Hey guys! I know I haven't updated this in over a year at this point and I'm really sorry about that. I promise I'll make it up to you guys with the next couple of chapters. I've decided I'm going to add trigger warnings as they come into play.

Warning: This story contains coarse language, self-harm, child abuse, rape, etc. Please don't read this if it's going to trigger you. I don't want anyone to be upset by this.

Disclaimer: I don't own TMI, as much as I wish I did. I wish I could meet Magnus, though. When I think of him it makes me want to snort glitter.


Next class, please! Finally, time for art.

Twenty minutes later, Clary had finally found her way to Art. And, like in many the majority of her classes, the only remaining seat was next to that blond kid. What was his name? Jace, maybe... Oh well. People must either really not like him or are too intimidated by him since no one ever sits near him. Most likely the latter.

"Miss Fray, good of you to join us," a voice called out from the front of the room. "I've heard you've been quite the troublemaker today."

"Who, me?" Clary smirked. "I would never." Her eyes glinted mischievously as she spoke, setting the teacher on edge.

"Well, if you're done, I would like to introduce myself, even though you probably already know who I am. My name is Amatis Herondale, but I would prefer that you call me Amatis. Ms. Herondale makes me sound old. Now, since today is your first day, you might as well just grab some paper. This week's theme is hatred, so I am asking that everyone draw something or someone that they hate. It doesn't have to be corporeal. It's due in three days, so I would suggest you get started."

Clary nodded in assent, and that was that. She grabbed a sheet of paper from off the front desk and began her rough sketch. It took longer than expected to figure out what she was going to draw, and eventually she settled on a topic. This, she thought to herself, is going to be fun.


By the time the bell rang for the end of the day, the drawing was more than halfway finished. She sighed, realizing that she would have to hurry and beat her father home. Which might have been an easier task if she hadn't forgotten that she didn't have a ride.

"Hey, Red," a voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "You were pretty rude to me today. Any reason why?" She kept walking. "Hey, I'm talking to you! Don't walk away from me." He sounded angry, and more than a little confused. "Nobody walks away from me. Don't you know who I am?"

"Yeah," Clary snapped. "I know exactly who you are. You're some dyed-blonde wannabe that thinks he can get away with anything just because his parents are rich. But a few years from now, that's not going to work so well for you. I don't give a flying fuck who you are, or who you think you are. Mommy and Daddy's money can't solve all your problems for you. You need to grow the fuck up." With that, she turned and walked away, keeping her face perfectly neutral until she was sure she was out of his line of sight.

The second she was sure everything was clear, she sagged against the nearest building in relief. Holy fuck, he's scary! He looked so pissed, and Clary was proud of herself for not fainting or running away crying in the face of his anger. Snapping herself out of her daze, she realized what time it was. Fuck! It's after 4:00. I am so screwed. Not wasting any more time, she sprinted the rest of the way to her house, only slightly out of breath as she rounded the corner to her driveway. Please, don't let him be here. Please tell me he's at the gun range or a poker game or anywhere but here...

Luck was never really on her side though, and as she walked up the driveway, she could see the tail end of his Camaro over the hill. Fuck. Too late to go back now.

She poked her head through the door, slipping quietly into the kitchen to start dinner. She had just slid the food into the oven and was turning to take the utensils she had used to the sink when she almost ran face-first into Valentine, dropping the knives in the process. One landed point-down, sticking in her foot, but she knew better than to complain.

"Clarissa. Would you like to explain to me why you are late?" He looked at her questioningly as he spoke, studying her every motion as if it was of the utmost importance. When she didn't answer immediately, he scowled. "Do not make me repeat myself, Clarissa."

"Sorry, sir. There's really no excuse."

"Damn right there's no excuse. I let you go to school, I feed you, I clothe you, and this is what you give me in return? Disobedience? Disrespect? Someone ought to teach you a lesson in manners. How does that sound, love?"

Oh shit. He must seriously be pissed.Straightening her back further in a futile attempt to make herself seem less weak, Clary thought through her next sentence carefully before speaking. "It is not my place to make decisions," she replied monotonously, disgusted with herself for not even trying to stand up to him.

"Damn right, it isn't. Now, strip."

God, no. Anything but this. Please, she thought desperately, not again.

When she failed to respond, he backhanded her across the face. "Fine. The hard way it is, then. Not like it matters to me." He grinned sadistically as she started shaking, laughing to himself. When he managed to grab onto her shirt with one hand, ripping it in half, all the fight seemed to drain out of her. As he tore off the rest of her clothes, Clary laid perfectly still, accepting her punishment as well as she could. In times like these, she used to pray for her brother to save her, but over the years she's come to realize that her fantasy was exactly that: a fantasy. At this point, she did what she's done for years: She closes her eyes and thinks of London.


The next morning, after the whips have been cleaned and the knives sharpened and polished, Clary forced her aching muscles to carry her to the shower. Turning on the cold water, she didn't bother to wait before jumping straight in. Hot water would have been better, but she wasn't allowed to use it when John was away, and as he wouldn't be coming back for a long time, several months at least, she would have to get used to it.

The redhead did her best to ignore the catching in her lungs at the feel of the cold water pouring down her back, and instead turned her focus onto the events of the previous night. God, she thought. What the fuck is wrong with me? I didn't even try to stand up to him. I just laid there and let it happen!

Without a second thought, she pulled her favorite razor off the shelf of the shower. One cut for being weak. Cut. One cut for being useless. Cut. One cut for driving Jon away. Cut. One cut for being pathetic. Cut. One cut for allowing all this to happen. Cut. And one cut for cutting. Cut. She rinsed off the blade carelessly, holding back the tears trying so desperately to fall. You don't deserve to cry, she told herself. You didn't even try to fight back. Lots of people have it worse. Save your tears for someone that actually matters.

"CLARISSA!" Shaking her head in an attempt to clear her mind, she scurried down the stairs.

"Yes, sir." Her voice came out steadily, even as her legs shook beneath her.

"Where is my breakfast?" Well, fuck. She had been so wrapped up in her emotions that she had forgotten to cook breakfast before showering. Yesterday, when Jon was here, it hadn't mattered because even though Jon knew about the abuse, Valentine had never hit her outright in front of him. Now her only form of protection from him was gone, maybe permanently. That thought was enough to make the tears she had been so carefully holding back flow over the rims of her eyes. "Well? Hey, bitch, I'm talking to you!" Shit! She'd done it again.

"I'm sorry sir. There's no excuse for my behavior." She cringed internally at how false her voice sounded, even to her own ears. "I'll start on it right away."

"Yeah, well you'd better hurry the fuck up. This is fucking ridiculous. I ask you to do one thing, one simple thing, and you even manage to screw that up." Clary did her best to stop the tears rolling down her face as she hurried to the kitchen. Shit, what is there to make? There's almost never any food! God, this sucks. In the end, she settled on eggs and toast as it was the least time consuming yet still somewhat satisfactory meal she could make. Quickly placing the meal on its plate in front of Valentine, she grabbed her things and ran out the door.

Shit, the bus already left. She mentally cursed her father as she took off running in the direction of the school. She hadn't made it more than halfway there when her legs gave out beneath her, still protesting from their rough treatment the night before. She was about to give up and just lie down on the ground when she heard a familiar voice.

"Mom, we're gonna be late! Hey, wait a second. No, stop the car! Clary? Is that you?"

Thank God it was just Simon, and not Jace. "Yeah, it's me." Her voice came out hoarse, and she winced.

"You need a ride? We're on our way now."

"If you don't mind, that would be lovely." She winced, trying to get her legs moving and frowning when her muscle response was delayed.

"Clary? You okay?" God, why did he have to sound so concerned? This could really get her into trouble if she wasn't more careful in the future.

"Yeah, Si. I'm fine, just running really late. I'd never have gotten there at the rate I was going. Thanks, by the way." She hoped to whatever was out there that she sounded more convincing to Simon than she did to herself. Thankfully, he seemed to accept her answer, and she let out a relieved sigh.

"Alright, then we really should get going. We're already going to be late as it is."

Clary smiled gratefully as she climbed into the back of the car, nearly groaning as she put pressure on the worst spot. She wished, for the umpteenth time, that he wouldn't be so rough with her when she had to go to school. Oh, well. Now, time for the next nightmare to begin.