No More, Please[South]

Sometimes, Riley wondered how he did it.

There was an art to being a complete basket case and still maintaining a pristine exterior, and he'd always considered himself an artist. But lately even he, self-proclaimed master of the art of pretending, had been coming across as a little too fragile, a little more jumpy than usual. And they all noticed. He saw it in everything from Keela's concerned glances to the way that even Antoinette, the consummate diva, had been stepping up to the plate over the last few days, occasionally fixing a meal or even walking the little ones to school without being asked.

After twelve years, they're finally starting to see me break.

Free time wasn't something he was used to, and what little he had was usually spent holed up in his room clutching a guitar like it was the last stable thing in the world (sometimes he was fairly certain that it was). But today he'd been left without any responsibilities; Avon volunteering to keep an eye on the younger kids and Antoinette throwing in that she'd keep everything else under control as the two of them had all but shoved him out the front door, all the while babbling about fresh air and relaxing and go take some time for yourself. He was caught between thinking they were up to something and wondering if he really appeared to be that unhinged. Where was triplet telepathy when he needed it? The concept was obviously nonexistent, since he could never seem to get the slightest inkling of what was going on in their heads.

The past few weeks had been hell, and he wasn't about to deny it. Between Aris having more mood-shift episodes than anyone could keep up with, Keela sneaking out to parties again, and Chyba developing his first crush, Riley had been juggling a million things all at once. And the stress had taken its toll, evident in the deep, barely-healed crimson gashes rent into the skin of his forearm, kept out of sight by the immaculate white of his shirtsleeves. After years of balancing the roles of mother and father and brother on his narrow (and increasingly weary) shoulders, years of intricately-woven secrets, of guilt that would never dissipate, he was beginning to feel like he was more scar tissue than anything else, inside and out.

He exhaled in a sharp huff of air, dark eyes turned skyward as he shuffled down the road. What his sisters had been thinking when they'd booted him out of the house was a complete mystery to him, what they even expected him to do while on his forced adventure even more of an enigma. Riley didn't go out. It was one of those things that up until now had been accepted as an unalienable fact, like the certainty that their mother cared about as much for all seven of her children as she did for the ground beneath her feet. Some things would never changed, so why were they trying to throw a monkey-wrench in his routine by inexplicably shouldering part of his burden and throwing him out of his comfort zone? Riley rolled his eyes again. Women.

It's funny but tragic how they think it's not too late to save me.

Riley had accepted the fact that he was an irreparable mess a long time ago, damaged and warped even though no one ever saw it, all those dark, horrid things kept under wraps by long sleeves and smiles that never reached his eyes. There was just something about losing a father followed by six years of physical and mental abuse at the hands of someone he should have been able to trust followed by premeditated murder that had done something to him, something that wasn't helped by the strain of being the sole parental figure to six other kids, acting in the stead of a dead father and a mother who might as well have been dead too, for all the attention she paid to the outside of her carefully-structured fantasy world.

But irreparable messes could still function, and he had proven it time and time again as he patched up scraped knees and helped with homework and put the struggles with his own demons on the backburner in favor of taking care of everyone else. Sure, some wouldn't call frequent self-mutilation and the fact that he still woke up screaming on a hefty portion of the nights when he could actually sleep "functioning," but he got the job done and managed to keep the Lightwoods living under some pretense of normalcy, which was more than anyone else had done so far. Really, he decided, he was rather indignant that Avon and Antoinette had wrested the family helm from his grasp, even if just for a day.

They don't understand. Without a purpose, there's nothing left of me.

He was so wrapped up in thought that he very nearly tripped over her, eyebrows raising in surprise when he finally took notice of the girl huddled on the ground a few feet away. Beyond the tortured expression and obvious state of distress she was really quite pretty, defined features and sunny blonde hair that fell over her face and pooled on the pavement beneath her. Maybe it was because she was a damsel in distress or maybe it was just because Riley didn't feel right unless he was taking care of somebody, but he closed the distance between himself and the girl and leaned over nervously, carefully laying a hand roughened from years of playing guitar and scrubbing at imagined bloodstains that never dissipated against her shoulder. "Hey. Um, are you okay?"

Why hello, stranger. You might be the first person I've ever seen who looks just as broken as I feel.

Riley was used to a lot of things, but being looked upon with fear wasn't one of them.

Being a six-two beanpole of a boy with a gentle disposition and no muscle tone to speak of, the idea of being intimidating had grown into such a ridiculous impossibility that the legitimate terror in the girl's eyes left him rather taken aback, dark eyes blinking in surprise as she actually flinched in accompaniment to her introductions, as if she expected him to lash out at her at the slightest provocation.

Amira Shipiro. A pretty name, Riley decided, and also distinctly familiar. He'd heard of this girl somewhere before, maybe at school or around one of his mother's parties, although he couldn't specifically place her face anywhere in his memory. In fact, he was fairly certain that he'd never seen the girl in his life. Many of the kids at school tended to bond over Career training, something that he had never taken part in (he got enough combat training just trying to dodge the blows and escape from the chokeholds over six years of unspoken horror), so he supposed that maybe Amira was one of those girls that could probably have him beaten to a spasming pulp in a few seconds' time, beauty turned deadly from years of finesse and polishing of fighting skills. But that didn't explain the innate sense of fragility that surrounded her, marking her as someone that had been strong once upon a time but had since lapsed into a much more vulnerable existence.

Don't worry. I won't hurt you, girl with pretty eyes and hidden secrets. I've been hurt enough to know how it feels.

"I can probably help you out if you're lost. I live just up the road, and if you keep going that way, it leads to a dead end," he said, a quiet smile playing at the corners of his lips as he took a few steps back in order to give Amira the space she looked like she desperately needed. Why on Earth did she seem so panicked? "I'm Riley, by the way. Riley Lightwood. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Amira." He was nothing if not the consummate gentleman.

He lapsed into a contemplative silence after the statement, chocolate-colored orbs studying her curiously, taking in the tiny details, the tawny undertones of her eyes, the multiple shades of gold cast by the midday sunlight in her hair. Amira was the type of girl that Riley might have written a song about if he ever had time to be interested in romance, all delicate features and fractured beauty that was somehow even more stunning in its brokenness.

I've always been fascinated by broken things. They tell such interesting stories, even though they're sad and don't work they way they used to. Like me. Like you.

Her skittish mannerisms intrigued him (he was reminded of himself on bad days, twitching noticeably at raised voices or quick, sharp movements), making him wonder how such blatant instability could manage to manifest itself in someone who looked like she should be the epitome of a gorgeous daughter of the First District living a charmed life. But then again, Riley looked for all the world to be a doting big brother with a stable home life and everything under control, when only the first of those three things was even remotely true. He knew better than anyone that appearances could be deceiving. So he knew better than to ask questions that could be construed as personal - he certainly wouldn't want anyone making an attempt to figure out how his mind worked, they'd be terrified by what they would find. And he supposed he owed Amira that same courtesy.

He just couldn't shake the feeling that they were similar somehow, although her fragility was laid bare for anyone who cared to see it while his was carefully masked behind easygoing affectation and delicately constructed pillars of white lies sullied into horrible, dark things over time that held the weight of the whole world on a teetering precipice that constantly threatened to crash down around him, that did crash sometimes, resulting in the ragged lacerations and scars that marked his gangly limbs like macabre brushstrokes on a once-innocent canvas.

"I was headed into town just now, actually. I could help you find your way back out to the main road if you want," he articulated in his typical quiet murmur, roughened fingers plucking absently at the hem of his shirt in a slightly nervous manner. Despite what everyone said about his infallible sweetness and penchant for making people smile, Riley really wasn't good with people. He just didn't have the time, so caught up in balancing the lives of his siblings and the weight of his own (quite considerable) issues in a frantic juggle that he'd never really learned how to gauge reactions, what might have been the right or wrong thing to say in certain situations. Amira seemed delicate in ever sense of the word, and he was more than a little uneasy that an offer for help might be seen as too forward (hell, she looked like she was terrified at a simple greeting, what would an invitation to accompany her to town do?). "I mean, we don't have to if you don't want to. You can pretty much get out of this neighborhood by going back the way you came, but if you wanted some company..."

He cursed himself for the awkwardness of it all. Here he stood, making casual conversation with a pretty girl who just happened to be curled up in the fetal position smack in the middle of the road, asking if she'd maybe want to go for a walk with him. Riley made an immediate resolution to brush up on his people skills. Exhaling in a heavy huff of air, he ran his fingers through his tousled curls, wondering if he could do anything right besides play guitar and master the art of pretending. Turning his attention back to Amira, he took a cautious few steps toward her, uncertainly extending his hand to help her up. "C'mon. I promise, I don't bite."

Broken things always look a little less sad when they're together. Walk with me. Maybe we can help each other feel a little more whole than we really are.

"You're not pathetic."

It was said with more conviction than Riley was usually capable of, his typical noncommittal mumbling solidified into something that was much more certain and confident than anything he had said in quite a long time. The strength of the statement surprised even him, prompting his eyes to widen and any other words that might have followed to fizzle in his throat. Since when had he been so outspoken about things that he had no business passing judgement on? He had known Amira for a grand total of about two minutes, and by all rights he shouldn't have been telling someone with whom he had so little experience what she was or was not. But still, there was that aura about her, that familiar, oddly beautiful brokenness that spoke to him without words, and he couldn't help but feel the weight of hopeful truth behind his statement.

At least you were strong once. I never was. If you're pathetic, what am I?

"Sometimes bad things happen to people and they're not equipped to deal with them. So you're struggling. That doesn't make you pathetic, Amira, it makes you human." It was a pep talk that Riley had given himself a thousand times, although he sincerely hoped it would have more pull with the golden-haired girl than it ever had with him. But, he assured himself, this was different. He lived in a world where struggling or faltering or breaking wasn't an option. As the sole parental figure to a family of six other children who had seen more than their share of strife, the only thing keeping everything behind the pristine walls of the Lightwood home from tumbling into a shattered mess (who was he kidding? They already were, he was just the too-weak glue barely holding the pieces together), anything other than perfect homeostasis, even if only on the outside, wasn't an option. That wasn't the case for most people. Most people could buckle under the weight of the world every once in a while and still be able to get back up and dust themselves off, just like Amira had done a few seconds ago. Riley knew better than to assume that he could have that luxury.

If I get knocked down, I'll never make it to my feet again.

Pushed back into his usual awkward mannerisms by the shock of the rare outburst of confidence, Riley fixed his eyes on the pavement, jamming his hands into his pockets before chancing a careful glance back up at Amira. "Um… I just thought that maybe… I don't know, I guess it wasn't really my place to say that, sorry. Come on, we'll just walk until you find somewhere that looks familiar."

He took a few tentative steps up the street, lanky frame and gangly limbs falling into their usual ungainly gait. It was rather warm out, and Riley could already feel the sun's rays pummeling him mercilessly. It wasn't a good day to be wearing a long-sleeved shirt. But really, it wasn't like he had a choice. He couldn't exactly walk around in a tee shirt and shorts when the evidence of the darkest parts of him were scrawled out in pink-white lattices all over spindly limbs, each line attached to a story about a time when he'd wanted to break but forced himself to hold it together for just a bit longer. There were times when he wondered when the cuts would stop bringing him back from the edge of hysteria, leaving him bleeding on the outside and irreparably shattered on the inside with no hope of ever being functional again. It was bound to happen someday, he reasoned. Coping mechanisms didn't work forever, and he could only continue for so long until his bodysouleverything was nothing but scar tissue.

"We're not so different, you know. You and I," he said, barely above a whisper, looking at Amira with the caution with which one might approach a wounded animal. "I know what it's like to have things go sour with your family. My dad died when I was six, and then Mom married his brother. So my uncle was my stepfather. Sick, huh? And he was… Well, he did to me what your dad did to you, only it wasn't because of training or anything. He just thought it was fun. He did stuff to my little brother and sisters, too."

He paused, wondering why he was spilling his life story to a girl he barely knew. Almost no one knew about the abuse that Riley and his siblings had endured at Xavier Lightwood's hands. Hell, their own mother didn't know. But then again, Willow Lightwood chose to remain blissfully ignorant, ignoring anything that could remind her of the tragedy she had endured, including her own children. In any case, Amira had told him things that wouldn't generally be discussed with a stranger. Riley guessed he felt compelled to return the favor, although swapping sob stories with a mentally unstable ex-career didn't really seem like the most pleasant thing he could be doing at the moment. The hands in his pockets itched to be dancing along the strings of a guitar, a reflex he often experienced when he felt uncomfortable about something. It was easier to face the world hiding behind the instrument, covering up his insecurities with intricate melodies and chords that sometimes sounded full enough to make him believe for the briefest moment that maybe he wasn't quite so empty. "But he died four years ago."

You're not the monster here, Amira. Did you know that you're walking with a murderer?

"I'm pretty much everyone's parent now. Mom was in her own world after my dad died, and ever since she lost another husband she's been pretty much useless. She got remarried, but she just acts like we don't exist. And six kids aren't going to take care of themselves." Riley shrugged slightly, burying his hands even further into his pockets as chocolate orbs slid over to meet their tawny counterparts, trying to look past all those pretty shards of shattered soul and imagine what she had been when she was whole. "I'm not trying to whine or anything. But it's hard. I struggle. I feel like I'm going crazy sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. But if I was this emotionless statue through all of it, I wouldn't be human, you know? I guess what I'm trying to say is that you shouldn't put yourself down for feeling. You're not weak, or pathetic, or any of those things. You're a stronger person because you survived all of that."

Tearing his eyes away from Amira's features, he discovered that he pair of them had already made their way back to the main stretch of road that led to the heart of the District. After hearing the amber-eyed girl's story, he had remembered why her name sounded so familiar. It was usually spoken with derision, though, disgust marring the smooth flow of otherwise beautiful words. People at school talked, and although he rarely listened, he must have tuned in enough at some point or another to hear the story of the daughter of the District's cruelest trainer and what a disgrace she had become. The monster that people described didn't seem to match up with the frail-looking thing next to him, with her fractured heart and halting movements. But then again, misjudging people was what teenagers tended to do best. He was popular, well-liked even if only because he was the consummate doormat and would let people walk all over him as long as it made them happy. If the high school social elite would allow someone who was as much of a mess as him into their midst, then surely they must be wrong about a lot of things. He was confident that one of the things they were wrong about was Amira Shipiro. Riley turned back to her and smiled softly, nodding towards the outlines of shops and houses in the distance. "Shall we? Oh, and I don't know if it means anything, but I don't believe all that stuff people say about you. Really. I don't think you're a bad person or anything."

You're ashamed that you've broken for everyone to see. Do you know how much I envy you?