...Angsty oneshot. Full of suicide and bullying. If you're one of those people who'd rather be ignorant of that sort of thing, I wouldn't suggest reading this. :P

is working again...Hopefully this time it stays working. :)

My Crazies...I'm working on it. Sorry to make you wait, but I'm going through some stuff, and I can't write in that universe when I'm like this: It screws with the story. :P

Universe: All human/OOC.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mortal Instruments. But neither do you, so HA!

Ages:

Jonathon: Ten

Clary: Sixteen

Isabelle: Sixteen

Kaelie: Sixteen

Aline: Sixteen

Jonathon

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When I was grown up, and old enough to move out of my parents' house, I was going to live in a one-story building.

And live alone.

I could hear my mother in her bedroom, trying to smother her sobs, but was unsuccessful.
Dad was still in shock, I think.
I was still in shock.
Sitting in the corner of my room, I stared at my bed like I used to when I was little; like it was haunted. The sanctuary for monsters to hide under.
There was droplets of scralet stains on the sheets, leaked from the cracks in the ceiling above me.
My sister's blood.
I closed my eyes, and swallowed, remembering...
My homework was laying in front of me on my mattress, taunting me with word problems that I was finding incredibly difficult to figure out.
Mom was downstairs, cooking supper; I could smell the faint stench of something burning, letting me know that Dad was too busy to cook us an edible meal.
Clary was upstairs, in her room. I paused my feet, which were kicking restlessly in the air. Speaking of Clary, she'd been acting really weird, lately. More...detatched? I'd heard that word used about somebody who acts distant, which was how she'd been acting, so I'm just going to say she was detatched.
Mom told me it was teenage horomones, when I asked her why Clary broke down and started crying when I told her that her legs were really skinny, like chicken legs.
I guess girls are just real sensitive like that.
But Clary had been upstairs in her room for a long time, which usually meant she was either drawing, or doing her homework.
Maybe she can help me with mine...I pushed myself off the mattress, sitting back on my heels. I shifted, about to get off the bed, when I heard a "drip".
I frowned, and looked up at my ceiling. There were cracks, because our house was really old, but Mom said that because I was on the first floor, they wouldn't worry about it because there wouldn't be any leaking.
Drip.
I strained my eyes, noticing a reddish liquid slowly falling from one of the cracks on my ceiling, splattering on the floor.
Drip.
I walked over and crouched in front of it. I recognized the red as blood, having skinned my knees dozens of times.
Drip.
Confusion pulled at me. Why would there be blood coming out of my ceiling? Clary's room was above mine, but it wasn't likely that she was hurt...
I should go check.
Drip.
I walked up the stairs, and knocked on Clary's door politely, knowing it aggravated her when I entered without knocking.
"Clary?"
No answer.
I turned the doorknob, and walked inside her orange-painted room.
Her easel was placed in front of her window, looking abandoned and sad. Her sketchbook laid open on her desk, colored pencils laying around it, looking discarded and worn out.
Something wasn't right.
"Cla-ary?"
Her bathroom door was shut, so maybe she was taking a bath? The bathroom part of her room was the space above my room, maybe she cut herself on some glass or somethin'...
I knocked again; I didn't want to see my sister naked.
Silence.
I covered my eyes, and opened the door.
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Drip.
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You know when you can sense another presence, like if there's someone in the room with you? Hear their breathing, hear their movements?
I felt the presence.
But I didn't hear the breathing.
I let my hand drop from my eyes.
My eyes widened, and I think I stopped breathing, for a second.
Why wasn't she moving?
Drip.
I walked over to the bathtub.
Clary was laying in there, her green eyes staring up at me. Except she wasn't looking at me. She was simply staring.
The water in the bath was still, not a single ripple.
She was wearing her clothes. Her hair was in its usual two braids.
Her left arm, however, was laying in the water, blood coming out of it and turning the clearness pink.
Her right arm was hanging out the side, a long slit sliced through her forearm, all the way down to her palm, and blood trickling and dripping to the tile floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I think I screamed.
Or maybe I was crying.
I don't really remember.
All I could see was Clary, my older sister, my artsy, sarcastic idol, looking like a doll. A bloody doll.
Drip.
Mom and Dad were suddenly there, in the bathroom, and they were screaming. And they were crying, too.
I was standing in the doorway, watching as they stood over Clary, not knowing what to do.
I began to tremble, and my teeth were chattering.
Drip.
Why did you do it, Clary?
Why did you do something this selfish?

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I blinked away the memory of what had happened thirty minutes ago, and glanced at the crumpled up sheet of paper that was lying next to me.
My note. From Clary.
Her explanation.

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Dear Jon,
I am so sorry.
I'm sorry I had to do this. Please don't ever attempt to copy what I've done, Mom and Dad need you to be alive for them to get over this.
I know you might be thinking how selfish I am, taking myself away from you like this.
I hope you never understand. And I say this, because it hurts like hell.
The emotions they make me feel. The thoughts they put in my head. The insecurities they put on my chest. The words they said to make me cry.
I can't handle that, anymore. I'm so sorry.
Tell Mom I'm sorry.
Tell Dad I'm sorry.
Don't let them get to you like I did. If you do, you may end up like me.
I know, it isn't worth it, killing myself. But I just...I couldn't do it, Jon. I can't go on, after all they put me through.
They made me realize that it wasn't killing myself that wasn't worth it, it was living.
I love you.
Be a good boy for Mom and Dad. For me.
I really am sorry.
Love,
Clary

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Months Earlier

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Clary

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"Hey, Clary."
I glanced up from my sketchpad, into the face of Isabelle, who looked like she was struggling not to burst out laughing.
"Hey." I tapped my pencil nervously on my desk; usually whenever she talked to me, it was never something nice.
"I like your shirt." Her lips folded, and her group of friends, who were standing behind her, broke into giggles. "And your shoes. They're cute." Her tone was genuine, but her expression was scornful.
I glanced down at my outfit; it was an over-sized white T-shirt with the Echelon symbol on it, black skinny's and my beige Crocks.
Than I glanced at her outfit; fitted blue tanktop and black shorts, boots coming up to her knees.
I don't think she meant what she just said.
I nodded, and smiled tightly, flushing with embarrassment. "Thank you," I whispered, looking back down.
Ignoring her snickering, I pressed down harder into the paper, biting my lip and swallowing. I don't care what she thinks about my looks, I tried to convince myself.
Why should I care? She doesn't even like me. I don't like her.
I do care, though.
I always care.

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I wasn't stupid.
I heard them.
I heard the giggling. The talking. The whispers.
I saw the looks they gave me when they knew I was looking.
Ignoring them never worked. They were always there.
Smirking at me scornfully.
Laughing at my clothes.
My hair.
Everything about me...they just didn't like.
They didn't like me.
I mean, I wasn't mean to them. I hardly ever spoke to them.
But it was like on the first day of school, they decided that they didn't like me, and made their feelings known as clear as possible.
I just didn't understand what it is that I did to make them hate me so much.

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"Clary."
I looked over at Aline Penhallow, who sat next to me in Biology II. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were glittering with malice; they were always full of something hateful when she was looking at me.
"Yeah?"
She leaned forward. "Are you a virgin?" She whispered.
I nodded, feeling a little uncomfortable. I'd never had sex, let alone a boyfriend. Nobody had been interested, and I wasn't about to make an idiot out of myself by asking anybody.
Aline grinned. "Do you wanna pop your cherry?"
I shook my head.
Her grin grew wider, like the Cheshire Cat. "Nobody wants to have sex with you, do they?"
I shrugged.
Aline giggled. "Why do you think that is?"
I wanted the floor to swallow me up. Or swallow her up, that would be nice too.
"I don't know."
"You should start with your clothes," she shrugged. "You have small boobs, but they sag, girl. It's kinda gross."
I crossed my arms instinctively, my face on fire.
Aline smirked, her goal accomplished. "Try a training bra. My little cousin wears one." Then she turned back to the front of the room, ignoring me for the rest of the class.

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I stood in front of the Girl's Bathroom mirror, staring at my boobs.
Did they really sag? Or was she just saying that?
I turned sideways.
Oh, my God. Are they supposed to look like that?
I bit my lip, and covered my breasts with my arms tightly, wishing I could curl into a little ball and just disappear.
Why did I let her get to me like that?
Why?
I took a shuddering breath, and willed myself to not cry over something so stupid. She's just saying that, I told myself. Your boobs look like boobs.
Sometimes I wished I believed myself as much as I believed other people.

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I could feel her blue eyes staring at me.
I turned a little; Kaelie was staring at me unabashedly, disgust written over her features.
As soon as she noticed me looking, she snapped loudly, "What're you lookin' at?"
I flinched, and quickly turned back around to the front, tucking my shoulders up at the sounds of the chuckles of our classmates.
She was staring at me again.
The temptation to turn around was like a nagging itch, but I didn't want her to yell at me again. I didn't like it when they yelled.
She began to giggle, still looking at me.
She's laughing at me.
Why is she laughing at me?
I slumped in my seat self-consciously, wondering what it was she was snickering at. Was it my hair this time? My clothes? My shoes? My boobs? I crossed my arms.
Kaelie pulled out her cell and snapped a picture of me, and began texting.
I swallowed, and pinched my arm, trying to distract myself from the humiliation and hurt I was feeling.
I just wish they'd leave me alone.

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Jon told me this morning, before school, that my legs looked like chicken legs.
I don't know why, but hearing that made me cry.
Even my own brother thought I was unattractive.
I knew my legs weren't shapely and pretty, like Kim Kardashian's or Isabelle Lightwood's, but I just...I don't know. When he said that, I felt sick.
I didn't have time to go upstairs and change, so I'd have to go to school, with my chicken-legs revealed.

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Their eyes immediately slid down to my exposed legs, and giggled hysterically, covering their mouths and pointing at me.
I want to die.
It was impossible to ignore them. You can't ignore someone who was torturing you mentally and emotionally. Because they were always there, in your mind, it was their voice telling you how ugly you looked, how thin, how cheap-looking.
I had no pride left, so instead of walking past them with my chin raised high like I didn't give a damn what they thought of me, I dragged my feet with my head down.
They kept laughing and whispering, knowing it was another battle that they had won.

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When I walked into the Girl's Locker Room on the first day of Gym, and I saw that the three of them were in there, I knew I was going to go off the deep end.
And I did.
Take off my shirt.
"Polka dots? Really? Doesn't she have enough of those on her legs and face?"
"Oh, gross. I told you her boobs sag."
"Do you think she's anorexic? There's no way she's naturally that skinny."
Take off my pants.
"And I thought she looked bad with clothes on."
"Her boobs aren't the only two that sag, apparently."
"And this is why she's still a virgin."
I'm surprised I didn't breakdown after that.

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Taunt after taunt.
Giggles at me.
Scornful looks.
Critiqual lectures on my looks.
I couldn't take it, anymore.

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"Why are you so mean to me?" I asked Isabelle in a whisper, as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, getting ready for Gym. "What did I ever do to you?"
She looked over at me. "Nobody likes you. Why are you asking me, when the whole school can give you an answer?"
Nausea curled in my stomach. "Nobody?"
Isabelle shook her head. "No offense, or anything. But nobody likes you."
"At all?"
She sighed, and put a hand on her hip. "Lets put it this way, and get it through your slow head. If you died, or disappeared, nobody would care. Nobody would miss you."
I swallowed, my throat feeling dry. "Are you saying I should just kill myself, basically?" My voice was soft, yet it still echoed in the locker room.
Isabelle gave me a look.
It was that same, scornful, judging look she was always giving me.
Eyes running up and down my body, criticizing me silently, but loudly at the same time.
Then she turned her back on me, and walked out of the room.
That was what made me come to my conclusion of what to do to stop them from hurting me.

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I kissed Mom on the cheek on my way up the stairs, and gave Jon a hug. This was going to hurt all of them, I knew. My peers may not care, but I knew my family would.
But I was hurting too. They probably wouldn't hurt as much as I was, everyday.
I didn't lock my door.
I walked into my bathroom, my pocket knife in my shaky hand.
Turned on the faucet.
I felt like I was on autopilot. Not controlling my movements.
I sat in the tub, the warm water making my muscles relax.
I took a deep breath. I'd left Jon a note that I'd written on the bus on the way home, on my bed.
I hope he understands I'm sorry, that I never wanted it to be like this.
I hope he never understands what it feels like to be tortured verbally and mentally.
I pulled out the pocket knife, and dug the blade into my skin.
When I heard the dripping, I knew it had begun.
I smiled, my eyes remaining open.
I was finally free.

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Present

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Jonathon

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I wrote back.
Silly, since it wasn't as if she was going to read it.
But I wanted to, anyway.

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Dear Clary,
I forgive you. A little.
I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry we didn't notice. I'm sorry you didn't feel like you could tell us anything.
I love you, too.
I'll be good. For you.
Love,
Jon

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Don't bully. It isn't nice. :(
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