the cold bathroom floor in the fetal position, eyes bloodshot, and my head and stomach a complete and utter mess.
I watch the lights overhead flicker for what seems like hours before I, with near herculean effort, push myself to my feet, and brush my teeth. And as I coated the worn white and blue bristles with green paste, I think: Jace will come back. He always does. Why would this time be any different?
Maybe because he isn't on tour, a quiet voice in my head offers. The voice of reason, I figured. It was the only thing keeping me sane while Isabelle tried to sort out this awful, horrible mess. And what a mess it was turning into as the days passed.
I've read all the reports—the ones that say my other half has run off with some gorgeous, European model, the ones that say he's dead and gone, even the utterly ridiculous ones that say he's been kidnapped by terrorists.
And what's really eating at me is the fact that no one will let me do anything to help. Maybe it's because of the horrible cramping I've been suffering, or the sudden bouts of vertigo. Maybe that's why they won't let me help—because I'm sick; in New York, you never what's going around, so really, it shouldn't surprise me that much that I am sick.
I hate feeling like some sort of damsel in distress who's too busy weeping at her tower window to do anything useful. That was one of the reasons I fell in love with Jace – he didn't treat me like that porcelain princess that could do no more than stare wistfully into the abyss of hopelessness that surrounded her. But that's exactly what I'm doing now. He would be disgusted.
Not that he has any right to be, the way he's presenting himself.
"Let me do something," I whisper into the empty abyss that is this massive house. It was designed to keep me lonely, I'm sure of it—not that it matters.
They say its hatred that burns you inside out—that burns out whatever it is that you were before. But whoever said that wasn't completely right, because sadness does the same, except it tears excruciatingly—tortuously—at you, bit by bit, you fade away until you're nothing more than one of the shadows lining the walls.
And it is as a mere shadow that I sit on the steps, staring bleakly—hopelessly—at the door that has remained still since a few days ago, when people just stop coming over. Perhaps they saw the glassy quality to my eyes. Perhaps it was the dark crescents coating my under eyes. Or perhaps they all simply saw what I do when I catch a glimpse of myself: the raw, uncensored sadness haunting me—rotting me.
He's rotting me away to a skeleton, my clothes baggier since the last time his aureate pools rested on me. And it isn't because I refuse food, more like I can't keep anything down for the life of me—which might be quite literally.
My fingers run up and down the seam of my dirty jeans, splattered with every colour of the rainbow. Where I would usually find solace in art, I've only been able to find a wall, blocking me from that creative part of my mind filled with odd animals, childhood inventions, demons and angelic Jace's.
And then I hear the door slamming shut, followed by clumsy-sounding steps; an ogre trying to be light on his feet.
My eyes snap up to be met with a red-rimmed, golden stare.
Relief floods my aching chest, and as I hastily push myself from the steps—suddenly, I feel as if I've been unsuspectingly doused in ice-water, realization hitting me like one of those horrible bouts of vertigo and nausea.
"Clary—," he begins.
"Where were you?" I whisper, feeling salty rivulets roll down my cheeks like an avalanche. Anger coils in my stomach; I wipe at my eyes with the unforgiving fabric of my sweater, face heating rapidly.
"Please—stop looking at me like that," Jace's voice is hoarse, aching almost. Slight stubble coats his jaw, and my senses are over whelmed by the intense smell of liquor. This is not the man I fell in love with…I don't know who this is.
"Like what?" I grit out, nausea sinking its claw into me, dragging me away from my prepared arguments.
"Like you don't know me…like I'm a stranger." His eyes aren't the ones I once looked at adoringly; they're the eyes of a coward: he was drinking away his problems while I couldn't even keep a drink down; he was drowning in misery while I drowned in despair.
"You are," my voice is soft, and I absently wonder where that fiery retort that was on the tip of my tongue went. But even that retort—whatever it had been—couldn't have delivered even half the blow that those two three-lettered words did; his eyes dull, if only by a fraction, and his posture speaks volumes. "The man I fell in love with wouldn't drink away his problems. The man I fell in love with wouldn't leave me wondering whether or not he was ever coming back."
Jace shakes his head, righting his posture, he towers over me. "I am that man," he says firmly, looking down to meet my eyes, with his own bloodshot amber pools, but I can't tell whether he's trying to convince me or himself.
I shake my head at him, wishing—praying, even—that this wasn't my life right now. "You're not, and it's a shame—because I really loved that person." I watch the look in his eyes transition to something akin to pleading. Pleading with me to take back what I've said.
"You don't mean that," I suppose his tone is supposed to be firm, but he falters his voice a mere whisper.
I wish I didn't.
I clear my throat of the thick lump forming within it. "Why don't you tell me which problem was so overwhelming that you felt the need to drown yourself in liquor?"
He's silent, and then he spills his guts to me. I really wished he hadn't.
But you can't leave me—not again—please, I plead with him internally, saltwater leaking from my tear ducts. Typically, the saltwater rivulets would be stained with the thick lather of my mascara, but not today.
"Clary—please don't cry," his sun kissed complexion contrasts against my creamy own when his hands grasp me by the shoulders. Jace presses his lips to my own, like he's trying to kiss away the pain, trying to dry my tears. Instead he comes across desperate, and I feel as though I'm kissing whisky, bourbon, scotch and cheap beer all at once. Palms flat against Jace's lean chest, I push. He stumbles backwards, looking down at me wildly, and—
"I feel sick," I mumble, making for the bathroom. Bile rises in my throat, my feet moving faster than they might have ever across the polished floor. I don't bother with the light switch, crashing to my knees before the porcelain bowl. It's the same feeling I'd had at Jace's concert, and it is by no means pleasant.
I think I might have truly retched up my innards this time around. I haven't really eaten in the past few days, so how is it possible that my body is producing this much bile? Blood roars in my ears, my pulse is jumping, and tears well in my eyes. Not from sadness either.
Calloused pianist fingers rub circles and trace patterns up and down my back. I don't want him touching me, not when he's so hung-over I could push him over with the flick of my wrist—even in this…state.
"Don't," I wipe at my mouth, feeling the heat radiating off of my skin in waves. "Don't touch me Jace."
"Why not?" He doesn't cease his actions, tone calm.
"Because—" I flush the toilet "—because I don't want you touching me, that is why not." His eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot look into mine with a certain serenity I've never seen from him before—no; it's not serenity, its sympathy.
"You're sick," he murmurs, flat out ignoring my previous words. "You need rest, Clary." Suddenly his eyes snap to meet my own. "Have you slept at all since I've been gone? Have you eaten—?"
"Jace?"
"Yes?"
"Shut up. My head hurts." He nods his head, turning away. A terse silence follows, only broken when I concede to answer his ridiculous question because he looks like a kicked puppy and it hurts me to see him like that. God, he's the one that's been jumping from one seedy place to another getting so drunk he probably couldn't even remember his own name, and here I am treating him like the victim. I truly have no spine. I disgust myself, and yet I can't help it.
"I haven't slept, no. And I can't keep anything down." I tell him quietly. It really isn't anything out of the ordinary, a simple flu that should be gone within a few days. "I probably just have the flu," I voice my thoughts.
"I'm sorry Clary, I just couldn't handle—I can't handle leaving you anymore." He runs a hand through his gilded locks, his face molded in what looks—and holds the promise of being—to be a permanent frown. He's so unlike himself a few years ago. Maybe it's just who he is now and I have to learn to live with it somehow.
"I know," I whisper, allowing his fingers to ghost across my forehead in one swift motion, pushing a loose strand of hair back behind my ear. "And I love you for it, Jace, but you can't abandon your career for one person."
Jace laughs, a noise that makes my cheeks strain with the effort I put in not to smile at the throaty, musical noise I love so much. "You might be one person Clary, but you're the only person that matters." The words melt my heart, and this time, I allow the smile to split my dry skinned-face.
"Stop," I murmur burying my face in my hands, embarrassment lighting my cheeks an unflattering shade of red. This however, only seems to encourage my husband; with warm fingers does he pry my hands away from my face. And instead of letting my hands go, he twines them with his own, smiling sincerely at me.
"I missed that smile," he comments absently. Where is the cold, distant man I had known only four or so days ago? I don't know what I'm doing—I don't know how to act around this version of Jace.
My words stay caught on the tip of my tongue, and even if I could get them out, I would not want to, for the amicable silence is more than we've had in months. It is only when my eyes begin to shift in and out of focus and I can hardly keep them open that the silence is broken: "Okay, bedtime," as an alternative to simply pulling my small weight to its feet, he places one arm under my knees, another against my back. With might have been herculean effort if our roles were reversed, Jace picks me up bridal style. I suppose he isn't as hung-over as I originally thought.
I feel every step he takes; I hear every rhythmic heartbeat like a soothing melody, and I feel every inhale and exhale of apple-scented breath. When Jace lays me gently on to our bed, joining me seconds later. His arm finds its way around my waist, my back pressed flush against his chest.
"I don't want to go Clary—don't let me go," he whispers against the crown of my head, face buried in my dark red locks. He thinks I'm asleep; otherwise he wouldn't bare his heart so openly, so willingly. I pick up easily on the double-meaning, and it turns what shattered pieces of my heart that remain somewhat intact to dust, a fine powder. The dust particles dissolve into my bloodstream, sending one last jolt of energy through me.
And I do with it something I never expected.
"I won't," I whisper in reply to my golden boy before falling into what must be the deepest slumber I've had in months.
I HAVE A SURPRISE! ARE YOU READY?
NO, I DOUBT IT, BUT HERE WE GO: I WILL BE WRITING A VERY, VERY SPECIAL PROLOGUE FOR THIS STORY.
Do you know why it is oh so special?
No?
Well, It just so happens that the Prologue will be of Clary and Jace's wedding when they were 21.
It might not be out for a little while, because this is something that I've never written before and as weird as it sounds, I want it to be perfect.
Okay, I need to breathe.
Also, I have made a Pinterest board for this story. The board itself is titled "Fading" there's more information about it on my profile, if you're interested.
Now on to the reviews.
clarissa adele herondale: Trust me, lots of things are wrong with all of us(by us I mean me), the only thing different about Jace is that his flaws are magnified by some freak phenomenon. I apologize for breaking your heart. Guess I took that Marina and The Diamonds song too literal, huh?
Jling: I didn't intend to make it depressing, but truth be told this story is much different than I thought it would be. When I wrote the first chapter and posted it I didn't expect much of a reaction, but here we are!
gabergirl: Have you ever heard of Murphy's Law? Well, in case you haven't, here it is: anything that can go wrong will go wrong. But then, there is also the years old saying of "light cannot exist without shadow" so next time I write something really sad/depressing/emo-seeming/angsty remember my wise words. (*scoffs loudly*)
ThatBlondeALB: No spoilers for My Ghost, sorry ;) But I'm glad you seem to be...enjoying this story. (And by enjoying, I mean wanting to use Jace as target practice while also rooting for him to pull it together.)
Ads S: I certainly did not know I had the power to write such a wrenching romance, because in all my other stories, I kind of struggled for a while with sparking Clace's romance to start the fire, if that makes sense at all. But what I can't believe is how well you were able to translate into words what I wanted to portray in this story. Not even I could do that. Thank you.