I've been hitting you guys with a nonstop streak of emotional chapters. I'm sorry to say that this chapter is no exception to this trend, but while heavy, it is important. So important that while this originally was combined with the next chapter, I felt it deserved to stand on it's own. You'll see why.
Sometimes Clary regretted ever having been born. It sounded melodramatic, sure. If Jonathan were there, he would have mockingly joked about having thought she was past her angsty teenager phase. But, she figured she deserved a pass to be a little melodramatic considering she had survived the apocalypse for…
She had lost count. She used to keep count of the time that had passed since it all began. That was when the length since the apocalypse began meant something. Now, they were just another day. She supposed around the time she had met Jace was when she had begun to lose count. This didn't make her loss of structure any less disconcerting. The sun would fall, then night would come, and the sun would rise again in a cycle that existed purely to mock them. It will never be over, it says. You try to get through the days, but the days will never stop. The days will last long after you.
How many days had it been since Max had died? Clary no longer knew. Weeks? A month? More? The days all looked the same. They were often filled with quiet whispers and a bulbous weight sitting lodged upon their collective chests. She knew that not a long enough time had passed to make the reminder of his death no longer hurt. Was any time enough to heal wounds like those? It had gotten easier. On some days they had even managed to laugh without feeling guilty for feeling any joy when Max was no longer there to feel it too.
They had kept themselves busy, and Clary knew this was undoubtedly intentional. The busier they were, the more distracted they would be. Silence was the worst thing they could do. Silence allowed you to think. Thinking allowed you to remember. Remembering brought nothing good. Each day, they would pack up their supplies and keep moving until the light began to glow a bright gold, signaling that it was close to setting, and they would find a place to set up camp. Jace was still afraid of Valentine finding them again, she knew. That was why they kept moving. She suspected it also had something to do with a craving for a routine to focus on something other than the fact that there was now three and not four. That was why she had never protested each time he insisted on moving camp. She knew Valentine and his men were dead—she had heard their screams and seen their guts hit the floor—but she relented.
He needed this and, to be quite honest, he wasn't the only one. Clary allowed her eyes to flicker to Isabelle. After the girl had done what Clary had never been able to by killing her brother, Clary had made it a personal responsibility to watch her. Isabelle now had scars that would never truly heal. It would change her. But, unlike Clary, she wasn't alone. She felt personally repsonsible to make sure Isabelle didn't go down a path that would destroy her.
Because that was how the apocalypse worked. It wasn't the zombies that posed the most danger to survivors. They were just an additional complication within their lives. It was the people that could destroy you. You're never given a chance to mourn. When someone you love dies, the apocalypse doesn't give you a break. You still have to survive and fight and go on. More had died from not being able to handle it than from not being able to outrun a zombie. You get angry. Many become reckless. Or, you just give up entirely. Clary had managed to keep fighting after Jonathan's death because she had made a promise that she would keep fighting. There was no way of knowing what Isabelle would do.
Jace had said she was getting better. As Clary watched her, she wanted to agree with him. She no longer seemed as depressed as she had been since Max's death. Now, she gave off an impression of calm. It had been sudden, but it was there. She was fighting again. In fact, when they came across a zombie she was often the first to attack, sporting a bloodthirsty grin. More often than not she would jump into a fight and take the kill before Jace and Clary would even have time to assist. Yet, something nagged at Clary. So she continued to watch. Isabelle had snarled at her the last time she caught Clary observing her, spitting a nasty remark about how she wasn't about to drop dead if left alone for two seconds. Still, Clary kept on.
"You're going to drive both of you crazy if you keep on looking at her as if you're waiting to see her break down," Jace whispered to her that night as they settled around a campfire. Isabelle had offered them a halfhearted goodnight before retreating into her tent. Clary suspected it was more of an excuse to get away from Clary. She knew that Isabelle hadn't been sleeping more than a few hours a night, if even that, and the sun had barely set.
"She's hiding something," Clary muttered back, stubbornly gazing back at him. They had been growing closer over the course of the past few weeks. With Isabelle mostly keeping to herself, Jace and Clary had been leaning on each other for support. It was new, but not unpleasant. She found herself looking forward to the nights where everything was quiet and the two would just talk underneath a blanket of stars. It was the closest she had felt to before. Yet, something felt different about tonight.
"People react differently to death." His gaze grew softer. "Just because she is acting differently than you did after Jonathan doesn't mean she's hiding something. It just means she's dealing with things in her own way."
And that's what all this was about, wasn't it? She couldn't remember how many days it had been since Jonathan had died, but she remembered the aftermath she had faced. She wasn't strong then and she had never been on her own. There was no way of knowing the full reality of the apocalypse. She couldn't remember sleeping in the first few weeks. What she did remember were the mood swings. One moment she would be wallowing in self pity and hopelessness, the next she would flip to unadulterated rage. At the world, herself, Simon, it never really seemed to matter. She just felt it. Clary was trapped within a cage she had made all on her own, withdrawn from the world and all its survivors. She got reckless too, though how much of that was from mourning or just from her personality she couldn't be sure. Her life revolved around honoring her brother by keeping her promise and doing whatever it took to survive.
Clary remembered every detail of what she had gone through. The effects had never totally gone away, and still impacted her. And so, watching Isabelle's reaction vary so drastically sent off all kinds of red flags.
"Maybe you're right." The words felt like poison in her mouth. "Maybe I've been trying to force my own experience on her instead of letting her handle it in her own way."
Jace's eyes widened momentarily, as if surprised she had come to the conclusion without argument. Then, he smiled proudly.
"She just needs time," he said. "You were alone when you lost Jonathan. She isn't. It makes a difference. After my dad died, being in the community made it easier. They had even set up support groups to help people confront their loss. It'll take time, but she's strong."
Clary nodded absently. Her gaze shifted to the duffel bags of supplies at Jace's feet.
"How's inventory coming?"
Jace had insisted on being the one to count their supplies each night. He said it was because he liked the organization of it, but Clary had a suspicion that a part of him still worried about her running off with the supplies again. Jace shrugged, giving her a look that told her he knew that she was trying to shift the subject but he didn't actually mind.
"Fine, but—" he paused, frowning thoughtfully "—did you lose a handgun when we went up against those lame brains by the creek?"
"No. Why?"
He pursed his lips together in a fine line before breathing out. "Well, normally ammo is near impossible to keep track of so that's not exactly new, but we're also missing a .44 caliber handgun. It's weird because the hand guns are more of back ups to the rifles anyways so I don't know when it would have gone missing."
He shook his head, as if he could shake the bad thoughts away. "Maybe Isabelle has it. I'll check with her in the morning."
"I can ask her."
Jace gave her a look which silently asked: You sure? She nodded firmly.
"I want to apologize anyways about how I've been treating her like a live wire."
He nodded, seeming pleased with the decision before closing the zipper on the duffels and standing up.
"I'm going to get to bed. As always, you're free to join me if you hear something go bump in the night."
She rolled her eyes, used to this routine. The two had made a game out of the casual banter.
"It's not wanting to hear something go bump in the night that makes me stay as far away from your tent as possible."
He grinned at her widely. Through the glow of the fire, his chipped tooth shined brightly at her. "Ah, so you would want to be in my tent otherwise."
She scoffed, which only seemed to encourage him. "In your dreams."
Jace wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Oh, you know you will be."
It brought her back to her first night with him, before everything had changed so drastically. There was no Valentine, no herd, no Max. There were only two survivors who found each other in a world they had been abandoned by, taking a moment of pleasure in one another's company. Reality had been forced to return the morning after, when she had stolen his stuff, but that night was pure. And, just like that night, and those that had followed, she bid him a good night.
"Sleep well," he would always return with a slight smile.
And then, the two would finish, "we'll probably be dead by morning."
He departed then, leaving Clary alone with her thoughts. Moments would pass before she would recognize the reality of those words while standing to apologize to Isabelle. Somehow, she knew before opening the flap of the tent that Isabelle would not be inside. Nothing was out of place. There was nothing that would suggest anything was wrong. Isabelle could just be going for a walk, Jace would have told her. She's not a prisoner. But Clary saw Max's glasses lying askew on Isabelle's sleeping bag and the feeling of wrongness in her gut returned.
It was like electricity had set her body aflame. She burst from the tent, not allowing a moment to spare and forced her body forwards into the woods. Where would I go if I didn't want to be found, Clary questioned, because I didn't want to risk being interrupted, but where I would eventually want to be found?
She pushed her body faster. The pieces connected as she ran. Once more, an unwelcome reality forced itself upon her. She just had to hope she had enough time.
Clary found Isabelle by the river, furiously scribbling upon a piece of paper as tears ran down her face. Clary's eyes locked upon the missing handgun lying at the girl's side. She slowed to a stop, holding her hands up as a gesture of peace. Isabelle was startled, drawing her eyes wide and looking at Clary in a panic. Her hand twitched closer to the gun.
Clary swallowed.
"How'd you find me?" The words came out as an accusation. Instead of asking how, it seemed more like questioning why. Why would you find me? Why not just leave me be?
"Once I figured it out I thought of where I would go," Clary replied softly. She was doing all she could to not try to spook the girl in front of her. Her eyes narrowed at Clary, though they lacked energy. She just looked tired.
"And what is it that you think you've figured out?" Her words were filled with malice. Clary brushed it off. She recognized it for what it was: a defense mechanism.
"I've met a lot of people and heard a lot of stories of those who didn't make. While something about your behavior seemed off to me, it also seemed familiar. The sudden calmness, the withdrawl, the reckless behavior. Now I realize why."
"You don't know anything," she snarled.
"I know you want to die."
There was something about the words being said out loud that seemed to physically affect the girl. Saying them aloud made them real. It was no longer a silent plan. Now it was reality; a physical pressing weight against her. She flinched.
"What's wrong, Izzy? Does saying it out loud hurt? Does it make it harder to breathe?"
She gave a slow nod, her eyes on the ground. Clary's gaze softened. She wanted to be angry with her, to berate her for having the audacity to just give up. To tell her to stop being so weak. But, that wasn't true. She was in pain. She was hurting. Her world had collapsed right from under her. It wasn't her fault.
"I—I can't just keep going on pretending everything is okay when it isn't. Both of my brothers have left me. They—they made it bearable, but without them, there's just—what's the point in continuing alone? Nobody would care if I died." Her voice broke off at the end and a new wave of tears began pouring down her face. Clary slowly moved closer. Isabelle flinched, but didn't try to stop her. That was a good sign, at least. Clary went to her knees in front of Isabelle, but not so close as to spook her.
"People would care. Jace and I…we care about you. We're here for you. We can help you, no matter what you need, we are here for you. All you have to do is let us. " Clary looked in the girl's eyes, trying to prove she was telling the truth. They softened for a moment before freezing entirely.
"Oh and what would you know," she spat. "You act like you know everything. Like you're some expert on all things apocalypse. And, you know, for a while I believed it. I wanted to believe that we'd be safe with you, that you knew what you were doing, but you're so full of shit. How am I supposed to keep going when you can't even kill your brother? You may act strong, but you're weak."
Clary clenched her jaw tightly, trying to not let it show that the girl had struck a nerve. She knew she had failed by the way Isabelle smirked at her. Like she had won. Clary straightened, hardening herself.
"Yes, I'm weak. We all are, Isabelle. And that's okay, because even though I'm weak I've survived this long and I did it on my own," Isabelle recoiled at the ferocity in her tone but Clary wasn't done yet. "I may not know everything, but I do know how to survive. You don't have to pretend you're okay, but you have to keep going in spite of it. Now, if you want to die? If you think you can't keep going? Then go ahead. I won't let you put us in danger because you have a death wish."
Clary let out a breath, feeling some of her anger dissipate. "I won't force you to live if you can't keep going. After my brother died, I wanted to die too. But I knew I couldn't and it kept me going."
Isabelle swallowed roughly. Slowly, she brought her gaze up to meet Clary's. "What made you keep going?"
I thought you didn't care what I had to say, Clary wanted to respond, but thought against it. Now wasn't the time. Now wasn't about her or her own feelings. It was about the girl in front of her who was severely in pain.
Instead she responded, "When my brother died, he made me promise him that I would keep fighting. He told me that I had to survive. I couldn't kill him, so I honored him by keeping my promise. That gave me something to live for. You have to find that purpose that keeps you going, despite all the horrors that surround you."
Isabelle paused, looking from Clary to the gun that her fingers had unconsciously brushed over. She tightened her grip on the gun. Clary's throat grew tight. Please, her mind whispered. Without looking at her, Isabelle murmured so low she could barely hear her, "I don't want to die, I just don't want to live while I feel so dead inside."
Clary said nothing. Instead, she allowed the silence to engulf them, to bury them within its muffled grasp. And in the silence, Isabelle let out another shaky breath before continuing.
"I…I think I want to find my brother. Alec might still be out there and if he is, he's all I have left."
And slowly, Isabelle moved to give Clary the gun. Her hands shook violently. Clary quickly took the gun from her and set it carefully behind her before engulfing her in a hug. Isabelle immediately sunk into the embrace, burying her cheek in Clary's shoulder. Her chest quaked and Clary's shoulder was growing soaked, but she didn't care. She continued to hold onto Isabelle, allowing the girl to cry all she needed until night shifted into day.
"We can help you," Clary had promised at some point during the night.
She had whispered back a thank you. Clary knew that the gesture wasn't for offering to help find her brother, but for everything else that occurred that night. She responded with a small you're welcome. And as the night carried on, she couldn't help but think that somewhere out there, she liked to believe that Max and Jonathan were together. And they were proud.
I began writing on this site when I was twelve years old, but as I've grown up and found my way back here, I feel now I possess the age and maturity to go into semi-adult lecture mode within such a serious and important topic.
This chapter was not originally in my outline for this story, but evolved with the story. And I was somewhat hesitant to post this, as I know some of you reading this may be at an especially vulnerable time where the topic of suicide is especially pertinent. So, despite not wanting to give spoilers for this story and the fate of the characters, I will give you one: Isabelle lives. And though she is at rock bottom now, she will overcome and live a happy life.
And, while this story has been a bit depressing lately, the next chapter will make up for all of that. I promise.
Instead of doing my usual spiel about reviews and blah blah blah, I am going to say that if any of you ever need anyone to talk to, feel free to message me. There are also plenty of resources that I can send if you are interested.
Until next time,
-Anika
