Hey guys! I'm at 25 reviews now, and it's all thanks to you! Your support is incredible. And to A grha, thanks for being my 25th reviewer. The comment on the Nora Roberts books wasn't mine, it was Clary's. I don't really have an opinion about them. You guys are fantastic. Thanks again!
Chapter 10
Even before the pain hit, Jace knew he was having one of those nights. One of the nights Jace would have to reach under his mattress and pull out the only thing that could make the pain stop, make it easier to focus on reality.
Jace sat at his desk, staring down at the 160-problem Algebra review Ms. Stern had assigned. What the hell kind of monster gave 160 problems on the first day of school? Oh, yeah. Ms. mother-effing Stern!
Jace couldn't stand it anymore. It felt like his brain was slowly melting, like the wicked witch of the West. The numbers were blurring before his eyes, turning into one long, hopelessly impossible equation. A perfect representation of his life.
And that was when the pain hit. Jace fought it for as long as he could, trying to repress the horribly clear memories. But one broke away from the rest and settle itself somewhere behind his eyes, an internal TV screen. All jace could do was watch and listen to the memory, praying it would let him go without too much agony.
**Flashback**
The pain of his father's rough hand slapping his face still stung, even in this memory.
"You fucking killed her!" Michael Wayland's voice had always been rough, but at that time, it had been murderous. "You killed your own mother! You're going to burn in hell for this. Mark my words, you little bastard!" His fist connected with Jace's jaw, making it feel as if his teeth were going to come out of his head.
**End Flashback**
Jace had been lucky. The flashback had been brief, briefer than most. But it didn't hurt any less. Pushing away his homework, Jace got up and went to his bed, slipping his hand under the box-spring mattress, he pulled out the leather-scented-sheathed hunting knife that knife had belonged to the eldest Wayland son for the past four generations. It had been his father's most prized possession, and he had given it to Jace on his sixteenth birthday, when times were happier and the blame for his mother's death hadn't rested on his shoulders. The knife was still used for hunting, but not the hunting of animals; the hunting of Jace's pain.
Jace slipped into his bathroom, locking the door behind him and flipping on the light switch.
The small room was immaculately clean. Jace, breaking the teenage-boy stereotype, always had a clean room and bathroom. Cleanliness had been drilled into him by his father, and though his mother had been more relaxed about it, she too preferred not having to clean Jace's bath and bedrooms for him.
Jace stripped off his T-shirt and jeans and sat in the bathtub. He was always careful not to get blood on the floor, should anyone come in to put clean towels in the closet.
The knife gleamed dull silver under the harsh fluorescent lighting. The blade felt cool against his skin as he pressed it into his forearm, only wincing slightly-he'd gotten used to the pain. He embraced it now-it helped chase the shadows of the past away.
Helped to take off the edge.