Hey everyone! I'm formally known as dancerox1997. I recently decided to change my profile name as well as update my bio... after being MIA for well over a year. Some may know me from the TID (The Infernal Devices) section of FanFiction, some may not. If not, hey, I'm Caitlyn! :)

Anyway, so I wrote this about a year and a half ago but got wrapped up in finishing my TID FanFic Better Than Thyself, which I finally did at 36 chapters I believe. Then I got caught up in senior year and work and college and just didn't have time. I seem to have finally caught a break though and I have a decent amount of this typed up to update pretty frequently. :)

A little bit about the story: it's AU and all human. Kind of dark and twisted, I know, but I think a good story could come from this. Clary is still Clary (sort of) and I will try to keep the characters as OG as possible. Also, the language is somewhat explicit so I'll rate T/M just in case. No copyright or infringement intended here! All rights belong to Cassandra Clare.

This chapter I decided to combine the prologue with a portion of chapter 1. My next update will be the remainder of chapter 1 and then I will continue to post as normal! :) So please, read and review! See you at the end of the chapter and I hope you enjoy!

The Fighter

Prologue: Strength

June 15th, 2000

It started when I was six years old. And then I had turned seven years old when my life truly went downhill.

Little did I know the side effects, the nightmares, the post-traumatic stress, the emotional and physical instability that it would all bring to me; I didn't know how such trauma could effect my life.

Little did I know that I would turn from an innocent little girl to a mature young woman in the blink of an eye.

I sat outside a hospital room, fiddling with my old beat up yellow walkman. There was a dent on the side of it and my faded signature from a Sharpie I used years ago. It was dirty, as if it could never quite be rid of dirt smudges and sticky fingerprints.

I had over-the-ear headphones on my ears, blasting the Backstreet Boys's CD, Millenium, trying to ignore the name on the small black chalkboard beside the hospital door. The name, I knew, was a permanent fixture. In bold, white letters, as if taunting me, I read: JOCELYN FAIRCHILD.

"Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely" came on, and I had to tear my gaze from the name. The pain was unbearable. I stared down at my hands, bruised and bloodied from pounding relentlessly on neighbor's doors. My knees were scraped from falling, and my plain, navy skirt, knee-high socks, and white shirt were smeared with mud and blood. I had long since removed my Mary Jane-style black shoes, which were under the chair I occupied. My school uniform was uncomfortable after wearing it all day, making me fidget, and I was more than thankful that today was the last day of the school year.

Suddenly the door opened, but I didn't glance up. I didn't want to know what was happening inside. My aunt kneeled in front of me, gazing up into my green eyes. I tried to avert my gaze, but she reached out and grasped my chin with one hand. Her other hand pushed the headphones off my ears.

"Clary, your mother wants to see you," she whispered, searching my face with her big blue eyes for… something.

I tore my chin from her hold, looking anywhere but at her. "I don't want to, Aunt Amatis. I'm scared." She wasn't my real aunt. She and my Uncle Luke, her brother, were my mother's best friends.

She sighed. "I know, sweetheart. But she asked to see you. She's awake right now, for the first time in days."

My lip trembled, but I held my tears back and bit my lip. Nodding, I turned off my walkman and shoved it into my dirty backpack. Then, I leaned down and pulled my shoes on, one by one. Taking Aunt Amatis's arm for support, I let her lead me into my mother's hospital room.

I sucked in a deep breath and broke away from my aunt. The small crowd of family and friends, and I mean very small since my mother didn't associate with many people and didn't have much family, dispersed at my arrival. I finally got a clear view of my mother. I nearly cried out in surprise; my hand flew to cover my mouth, my eyes growing wide and frightened.

My mother's long red hair was gone. She was completely bald. Her skin was paler than usual, nearly transparent, and her green eyes were sunken in her skull. She had an oxygen tube stuck into her nose, and she was staring straight at me.

"Clar, it's me," she murmured.

I burst into tears then, rounding the bed to be by her. I threw my arms around her as sobs wracked my body. She held me, though she was thin and felt fragile beneath me. I briefly remembered, when she first started the chemotherapy, how sick she got. She couldn't hold any food down.

I swallowed and pulled away from her. Her eyes were shining with tears. I frowned, noticing the constant, rhythmic beeping from the machine next to her. I gaped at it, then realized that the beeping was her pulse.

"Clar, what happened to you?" she asked.

Broken from my reverie, I glanced down at myself. I was a mess. The reasoning behind it made me flinch, and I avoided her eyes. "Nothing, I—I just felt down," I lied.

Feebly, she retrieved a small pink glossy gift bag from the other side of the bed. "I wanted to give this to you. Happy birthday, baby," she rasped.

My eyes filled to the brim with tears again. "Mommy, you didn't have to get me a gift." Tears streamed steadily down my face.

Her eyes widened and she let out a cough. "Please take it, Clar. It's your seventh birthday today."

Reluctantly, I took the bag from her. "Thank you," I whispered.

"Don't open it until after," she said.

My head snapped up to glower at her. "What do you mean, 'after'?" I demanded,

She didn't answer my question. "I love you, Clarissa. Don't you ever forget it, okay? I love you with all my heart. You are my bright and shining star. You are fierce and beautiful and a warrior. You're my fighter."

I swallowed. "Momma, why are you saying all of this?" More silence from her. I looked around at everyone in the room frantically, but they all turned their heads to avoid my eyes. "Momma, what's going on?"

"Nothing, baby. It's all very overwhelming, sweetheart. I love you," she said again.

On the verge of another breakdown, I fixed my gaze on hers. "I love you, too, Momma."

She took hold of my hand. "I'm always with you. Promise to keep fighting the battle I couldn't."

I searched her eyes, looking for answers and solace, but only found remorse and a deep-seated pain. But I couldn't respond. I was scared it would be indefinite.

"Promise me!" she weakly cried, squeezing my hand.

I jumped, scared at her reaction to my silence. "I promise," I whispered.

She squeezed my hand again. "Good girl."

I smiled, then leaned down and kissed her briefly on the cheek. "Get better soon, Momma." She gave me one last quick squeeze on my hand for reassurance and a fleeting smile. Hope blossomed in my chest as I gave her one last hug and kiss, then turned and pushed through the small crowd to get out of the stifling room. I had to get out of there before I legitimately broke down.

As I reached the door, the beeping stopped its constant beat and lapsed into an adamant blare. I gasped when everyone sucked in a breath. I whirled, staring at the machine in wide-mouthed horror.

I was young, yes, but I knew what it meant.

It meant my mother was gone, torn from me by the cruel fate of cervical cancer.

My uncles cursed, rushing to me and lifting me by my arms. I thrashed, screaming at him to let me go. The room was in chaos; everyone was milling about, crying, collapsing into each other.

"No! Put me down! Let me see my mommy!" I wailed.

It all happened so fast, and next thing I knew, my uncle set me down in the hallway outside. His blue eyes blinked at me. His mouth moved; he was saying something, but I couldn't hear him. I just stared at him.

Finally, I heard him, but it was as if he spoke to me underwater. "Stay here, Clar. Don't leave, okay? Stay here," he was saying. He stood and strolled back into the room, shutting the door behind him.

I stood there, a lone child left in the hallway, covered in mud and blood and bruises, tangled red curls, and a puffy face from crying.

Without any warning, I shoved my mother's gift into my backpack, then took off running. I ran through the corridors of the hospital, outside into the hot, dry heat, and down the street. I raced toward home, my backpack slapping my back annoyingly.

We lived out in the country, in a small, dilapidated, dated home. It took me just over an hour to get home, and I desperately hoped that he wasn't there. But the house was empty and dark when I arrived, flushed and panting from such a long run. I felt more comfortable being in my house, with the stained tan carpet, old TV, and ripped upholstery on the couches. As I passed it, I noticed the kitchen was filthy; dishes were strewn everywhere and there was food left out. I shuddered. What had he done to this place?

I carefully treaded toward my room and slowly opened the door.

"There you are," his voice said from somewhere in my bedroom.

I froze. Oh no. I guess I wasn't alone after all…

I spun on my heel and raced back toward the front door, but he caught up to me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling my back against his chest. I could feel his breath on my ear. He reeked of stale cigarettes and alcohol. I fought the urge to gag and struggled against him.

"Oh, Clarissa, I thought I taught you better than to fight me?" he said, and I could sense his malicious smile distorting his lips.

I stopped struggling. "She's gone," I mumbled, suddenly feeling empty and devoid of emotion. "She's dead."

"All the better for you and me," he muttered. "Come, Clarissa." He picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. I screeched and punched his back as hard as I could, but my flesh was still bruised and tender. I did it anyway, ignoring the pain. He carried me back to my bedroom and dropped me on my bed. He stared at me through the darkness of my room, his dark eyes glistening with desire.

I whimpered as he approached me. There was nothing I could do to stop it now.

I lay naked, vulnerable, exposed, violated, in a ball on my bed, stifling my sobs in my pillow. My hair was tangled around me, snot and tears mingled on my oversensitive skin.

Jeez. Some seventh birthday.

My body hurt. I could not be more thankful that he had chosen to let me sleep alone tonight.

As the thought crossed my mind, I sat up in my bed, my yellow covers, now dirty from the dirt I treaded in from outside, pooled around my waist.

He's not in here. I can leave.

I scrambled out of bed, quietly opening my closet door and pulling out some clothes. I yanked them over my body, and shoved some into my backpack, along with an extra pair of shoes, socks, and underwear. I glanced nervously around my room, wondering if I needed anything else. I spotted my stuffed kitten resting on my bed, and I snatched it up, putting it in with my clothes. It was a gift from my mother when I was born.

My mother.

Her ghostly presence haunted me; I fought the urge to cry and removed any other sentimental items from my room, like pictures of her and I and jewelry she had left in my room.

Then I crawled across my bed and pushed on the window with all my remaining strength. It didn't give way easily, but when it did, it screeched. I froze, listening intently for any noise that I had woken him up. After a few moments of silence, I resumed my careful pushing until I could fit through it. I tossed my backpack out the window. I pulled myself up and over the sill, then swung down, landing heavily on my feet. Pain lanced through my ankles, but I ignored it and turned back to close the window, only to find I was too short to reach it.

Oh no.

But I didn't stay to find out what would happen when he found out I left.

Chapter 1: Later On

May 18th, 2014

I walked out of yet another interview, feeling utterly defeated. It seemed all hope was lost with this interview; I was under qualified by a long shot. I stumbled out of the building, frustrated by how cramped my feet felt in my black pumps and the restriction my charcoal pencil skirt caused.

Sighing, I paused under the awning, leaning against the building for support as I clumsily yanked the shoes off my feet. With heels in hand, I strolled to my car, parked by the curb, got in, then glanced longingly at the tall building before me.

It was huge and immaculate; all steel and glass on the exterior. On the inside, all the floors were tan granite, the desks a deep mahogany, and the walls a warm beige. It was manly and cozy, and the place I most wanted to work.

Needing to let off steam, I reached into my backseat and retrieved my yellow gym bag, placing it in my passenger seat. I started my car and headed toward the gym.

When I got there, I was given several respectable nods from members of the gym. Normally I didn't acknowledge many other people than my trainers and the few friends I had, but today was an exception from the shitty interview. I gave small smiles toward everyone I saw, causing people to stare.I wasn't a friendly person. Ever. I kept to myself and talked only when I needed to.

I headed straight to the locker room, agitated that I was still dressed in my charcoal suit. I changed quickly, into one of my usual work-out outfits: a pair of black spandex shorts, a black sports bra, and a black tank top, all made of Under Armour. I quickly and efficiently tied my sleek black tennis shoes. They weren't bulky; they were lightweight and slim, perfect for what I had in mind today.

I exited the locker room, heading straight toward the punching bags. I wrapped white tape around my knuckles, flexing my hands before I did a few warmup strikes against the tough material. Oh man, it felt good. The stress was already starting to leave my body. I rolled my shoulders back and bent my neck back and forth, trying to loosen my muscles.

All hell broke loose then, my anger bubbling to the surface before I could contain it. I lashed out with my fists, punching and swinging, then bringing my foot up and kicking. My body moved easily and fluently; years of training emblazoned in my mind and muscles. I felt every muscle in my body contract as I hit the punching bag relentlessly, over and over, my breathing accelerating, my body temperature rising.

I imagined his face on the punching bag. He was the punching bag. He was the reason I turned out the way I did. It was his fault that I had so much anger built up inside of me; the reason I didn't trust anyone, never let anyone in.

Memories floated in my head, brought unbidden by my anger.

The night before I was allowed to go see my mother, he had me cornered. It wasn't his first time taking advantage of me, but that didn't mean I didn't dread it. I remembered someone telling me, should I ever be placed in an uncomfortable situation with a man, to aim straight for the groin.

I thought that now as he closed in on me, dark, almost black eyes gleaming in the moonlight streaming through the window, and when he was close enough to twirl my hair around his fingers, I brought my knee up as hard as I could into his groin. He groaned and doubled over, his white-blonde hair tickling my face as he did so. I took the opportunity to take off and headed to my nearest neighbors. I stumbled a few times, scraping my hands and knees. My mother would be furious with me if she saw how dirty I was, but I wasn't thinking of her.

No. All I could think of was that I had to get away. I ran and ran, as fast and far as my little legs could take me. When I reached my neighbors' home, I pounded on their door, never ceasing my knocking. I cried and screamed for help.

But no one came.

So I ran again.

And repeated the process.

I grunted and gritted my teeth together.

No. This happened fourteen years ago.

I pictured my mother's face, the way she was the last time before she died, and suddenly I stopped fighting the punching bag. I froze, catching a glimpse of something, someone in the mirror I was facing. I whirled because I could swear it was my mother. When no one was standing behind me, I shook my head, blinking furiously.

I'm obviously imagining it because I just thought of her, duh, I told myself.

I resumed my work-out, but it was halfheartedly after what I'd seen. Eventually, I paused for a water break. I sat on one of the benches near the punching bags, wiping the back of my hand across my forehead. It came away wet with sweat.

Excellent. The more I sweat, the better.

"Lot of anger pent up?" A male voice asked from the left of where I sat.

I clenched my jaw. I wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone. But then again, when was I ever in the mood to talk to anyone? Besides, everyone knew I didn't socialize. So either I smiled at this person when I walked in, and he took it the wrong way, or he was new here.

I raised my head and pinned him with a glare. He stood, leaning against the wall a few feet from me. He wore black gym shorts and a grey muscle shirt, stuck to his chest from a patch of sweat, a white towel hanging around his neck. He had golden blonde hair, not long, but not exactly short either. A few waves tumbled over his forehead, damp with sweat. He raised his eyebrows expectantly at me, and I had the sudden urge to beat the shit out of him. Who was this man, and why the hell was he talking to me?

"Do I know you?" I snapped, then tipped my water bottle back and took a long sip from it.

"I'll take that as a yes. But no, we don't know each other," he replied calmly, smirking, dimples appearing adorable, as much as I hated to admit it.

I frowned. "Why, exactly, are you talking to me?"

He cocked an eyebrow at me. "Why not?"

I sighed, pushing myself up from the bench. I faced him. "Are you new to this gym?"

He nodded, amusement flickering in his golden-brown eyes. "Yeah, I just started coming here with my brother."

"Okay, well then there's one thing you need to remember: I don't talk to anyone here but my trainers and the few people I acquaint myself with," I told him.

He chuckled. "And how do you suppose you made those friends? I'm guessing it stemmed from… wow, get this, talking. Why not talk to me?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. He raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "I've made few exceptions. I'm not interested in making any more." With that, I turned and began striding purposefully toward the locker room, for once no longer in the mood to be there.

I almost stopped to give him an earful, but changed my mind. Instead, I kept walking, flipping him the bird without giving him so much as a second chance.

Hey everyone! So... what did you think? Let me know in a review! Like it? Follow/fave for more and I'll do my best to update frequently! Got suggestions? Review! Any thoughts at all, please review!

Anyway, I think that's about all for now. I have the other half of chapter 1 already done and chapter 2 done as well, so I'll update soon, if I hear that some readers want more! :)

Au revoir,

-Caitlyn