My Wish For You

Disclaimer: No matter what goes on inside my head, everything except for the plot line (duh!) belongs to the charming Miss Cassandra Clare!

Summary: Clary Fray lives encapsulated in hate. After her mother was killed in a mugging gone wrong, Valentine, Clary's father, has needed a release, and has become violently abusive. Clary is apathetic, and just holding on, but when the boy next door sees something he shouldn't have, Clary's entire life spins out of control. All Human. Rated M for violence, possibly rape. Lots of fluff and maybe a small citrus. Constructive criticism is always appreciated!

Chapter One: Morbid Acceptance

Hi. My name is Clarissa Fray, but most people just call me Clary. I like being called Clary. Have you ever felt like an inanimate object? Well don't think I'm crazy, but sometimes I do. Almost everyday in fact. I feel like a ship, who after just barely surviving a great accident, is forgotten about. Broken and lost, it is left to float aimlessly, battling the huge waves that threaten to engulf it. And somehow, I feel like that ship is me.

It all started that beautiful summer's night, three years ago. It was all my fault, really, and I haven't yet forgiven myself for it. I don't expect that I ever will. Anyways, I had a broken ankle from a bad fall while playing soccer, and I was just lounging around the house, revelling in ordering my mom and dad around, telling them to get me this and that. Well, it was a June evening, and at about eleven o'clock, I decided that I desperately needed a monster energy drink to keep me awake so that I could finish watching my movie.

It was because of this selfish urge that my mother went to the little corner store about four blocks away from our house. The thing was, she never actually made it there. About two blocks down, they found her body. Bloodied and broken. Her purse was gone, and due to the results of the autopsy, they decided that it was definitely some form of gang activity.

I cried that night. A lot. And so did my father. We both just sat there in each other's arms, mourning my mother's loss. That was one of the last times that my father touched me without violence. The next day, he was still kind and caring, but I could see a change in his face, a hardening of his features that suggested something more than just grief. Anger, hatred, pain. At first it confused me, but I began to comprehend as I watched the transformation take place. The only emotions I ever saw on his face were those same three, and occasionally a sneering, twisted pleasure as his fist connected with the side of my head.

At first there wasn't any violence at all. Valentine, my father, was actually very kind those first few days. And then slowly the kindness morphed. One day, I had forgotten about the ice cubes resting on my swollen ankle, and they melted on to our hardwood floor, creating water stains that would probably never fade. He yelled at me for that one. Cruel, harsh words.


Oh shit. All over the floor.

"Um… Daddy? Could you come give me a hand with this? My ice cubes kind of melted," I said amusedly.

It was when he walked in that I saw the strong presence of anger, and became just a little bit afraid.

"You bitch! All over the floor! Clean it up you worthless thing!" he screamed at me.

I was horrified. Never had my sweet little daddy talked to me like that. But nonetheless, I didn't want it to happen again, so I bent down and attempted to clean up as best I could.

End Of Flashback

From there it simply escalated. Before I knew it, the screaming turned in to slaps and kicks. Punches and hits. Now though, I'm used to it. After three years of mental and physical abuse, I can hold it together. After each beating, I can patch myself up well enough, and put on enough makeup to go to school. Usually. Sometimes, it's so bad that I can't walk. Since Valentine won't let me go to the hospital for obvious reasons, if that's the case I have to stay home. He usually would never allow this, but he grudgingly will if I'm bad enough that he fears exposure.

Today though, I wouldn't have that luxury. My beating last night hadn't been so bad, and nothing was broken. I looked over my body in the bathroom mirror, examining myself. I had just woken up, so my frizzy red hair was even more unruly than usual. I sighed and yanked a brush through it. It calmed down a bit, but I didn't have time for more.

Next I splashed my face with some cool water, hoping to alleviate the tiredness that accumulates when you go to bed at around midnight and wake up at four o'clock every single morning. My emerald green eyes stared beseechingly back at me from the mirror. I remember when they used to sparkle and dance with mirth, but since my mother died, they have been dull and unresponsive. I used to get compliments on them all the time, but not since 'it' happened. I probably never will again.

I sighed and looked back at my self. I looked over my injuries. I had bruise-coloured hand prints circling my upper arms, and another handprint on my left cheek from last night. This is not to mention all of the little and big cuts and scrapes that are all over my body.

Oh God. I'm so freaking ugly. Valentine and all the girls at school have been telling me for years, but I didn't start believing them until about a year ago. I then I saw it. They were so right. My hair was too frizzy, my eyes dull and lifeless, and my skin was pale and washed out. Ewwww. I thought. I just hurt to look at myself.

I quickly pulled on a pair of old grey sweats, and a huge baggy NYD sweatshirt. This was all I could really wear anymore. Anything else would showcase the tortured state of my body. That is something that I definitely don't want to do. I'm already considered a freak as it is, so why be more of one if I can help it?

The shrill buzzing of my father's alarm clock interrupted my morbid inner musings. Crap! If he's downstairs and breakfast is not on the table, ohhh I'm going to be in so much trouble!

I shuffled down the stairs as fast as my broken body could manage, and had a bowl of warmed oatmeal and a frosty glass of orange juice on the table in record time. I breathed a sigh of relief as he came down the stairs. And he scowled at me as he entered the kitchen. I was never allowed to eat with him.

I sighed as the inevitable happened. He did it nearly every morning, probably hoping he could use it as a reason to punish me. I watched as the nearly empty plastic bowl clattered to the floor, splashing the leftover oatmeal all over the floor.

"Clean it up bitch, or there'll be hell to pay," he snarled.

I didn't answer. I just watched as he left the kitchen and slammed the front door.

Well. Welcome to the joyful life of Clary Fray.