There was loud noises coming from downstairs, waking Clary. It was not the way she would have enjoyed waking up, but the noise only got louder. It sounded like a dying whale's mating call, and Clary fought the urge to cover her ears, and shout at whoever was making that incessant racket, to shut the Hell up.
Isabelle was sleeping soundly in the bed next to her, and Clary wondered if she was deaf, because you could have heard the noise from fifty miles away. But all Isabelle did was make a low noise in her throat, and turn her body, so her back was to Clary, her hair completely obscuring her face from view. Clary suddenly found herself wondering how she had gotten back to the house, let alone gotten to bed. She vaguely remembered seeing Jonathan...but he was dead. End of story. Someone had probably found her, and brought her back with them. She looked down at herself, seeing the clothes she had been wearing for a few days, now, made her wonder.
But then, there was the sound of a dying whale, which in all honesty probably needed more attention than her days old clothes. Clary padded across the room, rubbing at her eyes, which were screaming at her to go back to sleep, and opened the door. The sound only got louder, and this time, Clary did cover her ears like a five year-old. She walked down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where a boy, about Jace's height or so, with fair hair stood, flipping something in a pan, as he sang at the top of his lungs.
Clary took a few steps back, bumping her head on the wall. She cursed under her breath, but apparently, it had been enough to stop the horrendous singing. Jonathan stood there, well, and alive and healthy. And alive. That was what Clary didn't believe. "I thought it was a dream," she mumbled. "I've really lost it, haven't I?" Jonathan put down the spatula he held in his right hand, and took a tentative step towards her. Clary felt herself clinging to the wall, as if it could shield her from her most certain craziness. Her own delusions. "If you've lost it, so have I," said a voice from someone behind her. Jace emerged, running a tired hand through his halo of golden hair. "He's dead," Clary said, moving away from the wall. She ran a hand through her hair-which hadn't been brushed in a little over two days. "Someone tell me what the hell is going on!"
Jonathan ran a hand through his white-blonde hair, closing his eyes for a split second. The only thing that was similar about them was their green eyes, and fair skin. But of course, Jonathan had gotten lucky, and there wasn't a freckle on him. No one would believe they were related, not a chance. "Clary, calm down, please," he pleaded with her. "Just-just don't start having a mental breakdown."
"I am not that unstable," Clary crossed her arms over her chest, giving him a stubborn look, that told him arguing with her would be pointless. "And if you even bring up last night, I'll have to remind you that you are supposedly dead," Clary pointed an accusing finger at him. A small cloud of slightly blackened smoke was gathering behind Jonathan. "I think your food is burning," Clary added, as a last thought, before she turned and left the kitchen. She remembered the reason she had been out last night, and suddenly couldn't fight down the anger that boiled in the pit of her stomach.
It was something of a punishment, not knowing if who she was now, was really who she was. It could just be someone's remodeled version of herself, and as it seemed, she would never know for sure. She would certainly not be talking to anyone for a while, not until she could manage to look at them for longer than two minutes, without almost turning green with anger.
Clary was prepared to leave the house, just like that-but then she remembered her hair probably looked disgusting, and her clothes were full of sand, still. And more importantly, she needed a shower.
-*#*-
Her hair had been Hell to brush through. But now, as she pulled a baggy tee over her head, she felt so much better-cleaner. The shower had been refreshing, and during the whole ordeal, Isabelle was still sleeping soundly. Like a brick.
Clary didn't bother waking Isabelle, before slipping on her shoes, grabbing some cash, and slipping downstairs, out the door. Undetected. Those boys would never pass for cops, that was for sure. Not very attentive whatsoever. Clary felt a small surge of triumph, until she remembered, she didn't remember. And it made her wonder, just how much she was actually missing, how many things she'd forgotten.
But what could she do?
Nothing. She could do nothing, and it made her itch with anger. Clary took a deep breath, pushing down the anger bubbling within herself, as she wandered her way back into the main part of the small town. Once again, she found herself at the small bakery, the one squished in between the Men's clothing warehouse, and the bookstore.
When Clary opened the door, her nose was assaulted by the delicious smells of fresh-baked pastries. She felt the corner's of her mouth quirk up, as she closed her eyes for a moment. And then, she stepped inside of the bakery, watching the girl from yesterday, as she put a tray of cupcakes in the oven, and closed the door. She wiped her hands off, on the black apron she wore.
The girl's eyes flicked upwards, and her face broke into a friendly smile, when she noticed Clary, who was looking at the menu briefly. "Back for more?" The girl grinned. Clary offered a weak smile in return. "Definitely," Clary replied. "What do you want?" The girl asked, her eyes flickering to a door at the side. "Can I get another box of red velvet?" Clary asked, digging in her pocket for the money she had only just slipped in. "Sure-but, I'll get Sebastian to serve you, okay? My shift just ended."
Clary nodded, holding the money tightly in the palm of her hand. The girl offered a small smile, before she slipped through the side door, and Clary wondered where it went. Just as the door started to fall shut, a messy-haired boy rushed through. He was tying the apron around the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes, and nearly tripping over his own feet. He was kind of cute.
He looked up, a bashful expression decorated his features. His face lit up, when he saw Clary. His dark eyes were lit up, in a way Clary had only seen on Isabelle, when she saw her favourite pair of shoes. It was utterly adorable, and Clary wanted to giggle a little bit. "Clary?" he asked. "Sebastian?" she mimicked him, as he brushed dark hair out of his eyes. "I didn't know you could bake," Clary said, after a moment. He shrugged, looking back up at her, from the cash register. "I can't. Not really. It's Maia that does most of the baking."
Clary cocked her head to the side a little bit, as she watched him click a few buttons on the register. "If you can't bake, why do you work in a bakery?" She tried to raise an eyebrow at him, but ended up raising both. All or nothing, right? "I'm better with people," he said, his eyes trained on his work, but Clary could have sworn she saw them flick up. "I can't even make ice," he laughed slightly at himself. "Not even ice?" Clary teased, leaning on the glass counter in between them. "Nope." Sebastian said. "I put the tray in the freezer, and when I went to get an ice cube later, there was frozen water all over my food."
Clary laughed a little, as she covered her mouth with her hand. She caught the corner's of his mouth quirking up, as she laughed. "Can I get some red velvet cupcakes?" Clary finally asked. He nodded, looking up, meeting her gaze for a second. "Of course," he said, and disappeared from view for a few minutes, before he came back, holding a box of six cupcakes. "How much do I owe you?" Clary asked, as he placed the box on the glass counter. "Nothing," he said simply. Clary's eyes widened at him. "I'm paying you," she said firmly. "That girl already gave me a free box, yesterday, so, yes. I'm paying."
He chuckled, a low sound, as he looked up at her. "No," he said. "I won't take it." Clary gave him a smile, before taking the cupcake box, and placing her money on the counter. She turned back to the door, holding the box of cupcakes. She grabbed for the door handle, pulling it open, as she looked over her shoulder, to Sebastian, who still hadn't touched the money. "I'm paying," Clary said, before she left, letting the glass door swing shut behind herself.
There was chatter coming from the kitchen, which was not unusual in the slightest. Clary walked into the kitchen, greeted by Magnus, who had turned his attention to her, and was eyeing the box of cupcakes she held. "I hope those are for me, biscuit," he said. Clary scoffed. "You wish," she replied, but clutched the box tighter. "Then for me?" Isabelle chimed in. "Everyone," Clary corrected, eyeing Jonathan, who was trying to scrape something burnt out of the frying pan. "Even the blonde boy, who woke me up with his God awful singing."
Jonathan turned, and grinned at her. It was the same grin she remembered, the one that had always seemed comforting, in it's own way. "One condition," Clary pointed at him. "No more singing; you sound like a dying whale," Alec laughed at this, alerting Clary of his presence. He brushed some inky hair-identical to Isabelle's-out of his face. "I do not," Jonathan protested. "Oh, you so do," Clary countered, a memory fading in, like a dream, almost; Jonathan sitting in the passenger seat of their Dad's car, the air bag pressed tightly to him, he looked lifeless. She remembered a pain, in her ribs, her legs, and an incessant pounding in her head. Slowly, Jonathan's head lifted up, from where it rested on the slowly deflating airbag. "Clare," he choked out, his voice strained. "I love you." Just the memory of those words-the way he said them, as if they may be his last-was painful, all on its own.
Clary found herself, wrapping her arms tightly to herself, the box of cupcakes dropping to the floor. She felt the intensity of the pain she had been experiencing, as fresh as newly drawn blood. It must have been the accident-in what other memory was her father sitting motionless in the driver seat, bleeding out slowly?
"Clary?" Jonathan's voice breaks through the thick barrier of memory, the thick haze of it all. "Clary, are you okay?" Isabelle's concerned tone breaks through the haziness even more, drawing Clary back. Clary swallowed, her throat dry, and her head whirling uncontrollably. "Couldn't be better," she forced out, even trying a weak smile. She kicked the box of cupcakes towards Magnus' barstool, and he bent down to retrieve them. "Enjoy them," she said, before running for the door. She needed to be away from everyone-everyone who knew everything she didn't.
It seemed like no matter how many deep breaths she took, it wasn't enough oxygen. Not enough. She felt like she was choking, without air. Clary grasped, shakily, for the door knob. She tried to keep her breathing even, but it just wasn't working. She pulled the door open, expecting to feel the calming breeze blowing her hair, the warm sun on her skin, but she felt nothing. She looked-actually looked-seemingly coming out of her haze of memory. Jace stood there, looking down at her, with an eyebrow raised. Clary didn't feel like talking; she didn't think she could even manage a conversation at the moment. Quickly, and none too gracefully, she ducked out of his way, finding herself looking at the stairs.
Her feet pounded lightly down them, reaching the bottom in record time. There laying the sand, was her black-covered sketch book, and pack of pencils. She picked them up, shaking out most of the sand, but the rest would have to wait.
Clary found herself wandering down the beach, until she came upon a spot where there were tall, gray rocks. Easy to hide behind. Not that she was hiding, or anything...
She sat down, leaning her back against it. The sand was slightly damp, but that was probably because the rocks were fairly close to the shore. Small waves came rolling in, crashing at the shore, as Clary watched. She had intended to draw them, but when she looked down at her completed drawing, it was most certainly not waves, or the people swimming in the water. Oh, no, it was so much more attention grabbing. So awful, so terribly accurate.
It was times like this, Clary found herself wishing she was as talentless with a pencil and paper as her father. A time when she remembered what her mother's good friend, Luke, had said to her once. You're just like your mother, that way; you see the beauty in horrible things. It made her shiver, the actuality of the statement. But now, Clary wondered if it had been a warning, more so than a mere statement, or compliment.
She had drawn her memory.
It was her view from the backseat, where the interior of the car was squished in, on either side. Her father's head turned back to look at her, blood pouring down the door, onto the floor in the backseat. She knew, now, what had happened to cause the crash; they had been talking, laughing, with their father, and he had been looking back at Clary, as he laughed. His smile was vibrant, reminding her so much of Jonathan, as he ran the red light. He wasn't paying attention, and by the time Jonathan got out his warning, it was too late; two cars had crashed into them, from either side. One on Jonathan's side, and one on Clary's. The car had done the most damage to the driver's seat, where her father sat. The airbags had went off, pushing his already-motionless body even further into his seat. His head turned back to look at Clary, as blood poured out of his side, down the side of the door, from where she door had pierced his body. It was horrible.
When Clary came out of her vivid recall of the crash, her face was streaked with tears, gushing from her eyes endlessly. She pulled on her hair, tangling it together, as she covered her face with it. Sobs wracked her body, as she tried to keep quiet. It wasn't working, and she didn't care anymore.
Of all the things she could have remembered, she remembered that? If she was going to remember something as awful as this, she didn't want to remember. Not at all. Screw everything else, this was too much. Too much.
Clary had sat outside, crying, longer than she would ever admit. It was only when the sun started to set, she decided it would be best to go back inside. She held her sketch book tightly shut at her side. No one could see what was inside, no one could see her drawing. Otherwise, they would get their hopes up, and be utterly devastated when she didn't remember anything else.
This time, there was no chatter emanating from the kitchen, only the occasional clinking of what she assumed were dishes. Curiosity got the better of her, as she wandered into the kitchen, only to see Isabelle emptying the dishwasher, placing the dishes into the cupboards. "Damn boys," Isabelle muttered. "So lazy."
Clary increased her grip on her sketch book, as she hoped up onto the counter. She put the sketch book on her lap, setting the pencils-nearly worn down to the nub from her sketching so much while she cried-on the counter beside her. Isabelle's obsidian eyes flicked up to her, as she pulled the dishwasher shut. "Where have you been?" Isabelle asked, almost sounding like a parent about to scold their child. "Sketching," Clary replied, tapping the cover of the book nervously-of course Isabelle didn't know that. "Is that why your eyes are all red and puffy?" Isabelle raised an accusing eyebrow at her. Clary shrugged, feeling her pulse increase rapidly.
"You were crying," Isabelle said, scrunching her eyebrows together in thought. She didn't get any time to make accusations, though, because Magnus intervened. Thank God. "Biscuit!" He exclaimed. "You look exhausted; time for bed," he said, a little too cheerily for Clary's liking. but she shrugged all the same, and followed him out of the kitchen, up the stairs, in silence, until her bedroom door shut behind Magnus.
"Spill." He demanded. Clary looked up at him, every ounce of colouring gone from her face. "W-what?" She stuttered, even though she knew exactly what he meant. "You were crying," Magnus said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why?"
Clary took a deep breath, preparing to explain. She knew if anyone could keep a secret, it was Magnus. "Promise me you won't tell anyone, or I won't say anything," Clary said softly, slipping her fingers just under the cover of her sketch book. He nodded. "Fine, I promise."
Clary opened the sketch book, as she walked over to him, flipping to the page that showed the horribly graphic scene of the car crash. She handed the book to him. His eyes landed on the drawing, and he went utterly white. "You remember?" He looked up, his gold-green eyes wide. Clary shook her head. "No. Only this," she said quietly. "You're sure there's nothing else you remember?" Magnus prodded.
"Nothing else," Clary swallowed, her eyelids feeling heavy, just like the rest of her body. Tired, and just cried out. "Alright," Magnus handed her back the sketch book. She closed it, and climbed into bed, flicking off the lamp. "Night, Magnus," she whispered. "Goodnight, biscuit," Magnus whispered against her cheek, as he gave her a gentle kiss on the temple.
Just when Clary thought she could cry no more, a few tears slipped out, and soaked into her pillow. Her eyes closed, and she was pulled into a restless sleep, full of the crash, on loop.
His laugh echoed through the car, making Clary smile, as Jonathan smiled ahead, at the road. Her father held the steering wheel, turning it to the left. They were taking Jonathan to look at a college in New York, a higher-end one, that had an amazing Art program, that Clary one day hoped to get into. Jonathan may have been her twin, but they were so different; he had the intelligence of a college student, a prodigy, really-he was probably smarter than that-and he was useless with a paint brush. He was so persuasive, too, just like their father. The only things they had in common, were their green eyes, ivory skin tone, and how protective they were.
"Maybe they'll send him back to high school," Clary joked, and Jonathan laughed, his obsidian eyes lighting up. They reminded her of Isabelle's, except his were a few shades darker, if that. Her father turned back to look at her, his laughter sounding out again, he was smiling at her.
There was screeching, like the sound of tires, and the honk of a few horns, before Jonathan spoke urgently, "Dad, look out! Stop!"
But it was too late; a car had run into the driver's side of the car, squishing it almost completely. The doors were jagged, and a piece, Clary could tell, had impaled her father. It must have punctured his lung, because he gave a cough, his face still turned to Clary. Blood coated her jeans, a thick spray of the warm substance over the leather backseat of the car. Clary squeaked out, "Daddy," before his head dropped, his eyes still open, blood dripping down his chin, onto the carpet of the car. Everything seemed to move in slow motion; more screeching, the car sliding slightly, and then before Clary knew what was happening, the other side of the car was being run into. The air bags went off, pushing her father's lifeless body further into his seat, a horrible crunching noise coming from Jonathan's nose, as it started pouring blood. The red liquid coated the white airbag, and his dark blue shirt. He turned his head, as if it pained him, to look at Clary. "Clare," he choked out. "I love you."
Clary wanted to say something back, but no words would come, only tears. And that was when she felt it; the horrible pain in her ribs, the pain in her leg, that was awful, but could not compare to the pain she felt in her ribs. And then there was the incessant, painful pounding in her head, like having a migraine. But much, much worse. Her door was jagged as well, and poking her in the sides, but nothing like her father, whose blood was dripping down the door, into the backseat. She could hear screaming, and shouting, and sirens, but it was all a blur, and suddenly, her eyes felt very heavy...she was so tired...and dark spots danced around her eyes. All the noises blurred together, into white noise, as she shut her eyes, her head falling heavily against the window.
Hey guys, so I just started school again, and haven't really had the time to update, but since it's the weekend...Here you go!
I felt bad about not updating, so I included Clary's dream-what do you think? What do you think she'll remember next? Or will she even remember anything?
Oh, and 150 reviews! I can't believe it!
Next update at, hmm...let's see here...250 reviews? And I'll throw in a little something extra if I get to 350, how's that sound?
Impossible? Probably. But I swear on the Angel that I'm going to try and keep the updates coming, even with school-might only be on weekends, though.
Until next time, enjoy!
P.S.
I would like to give a special mention to the following; clarissa adele Herondale- a spectacular reviewer
Wills Porn Toast, because, well, your first review made me smile. And plus, that is the best user I've heard so far.
Also, ile de beaute, my first French reviewer! Btw, I speak French, so feel free to leave a review in French!
And I can't forget Acctantnerd, because I couldn't remember the name of what Clary had; selective amnesia.
So, keep the reviews coming!