Hey, my lovelies! This is going to be my only update for awhile :( sorry! I had this finished last Sunday, but I didn't realize it didn't upload and then I left the state for a basketball camp. Bummer! I was so disappointed. But anyways, here it is in all its glory, ready to be read and reviewed (please? c: ) I may or may not have an update for My Love Is Time today, it depends if I finish packing. Yup, packing. I go camping for a week to a place with no electricity so unfortunately that means no internet and no updates...at all...then after that I leave for a week and a half on another trip without internet. I will be silent for awhile and for that I am sorry :( but for now...ENJOY!
The hospital window acted as a frame to the eastern sky. The picturesque sunrise had replaced the normal blue coloring with varying shades of reds and pinks, the scattered clouds tinged a deep purple. It appeared to be something out of a fairytale—not that Jace Wayland had ever been read a fairytale. Michael Wayland was not one for teddy bears and story time. He was more of the tough love type, and Jace had the marks to prove it.
The scars that littered his body flared up with pain even when he merely thought the man's name. He absently ran his thumb over the most recent one, still puckered and jagged from the blade of the knife. Maybe if his real father had never died, his life would have been different, easier. Jace had never met Stephen Herondale. He was a name with no face that was sometimes brought up in casual conversation, the way someone would talk about the current weather pattern or a new pet. Through the years, Jace had many people approach him and inquire him about his late father, usually saying something along the lines of, "Yeah, Stephen Herondale. I knew him. He was a good man." After those few words that had no emotional effect on Jace, they'd usually compliment the blond-haired boy by saying he looked just like his father.
That sentiment stirred something inside the young man. Biologically, he was the offspring of Stephen Herondale, but legally and ultimately, he was the son of Michael Wayland. He knew Michael Wayland as his father, and he was nothing like that cruel, sadistic man. Though he often wondered what his life would have been like had Stephen lived and remained his one and only father, Stephen wasn't, and Jace couldn't change that fact, not since the noble man had died while serving his country.
Michael Wayland, the man Jace knew as his father, had dark, flat hair and icy blue eyes that matched his equally cold soul. He was short and stocky with thick muscles that rolled in uneven patches down his arms and legs. They protruded absurdly through his usual attire—douche bag muscle shirts and dirtied jeans. He was also one of the worst men that Jace had ever associated himself with. He was sly, only doing things that would better himself, trying to propel himself forward by thrusting others backward. He was manipulative, always playing the puppet master by controlling everybody else's strings, pulling them and twisting them until the poor soul had no clue which way was right and which was left. He was also abusive and considered himself to always be right. He was the reason Jace never bared his chest in front of others, even to those he was the closest with, those that wouldn't judge him by the intricate network of scars lacing across his pectorals and over his shoulders, slashing horizontally and diagonally across his back. Each was a different shape, a different width, a different depth. They all had a story, and though Jace had tried to forget the creation of each one, he never could forget the lessons that had brought them on.
Michael Wayland was the man to thank for Jace's womanizing ways. He was the cause of Jace's habit of taking all the women would give him and then discarding them like last week's garbage, completely disregarding the females' fragile feelings. Old Man Wayland was the reason Jace was denying the emotions that overwhelmed him every time he saw Clary in his peripherals, every time he saw her smile, heard her laugh. He was the reason Jace thought of himself as messed up, as broken.
Michael Wayland had married Jace's mother Céline when the golden-eyed boy was just over three years old. Jace hadn't found out until later that Michael Wayland had only pretended to love Mrs. Céline Wayland for the money she'd received from the government for the loss of a great soldier and a great husband. Michael had been trailer trash before meeting Céline and wooing her with dozens of gas station roses and Dixie cups of cheap champagne. Michael Wayland had been part of Jace's upbringing from his toddler years and on up. And when Jace had been five, Céline had taken her own life. The lazy police didn't even run an investigation, chalking it up to severe depression from the loss of her first husband, but Jace had known better. The police may have overlooked the elaborate lacework of thin, pink scars that wove themselves into every inch of her covered flesh, but he never had. They may have ignored the faded, yellowed bruises that marred her arms and neck, but Jace hadn't. He'd sat in silence as the court granted Michael Wayland full custody of young Jace. He'd sat in silence as Michael Wayland took his mother's entire life savings as his own, spending it as he pleased.
He remembered the day that he had seen things no three-year-old should ever see. It was still branded into his mind, forcing itself to resurface every so often, just when the universe felt that Jace should suffer. It was as fresh as if it were yesterday, the emotions as strong as if it were still happening.
The sky had been dark, overcast with heavy rain thundering against the old wood paneling of the creaking house. Tree branches scratched heavily against the windowpanes, creating noises that would have any young child on edge. Jace sat quaking in fear of the darkness, backed up against the bars of his crib with his eyes wide open, seeking the monsters that lurked in the shadows. A flash of lightning lit up the entire world around the small boy, relieving his fears momentarily before rejuvenating them with a loud clap of thunder that shattered the serenity. This sent Jace vaulting over the railings of his confining bed, running down the hall as quickly as his small legs would carry him.
He'd lived in a very big house from a small age. His bedroom had been located in a wing completely opposite of his parents' bedroom with the living areas strategically placed in between. He'd had to skid through the kitchen, then past the tables of the living room before even reaching the hallway that lead to his mother. Each flash of lightning, each angry boom of thunder sent him propelling forward toward the warm arms of the only person who could ever comfort him. The air in the house was cold, both from the storm and the air conditioner. He was shivering by the time he had reached the door of the master bedroom. His arms stretched upward, groping for the doorknob that seemed to loom just out of reach. He remembered his cheeks warming with exertion, driving a small amount of the chill away. He also remembered the earsplitting scream that penetrated his small heart. It echoed back in his mind again as he lay in the hospital bed with Clary, has arms tensing around her small frame. He felt the same way he had that night, like a knife had been shoved into his chest, and his blood coated Michael Wayland's hands.
When young Jace had finally been able to open the door, he unthinkingly launched himself into the situation, nearly tripping over his feet as he rushed to get through the door. He scanned his surroundings, seeing the silhouettes of familiar objects shadowed by the darkness. He noticed the lumpy shape of the old dresser that was filled with his mother's things and had frames containing family photos covering the flat top. He examined the torrent raging outside the house, the curtains parted so he had an unobstructed view of the storm. He saw the vanity where his mother sat every morning, staring into the mirror and brushing odd substances onto her face while Jace cheerfully chatted with her from his perch on her bed. He saw that object last, his stomach sinking when his eyes finally connected with his mother's, hers wide with alarm and distress, his open with shock and worry. Her head shook back and forth in a jerky motion, her short, blond hair brushing her jaw line with the motion. She lifted her arm to send a signal to her son, but before she could press her finger against her lips, Jace's mouth opened.
"Mommy?" he squeaked, taken aback by the pitch his voice had risen to. He was alarmed by the amount of blood that changed her skin from tan to crimson. He was concerned about the possessive way Michael held onto her, digging his fingers hard enough into the shoulders to leave purple marks in the shape of his fingertips. "Mommy, are you okay?" He took a step closer, and Céline released a choked sob. Michael's head whipped around to eye the intruder with wild eyes. His face was contorted with anger as his gaze landed on his stepson.
"What is this, my dear Céline?" he said, his voice unrecognizable to Jace. He had never enjoyed Michael's presence, but never had the man sounded as crazy as this. "It seems you have taught the boy compassion." A sick smile graced his lips as a knife blade glinted in the darkness. "Let's change that, shall we?" Jace's mother scrambled to grab the man's arm, but he simply slashed her wrists, effectively pushing the injured woman away. Leaving her wounded and crying in a heap on the bed, Michael closed the distance between himself and his stepson, his smile wicked and dark. His eyes were hooded though, devoid of emotions that would have showed Jace that he actually cared.
Jace didn't feel the pain from the cut at first, just watched the blood spring out from the star-shaped carving and dye the shoulder his t-shirt red. He didn't scream as his father made another incision across his chest, laughing with each swipe of the knife. "This is all love gets you, boy. This is all love gets you." With that, Michael shoved Jace in the hallway and locked the door. Jace sat in the hallway, his hands sticky from where he held his tattered shirt together. The sting of the wounds was a dull throb that he'd shoved to the back of his mind. He kept hearing Michael's words replay over and over again. This is all love gets you. Hadn't his mother told him that love was a good thing, the best feeling in the world? Didn't he tell his mother that he loved her daily? Was he wrong?
After that night, Jace had never repeated the three little words that used to be his mantra. The ones he used to say all the time. To love was to lose. If you had nothing to love, then you had nothing to lose. Love was a weakness. It made you vulnerable, like a chicken sticking its neck out for the butcher. He scrubbed his hands over his face, warily eyeing the redhead with her back curled against his chest. Her corkscrew curls spilled across his t-shirt, smelling faintly of strawberry. Her eyelashes brushed the hollows below her eyes, her pale face speckled with brown dots. Her lips were full, the planes of her face smooth in the depths of her sleep. He had to admit that she was beautiful.
But that didn't change the fact that he shouldn't be getting himself into this. It screwed up everything that Jace knew. He shouldn't be pining for her love. She should be the one vying for his attention, next to the thousands of other girls that waited in line for their chance just to utter his name. He shouldn't be showing up in her hospital room at the dead of night. She should be tossing rocks at his window like a crazed lover. He thrived on the attention that women gave him, prided himself in the fact that he was completely indifferent to their feelings. Except Clary. He found himself wanting to know everything about the petite girl. He wanted to know her birthday, her favorite pastime, her most listened to song. He relished in every moment she giggled, lost himself in her eyes. What was happening to him?
He was the boy that took the love'em-and-leave'em type girls. He never actually cuddled with a girl, never allowed her to stay the night. He hated keeping up the appearance of teenage love, so he never kept girlfriends for more than a month or two. And he had never, ever been completely exclusive. But Clary, Clary made Jace break all his rules. He'd followed her to the hospital. He'd wrapped her up in his arms and allowed her to just sleep. He'd told her that he wanted to make her his girl. Those few actions violated every restriction Jace had ever created, the restrictions that were used to keep the internal wall that closed him off from the world completely intact.
The clock above the door ticked feverishly, reminding Jace that it was in fact morning, and that he had somewhere very important to be. It was his custom to leave the girl alone when she woke, without so much as a token of what had happened between the two of them. He never kissed the girl goodbye, never left a note. All he left them with was their memories, and that's something that just was. Though each girl had no tangible evidence that something had coincided between them, each had her memories and her own fabricated fantasies to later share with her friends. Jace's homerun tally had become so hefty that he barely knew the truth from the fake.
That made him completely disgusting for setting his sights on Clarissa Fairchild. She was the kind of girl that a boy brought home to meet his parents. She was the one that a man should hold in his arms every single night without a thought of another woman. Jace didn't deserve her, and he figured it was the universe's punishment that made him feel this way about her. His stomach filled with butterflies every time he caught a glimpse of her. His skin felt like it had electricity sparking off the surface every time she touched him. He felt the world drift into oblivion whenever her lips merely brushed his. It was exhilarating and infuriating at the same time. She was the most unattainable woman on the entire campus. She was the most innocent. She was the sweetest. She was the one that it would hurt him to break. He was pulled from his musings when he felt her shift inside the circle of his arms.
"Hey," she mumbled, her head pillowed in her hand with her back still to him. He craned his neck to see her gaze affixed to the spectacular skyline of the eastern horizon. He observed her face, the way her lips curled up evenly in a soft smile, baring her small, white teeth. He noticed that the freckles were heavier on the left side of her face, that her eyebrows furrowed minutely in concentration, and that her green irises sparkled with interest while observing something beautiful.
"Hey," he replied quietly, his voice slightly husky, making him wince. No girl had ever heard his voice after sleep before, and he'd surely believed that none ever would. He hadn't even explained himself to the nurses that accidentally woke him up as they were attending to Clary in the middle of the night. They didn't seem to mind that he was there though, by the flirty smiles and suggestive winks they were giving him. One had even gone so far as to press her chest into his face when leaning over to change the bag that supplied Clary's IV.
He shifted his arm slightly so that Clary could roll over and face him. They were pressed tightly against each other on the small hospital bed, their noses only inches apart. He felt her warm breath against his face, shifting the already messy golden tresses He felt her pulse thrumming heavily against his skin. He felt her cold feet brushing just below his knees. He felt loose curls tickling his face and was relishing in the unusual sensation of it all. Instead of rolling his eyes and shifting away from her, he was welcoming these involuntary motions. Usually when he was in a bed with a girl, she was trying to extract more from him, to get him off. This was different, wonderful in its simplicity. "What are you doing here?" Jace's bubble was shattered. He could imagine the look on his face: open jaw, widening eyes, reddening face. Did she really not remember this conversation last night? Great, she probably thought he was some psycho that got his kicks from women in hospital beds. He stuttered a few words before Clary burst out in laughter. "Just kidding."
He glared at her. "That was horribly rude, Clarissa Fairchild. I am very disappointed in your behavior." She regarded him with a snort, rolling onto her back and crossing her arms. He found himself laughing along with her, watching her watch him. Her gaze flitted around every feature of his face, and he wondered what it was that she saw. Did she see the exterior of him, with the chiseled features and strong jawbone? Did she dip just below the surface and view the conceited, sarcastic forefront that he put out for everyone to see? Or did she plunge right into his soul, breaking through the wall and viewing the broken little boy with a messed up view of the world.
"You're pretty," she said with a laugh, showing Jace she was just playing. He laughed, speculating if this girl always saw the world with a pair of rose-colored glasses. She always looked so happy. He wished he could borrow some of her attitude.
"So I've been told," he replied, trying desperately to grasp the last string of his sarcastic shield. Another snort from Clary and a soft slap on his arm told him he was failing miserably. She was like an explosive! A few hours with this girl and his walls were already crumbling. He pressed his nose to her cheek, wanting to feel and hear her laughter at the same time. This of course made her giggle harder.
"Jace Wayland, don't think that all the worn out tricks that unlock girls' legs for you every day will work on me," she chided, gently pushing his face away. Jace tried to snub out the feeling of rejection pooling in his chest. After her laughter died down, the room fell silent, just the Clary's measured breaths, the beep of her heart rate, and the even ticking of the clock as it kept time. Time. Crap. Jace's brain reminded him as he removed Clary from his arms, a chill raising gooseflesh from where her body heat had him warm. She looked up at him quizzically as he fretfully checked the clock, thrusting his fingers into his hair when he saw the time. 7:10 am. He was ten minutes late for practice. He cursed verbally, shooting Clary an apologetic look before searching the room for his sweatshirt.
How could he have been so idiotic to forget something as important as a practice? His father was surely going to have his head, or in retrospect, his chest. The grip on his locks tightened at the thought. He'd never missed a single practice in his lifetime. Whether he was ill or injured, he'd always pushed through to satisfy his stepfather. Now he'd missed one for a girl. Michael Wayland would not be pleased. A throat cleared, pulling Jace's attention back to the pale star of his mind's latest infatuations. She tugged at the collar of his sweatshirt, which drowned her small frame in the fabric. He dismissed her with a wave as she went to remove it. "Keep it. I'll come back for it later." Now he was making promises of returning? He shook his head in disbelief. It was like he had two sides now. One was the carbon copy that his father had molded him to be, and the other was the more rebellious, lovesick, brooding young man. It was too much to handle. He strode toward the door, stopping with his hand against the wall when he heard her voice.
"Good luck with your father." It was so low that he wasn't even sure he'd heard her say it. Had he been muttering his troubles aloud this entire time? He looked back and saw her eyes were steadily locked on his. He nodded, giving her a tightlipped smile and exiting the room. He was so out of it, nearly knocking over young nurses as he jogged out of the building toward his car in the parking lot. He chirped the refurbished Camero unlocked, and snatched his cell phone from the cup holder. He had twenty missed calls from his father, and sixteen voicemails, each describing in explicit detail of what he was planning on doing to Jace. The boy threw the car into drive, speeding out of the parking lot and driving the familiar streets that lead to his death bed.
He burst into the locker room, which was empty since practice was already in full swing. Throwing on his equipment haphazardly, he walked onto the field less than ten minutes later. Between the slatted bars of the team's helmets, he could see every pair of eyes on him, watching him as he approached. He hadn't even thought of an excuse yet. He was given a few, subtle head nods, as if his teammates were warning him of the awful mood the coach was sure to be in. He slowly walked past each boy, clad in the same heavy football equipment, each wearing the same expression: pity. Jace squared his shoulders, knowing his father hated when men being penalized retreated to meekness.
"Nice of you to finally join us, Mr. Wayland." The man's voice was calculated but hostile all the same. "Please, tell us, Mr. Wayland. Do you find the hours of practice unreasonable?" Jace thought this through carefully. The wrong answer could put the whole team on the line for suicide runs. He did not want to be the cause of that. He tucked his lip between his teeth as he mulled over his options. Impatient as ever, Michael rushed him forward. "Do you find it unreasonable?" The man's round face was red, and spittle flew from his mouth with the force of his words.
"No, sir," he replied simply, observing the subtle shift of the man's mood. He'd become accustomed to the facial features of this man. The furrowed eyebrow that usually meant confusion or concentration on others meant plotting when set above this man's eyes. If the vein above his right eye throbbed quicker, protruding ever so slightly from beneath the skin, he was furious, and if the dark pits he called eyes became hollow, empty of everything, he was ready to strike. That's the look Jace found his father giving him now. "Then why, pray tell me, did you decide it was acceptable to show up to practice twenty minutes past the scheduled time." There was an underlying threat in the tone of his words, Jace's scars flaring up at the sound. He was in for it. He wished his mind hadn't been so scattered this morning that he could have at least come up with a legitimate excuse.
"I, um," Jace knew that two letter verbal pause had given him a ticket to another scar, so he didn't bother to continue. What excuse did he have anyway? If he claimed he overslept, his father would force him to move back in with him. If he told his father his car broke down, he'd find a bike in the driveway where the car he'd slaved over had once been parked. If he told his father he'd been with a girl, the punishment would have been far more severe than choosing to plead the fifth.
"My office. Now." The man turned on his heel, not even looking back to be positive that Jace was following. He was though, like a little lost puppy. He'd always be following in his father's tracks because even if he veered from the path, the backlash would force him back on. The gravel scattered beneath his cleats. He heard the aglets at the ends of the laces clinking together. He saw the golden streams of the sun reflecting off the morning mists. His senses seemed to be heightened in the moments of anticipation. He heard his father huffing in front of him, the crunch of shoulder pads colliding.
His father disappeared behind the locker room door, and Jace followed to suit, urging the cool metal forward with his palms. His steps echoed off the tiled walls, and his father made no noise. Jace suddenly felt like vulnerable prey as he rounded the corner that lead to his father's inset office. He reared back as Michael's fist connected with his cheek, catching him off balance and throwing him to the ground, his head bashing against the tile. His bleary vision watched the man twirl a switchblade on his fingertips. He had an intrigued look on his face as he leaned down and removed Jace's practice jersey. "Wouldn't want to soil this, now would we?" He grasped it in his fist, inspecting Jace closely, as if scouring him for clues as to where he had been. He watched the dark eyes loom close, his free hand reaching out to pluck something from Jace's shirt.
He twirled the microscopic object in front of him as he dug the tip of the blade into Jace's breastbone. "So, son," he spat the name as if it were a curse word, "what's her name?" His face morphed into rage as he dangled the curly red hair in front of Jace's golden eyes.
Sorry for the mistakes and confusion. This is unbeta'd and such and I know it has a lot of angst and internal conflict, if you don't understand something...PM me...I will explain as best as I can. Hope to have an update when I get back! Review please! :)
~All My Love, BallinBlonde21