Chapter 26

"We have to call the police!" Simon claimed adamantly, slamming the papers down on the kitchen counter as Clary calmly resumed cooking.

"What are they going to do, Simon?" She replied coolly, which drove Simon even farther up the wall. Sometimes it was like Clary wasn't even human to him.

He spluttered for a few moments, trying to come up with an answer, flailing his arms in an angry, frustrated gesture. "We have to do something, Clary, we can't just let this keep going on!"

"Do you want bacon or sausage?" She asked in a low, smooth voice that only barely trembled. You'd have to be listening for it to notice it.

"Do I want - ?! Did you seriously just ask me if I wanted bacon or fucking sausage right now, Clary?! I cannot believe -" His eyes nearly bugged out of his head with disbelief and his voice was reaching a shrill, high-pitch, the way it did when he got too worked up.

"Is Isabelle awake? Do you know what she wants?" Clary continued, pouring pancake batter from a blue plastic bowl into the skillet she had retrieved from the sink. She didn't turn around to look at Simon.

"Clary, this is serious, I -"

"Honestly, I bet she doesn't like either one. I'll just make her an extra pancake." Clary had to work hard to keep the shakiness out of her voice. She wished Simon would just go away so she could cry or scream or blow something up.

"Clary." He said in a strong, stern voice.

Clary stiffened, but continued her ministrations without turning around.

"Clary." He boomed again, grabbing her shoulder roughly. She shook his hand off just as aggressively.

"Clarissa!" He shouted, grabbing her elbow this time, trying to forcibly turn her toward him.

Clary picked up a plate as Simon spun her around and threw it forcefully onto the linoleum, which caused a loud bang! and made him jump, but didn't succeed in breaking the white and blue china dish. Simon jumped back in bewilderment.

She dropped to her knees and grabbed the plate in both of her thin, freckled hands and began banging it on the ground, grunting with each hit.

"Why...(hit)...won't...(bang)...you...break...(hit)...you piece of...(bang)...shit!" Clary's voice got louder and more desperate with every word, until eventually it wasn't so much a word as a scream that ripped from her throat as she hurled the chipped plate at the wall across from her as hard as she could, watching as it shattered into hundreds of pieces that clinked to the ground one by one. A light film of powder floated around the rubble.

Clary was breathing heavily, like she had just got done fighting the heavyweight championship, and her hands trembled like she had Parkinson's. The trembling made Clary angry. She was tired of fear, she was tired of sadness, she was tired of always being weak, always being the one afraid. She frantically reached behind her, grabbing up onto the counter, and pulled a metal mixing bowl down to her level with a clang.

She hurled the mixing bowl at the wall where she had aimed the plate, but she missed, and it glanced off the refrigerator, spinning around on the floor with a metallic clash. She reached behind her again and launched a spatula. A fork. A bag of chocolate chips. Half a stick of butter. Anything she could get her hands on, she pitched across the kitchen with as much force as she could manage. She felt Simon's arms wrap around her torso, pinning her flailing limbs tight to her body.

She fought and railed against him, all teeth and nails and spit, yanking and lurching to get out of his grasp. Simon conceded and loosened his grip, allowing Clary to crawl away from him across the kitchen floor. The look on her face was one of pure determination, as if she was on a mission sent straight from God. She looked likely to rip the place apart barehanded.

Clary stumbled across the dirty floor, butter and oil and chocolate chips sticking to her feet and threatening to slip her. "I bet there are cameras on the house. I bet there are cameras here." She muttered as she nearly sprinted to the front door, snatching up the photographs on her way.

"Clary, what are you doing? Come back inside!" Simon called after her, slipping in oil as he tried to hastily follow her. Isabelle appeared at the bottom of the staircase, looking bleary-eyed and messy, like she'd just been in the fucking hunger games. And yet she still managed to make it sexy. Simon shook his head and decided to ponder it later.

"What's going on?" Isabelle crooned, rubbing her sticky eyes with a fist, like a little girl. Her knuckles came away black with makeup.

"One thing at a time please, Isabelle." He responded crossly, storming past her to the gaping front door where Clary had disappeared out of. She was frantically, almost maniacally, searching everything she could think of. She was pawing through the bushes, kicking up mulch in the flower beds, beating the cobwebs at the top of the pillars with a broom.

"You think you can just play me? You think you this is a fun little game you can play?" She mumbled under her breath, getting progressively louder. Isabelle joined Simon's silhouette in the doorway.

"Well fuck you! I am not afraid of you, you bastard!" She screeched in a wobbly voice, searching like a madman for the hidden cameras she believed to be there. The truly scary part of it was that she could be right. There very well could be hidden cameras. Why wouldn't there be?

Isabelle and Simon saw the car pull up before Clary did. She didn't seem to be particularly observant of her outlying surroundings at the moment. Jace's familiar blonde head popped out of the driver's side as he slammed the door, his face immediately scrunching into a mask of surprise and confusion.

"What in the actual fuck - ?" He muttered, watching Clary's antics, her bright hair escaping it's braid, pancake batter smeared across her face.

"Did you hear me? Are you watching me right now? Does this piss you off?" She demanded of no one in particular, brandishing the photographs like a torch or a weapon. "Because I am not scared of you, motherfucker!" The bravado in her voice began to wane. Clary was completely terrified, in truth. She could feel the fear in her very bones. The paranoia.

"I...am not...scared of you...!" She panted in a trembling voice, violently ripping up one of the photographs in her hand and flinging them onto the ground, stomping on them as if trying to put out a fire.

One of the neighbors had emerged onto their front porch, an elderly lady wrapped in a fluffy pink robe, curlers in her hair and slippers on her feet, watching the spectacle with poorly disguised contempt and curiosity. Like watching a car accident or a trashy catfight.

Jace smoothly and swiftly ascended the brick stairs leading to Clary's apartment and scooped her into his arms as she kicked and flailed. He pressed a hand over her mouth and tried to carry her inside but she bit his fingers as hard as she could.

"You," she spit, "are the last person I want to talk to right now!" She pointed her finger accusingly at him and continued her vain struggle for escape. Jace strode into the apartment and deposited her roughly on the couch as Isabelle stared in groggy astonishment.

"Sorry, Miss Rosemary." Simon called sheepishly, raising his hand in an awkward wave toward the old lady as he swung the door shut. "Sorry!" The old woman huffed and rested her fists on her bony hips.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt fucking Christ." Simon muttered to himself in exasperation, sliding down the wall to the floor.