YayitsCaroline: I'm gonna take that as a compliment.
Crazypoptartdude: Ah, I would love to tell you but spoilers.
riley207: He is, poor guy. I agree.
ravenwalker321: thank you!
SuShadowhunter from Ravenclaw: Jace is wise. I like doing insights into Jace's minds- I even find it easier than Clary's, which you'll probably see in the terrible writing this chapter- because of his look at everything. I believe that my Jace in this is closer to the Jace in the book than my Jace in Bittersweet. His thought process and mind is different. Jace in this has suffered more, he's had to learn more and grow up quickly. He's very clever.
The yelling was so loud, even pushing her ears to her head didn't block it out. At least she felt more protected with her big brother's arms around her in the safety of his closet.
Her eyes stung and her vision blurred- a tell-tale sign that she was about to cry. She wouldn't thought. She was determined. Stubborn. Crying meant weakness. Crying caused pain. She was 7 years old; that's too old to be crying. Daddy made that clear. Johnny never cried because Johnny was strong. He wasn't weak. He was her big brother. Daddy and Johnny were her heroes. Even though daddy makes mommy cry.
Johnny was different to daddy. Johnny was nicer, he was careful in training, he didn't shout at her. Johnny didn't cry either. 7 year olds don't cry but daddy had made it very clear that 10 year olds definitely don't cry. Johnny was around more than daddy, too. She knew she could go to Johnny for help but daddy would tell her to grow up. Johnny looked just like daddy, which scared her a bit. On Johnny the white hair made him look handsome but on daddy it made him look even scarier. More mysterious.
The yelling stopped but they knew better than to leave their hiding place. Daddy would still be there. They knew better than to get in daddy's way when he was still angry. Daddy used the anger during training. He didn't seem to like them doing anything other than training. The little girl liked art. She liked to paint, mostly. Daddy didn't like that. He said it was "useless and pointless". Mommy liked to paint, too. That's why the girl liked to paint too, she thought. Mommy said that the girl was a very good artist for her age.
The girl often painted the moon. She liked the details. The craters, the differing colours- greys and whites. She good never seem to get it right, though. Not to her standards. The moon reminded her of her daddy. Although, she didn't think that that was why she liked to paint it. Daddy tried to make the girl and her brother better fighters- and cleverer, even without school- but he wasn't a good man. He was mean. He shouted and she didn't like that. He made mommy upset. Worst of all, he hurt Johnny. That made the girl angry and she hit daddy. She got locked up for 4 days for that, her fingers bleeding and raw at the end from clawing at the door. She really thought that daddy wouldn't ever let her out.
She wondered why daddy wasn't happy. He had a nice wife, money, a big house and good children who tried hard to make him happy. He always seemed unhappy. He always seemed angry. Sometimes he was angrier when he came home before he went out. He went out a lot and for a long time, too. She thought this was unfair. Her and her brother tried to make daddy proud but he never seemed to care.
After all this, the little girl came to the conclusion that if the moon was a person, it would be much kinder than her daddy. Even if it would look like him.
Red paint splattered the floor as Clary threw down her paint brush in frustration. She couldn't seem to get the right shade; something that happened a lot. Her concentration had forced her to sweat so she stripped off her paint covered tank top leaving her in a sports bra and leggings.
Wiping her hands she stood back to look at the painting. Valentine. Her father. She knew what she'd do after- burn it. She always did. It relieved some anger, symbolised something, maybe- she didn't know but she did it anyway. It was ironic, she thought, how he despised it when she painted yet here she was now painting him.
Turning her head to look at the other canvases across the room and caught a glimpse of her back in the mirror on the other side of the room. 3 long, horizontal whip scars from the man who was her father. It had only happened once but she remembered it vividly. She was 15 and he came home angrier than usual. He whipped her for no real reason whilst screaming about how he'd mark her as his own so she's be his even if she left.
The scars seemed to shine slightly in the moonlight, giving them quite a look of beauty. The moon has that effect. Clary didn't see them that way. They weren't battle wounds, they weren't beautiful or something to be proud of. They showed that she couldn't defend herself after those years of training. They weren't admirable. There were more, too. None quite as bad as that and none visible unless she took clothes off but they were definitely there. Courtesy of Valentine.
Clary wondered if he'd be proud. His daughter is running a gang. His son is in that gang. Valentine was somewhere out there but her and Jonathan left when they were 16. He was at home even more by then, she didn't think he noticed. Mom had left so he was probably expecting it. He never told them what he was training them for- it definitely wasn't self defence, she knew that much.
She grabbed a new canvas and started to paint again. She didn't know what she was painting, she just painted. It's what happened when she drew, as well. It turned out to be the moon. A blank moon with no craters. It didn't seem right. It was unnatural. It was at that point that Clary decided that an imperfect moon was a better moon.