So! Hey there! Long time no see. I'm back, and I come bearing a new story. One I've been working on all winter. After the half-assed attempts while I was busy with real life basically flopped, I took time off writing to work on everything, plus finishing more of my novel. I now have time for fanfiction once more!

Most of this story has already been written, so updates shall be nice and regular unless I have a chapter of Ascension to write!

There are adult situation's aka naked times, because come on… what do you guys read fanfiction for, really? Also, there are some dark themes and abuse.

And Happy New Year for tomorrow night! 2014! Jeez, it feels like this time yesterday, it was New Years Eve 2012. Anyway, I'm waffling, I hope you enjoy!

The Salvation of Clary Morgenstern

The busker set up next to the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He'd sit there on his faded checkered red and green quilt, legs crossed and his tan acoustic guitar in his hands. Golden hair would be falling into his shadowed eyes as he sung. Today's song was one I knew- Switchfoot's '24.' His fingers were quick, agile as he plucked at the strings, creating the most beautiful of melodies.

"God, he's so amazing," a girl in front of me giggled to her friend. The crowds that gathered to hear the young man play usually grew to a considerable size. I had to agree with them; ever since I'd first heard him two years ago when I had been seventeen, he had entranced me. He had the voice of an angel, and I didn't even know his name.

He finished 24 and the crowd applauded and cheered. The boy smiled at them briefly, eyes flashing to random faces before looking down and starting up a new song. I wished I could go up and say hello. Tell him how amazing his voice was. But confidence was never my strong point.

I kept to the back of the crowd, thankful for my small stature. Every week I came without fail to hear him sing his newest song. It would never be the same songs, always new ones. Why did I come? It was peaceful, really. In my world of chaos, peace was rare.

When the last song ended, the crowd literally rushed forward to put money into the black leather cowboy hat sitting next to him. He never asked for money. Never. Not once had he held out the hat asking if anyone could spare any change. The boy didn't look homeless, but there was an air of unkemptness about him. He didn't come from a privileged family like I did, that was for sure. And it made me sad.

I kept low as I slipped the pair of fifties into the hat, making sure he didn't see me. Quite a few times I had slipped bills that ranged from ten to fifty into his hat with no regrets. He deserved them.

"How were art lessons?" my mother asked as I walked into the house. If you'd call a dirty great mansion a simple house. "It was fine" I reply, taking off my coat and hanging it up on the coat rack. I never did like it when the maids asked for my coat as soon as I walked in, then proceeded to take it off me. It made me feel like I was superior to them when I was far, far from it. "Nothing new."

Mom nodded. She turned back to the vase of flowers she was pruning, humming softly as she snipped a dead roses head off. Since when was she into floristry?

"Where's dad?" I asked now, setting my bag down upon the floor. Mom stared at it for a little too long, and I knew why- untidiness. In her art studio, she was utterly and completely messy. But out here? Not a hair out of place. I sighed internally and hung it up along with my coat.

"Valentine is attending to business," mom told me, her lips a thin line. She wasn't happy about something. "Jonathan has gotten himself into a spot of, ah, bother."

I snorted harshly. "What's new then?"

Mom sighed, setting down her pruning shears. The entrance hall smelled like dead roses now. It was disgustingly cloying. "I know you don't like your brother, Clary, but he's still your brother."

I wanted to shout at her, tell her all the terrible things that man had done… but I already had. And no one had believed me. Not a single word. There was no point in trying anymore. I turned around and held my head high, walking up the stairs and into my room. There was a collection of Manga comics hidden underneath the wardrobe that my father would sorely be disgusted at. Everything disgusted him, really. He was an exceptionally hard man to please.

The house was peaceful and quiet until my father arrived home, and in a blinding rage from the sound of it. I could hear the shatter of the vase in the entrance hall all the way up in my bedroom. I hurriedly shoved the comic under my dark orange pillow just in case he decided to come up and start a fight over anything and everything. It was known to happen.

"How dare they accuse our son of such… disgusting, loathsome and foul acts! We did not raise him like that. We're taking him out of that academy and putting him into that one I picked out. I told you Jocelyn- we should have sent him to that one."

Jonathan was the main topic once more. How my parents could think the sun shone out of his ass, I would never know. The mere thought of him maybe coming home filled me with dread, but that was exactly what he was trying to do since being sent away to numerous prestigious academies. I vaguely wondered what he'd done this time, but I didn't want to imagine; those kind of thoughts made me shiver in horror and fear, and I couldn't help it. Jonathan had that effect on me.

"Clarissa! Get down here now!"

I wondered how long it would be.

With a light sigh I rose to my feet, making sure my clothes were straight and my hair was neat. Dad was all about perfection these days. A single hair out of place and he'd be onto it like a squirrel a nut.

Valentine Morgenstern, my father, was still in the entrance hall when I descended the stairs. He was dressed in his sharp black suit with a severe expression. He was holding something small and brown in his hand. My purse.

With my heart in my mouth, I stepped over the shards of glass littering the floor and walked towards him.

"Where is the hundred dollars I gave you this morning?" he growls as soon as I stop before him, back straight and hands behind it. He shakes my bag, eyes as cold as the night sky. "Well?" he growls, shaking it again for added effect.

My blood ran cold. How foolish had I been, leaving my bag and purse where my father could find it?

"Answer me" he snarls, causing me to very nearly whimper. I clear my throat. "I went to art class. I had to buy new supplies."

My father's coal eyes narrow. "You are lying, Clarissa. And how do I know you're lying?"

"I don't know."

"Father."

"Father. I don't know, Father."

"Because-" my father leaned forward. "I got a call from your teacher today. To ask why you weren't in attendance. Now… where is that money?"

I can't lie. "I gave it to a busker."

My father didn't blink as he said slowly "you gave it to a busker? A busker?"

"He was an amazing singer" I added quietly. My father is in the music business. Maybe he would understand.

"A busker?! One hundred dollars?!"

Or maybe not.

"You stupid, stupid bitch!" my father yelled, his hair coming out of its usually slicked back do. The next moment my cheek was stinging from where his hand had come into contact with it. I raised a hand to it, tears burning in my eyes. I refused to meet his eyes as he leaned down, but when his fingers took my chin and forced me to look up, I had no choice. His expression was livid as he told me in a low voice, "if you ever give your money to people like them again, you will never receive another penny. Is that understood, Clarissa?"

I nodded, muttering "yes Father."

"Speak up."

"Yes Father. I understand. I'm sorry… I won't do it again."

A pause and my father let me go, gazing at me as if I was some disgusting bug he wanted to squash. He'd always preferred Jonathan to me. Everyone knew that. I knew that.

"Go and sort your cheek out," my father now demands. "I don't want to see a hint of red on your cheek at dinnertime. Sometimes I wonder why I have a daughter in the first place."

I nodded and turned away, swallowing back tears the entire time.

On Thursday, the busker played a song I didn't know, but it was beautiful. I came at four in the afternoon as per usual, then left at about half past. I didn't hang around all day, although I wished I could.

He was wearing a dark green jumper today and there was a tiny hole in a spot next to the right shoulder. It made him real, not fake like the people I was used to hanging around with at school.

I didn't have any money for him this time. Father had confiscated all of it until further notice. It was a miracle I had even been able to leave the house. But my father… he didn't care. I was the spare Morgenstern, the one that didn't matter. My parents would never love me. Never had loved me.

As the young man played another song, I stared with tears burning in my eyes once more. So many years of abuse and how could I stop it? I could move out, but then I had nowhere to go. If I tried to leave, my father would cut any money I had off instantly at the snap of his fingers. I'd be living on the streets, living in some rundown dump. Maybe like the busker before me.

I was so deep in thought I never noticed that the song had finished, that the crowd was thinning.

"Are you ever going to say Hello? Or are you just going to carry on trying to hide from me while slipping fifties into my hat?"

The voice took me by surprise and I jolted backwards, eyes flying wide at the sight of the busker stood with his guitar in one hand. And he was looking directly at me with a grin on his face. He'd known all this time.

"I'm sorry-" I spluttered out, turning around and fleeing before he could say another word. I couldn't let my escape, the one place I found peace, get tainted also.

"Hey-!" he called after me, but I carried on running. I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.

"You know, you can move in with me anytime you want," Simon told me pretty much everytime I saw him. And today was no exception. He tapped his pen on the surface of the table, eyes on my cheek. Even though it was a week later, you could still see where my father had hit me. He'd hit me again since purely because I hadn't been able to cover up the red of his first hit.

"I wish, but you know I can't" I laughed, turning my gaze from my painting to my best friend. "I wish I could. But I can't."

"Bullshit. You're scared."

"Of course I'm scared, Simon," I told him quietly, looking away. It disgusted me, the fact I was scared of my own family and there was nothing I could do to stop it. What a coward I was. "He's twice my size and hell, his hands are pretty much the size of my head."

"Go to the police then."

I flashed him a skeptic look. "Oh yeah," I told him slowly. "Yeah, they'll believe the daughter of the richest man in New York, but not him? You know the lies he'd spin. It's not worth it." I'm not worth it.

Simon's expression fell at my words, the glasses perched before his eyes slipping down his nose. They'd end up falling off sooner or later. As usual. "Clary, please. You can't put up with this forever. What happened to free will? And, like… your rights? Famous or not, you're his daughter and it's disgusting the way he treats you. He and that animal for a brother."

Simon didn't know all the stories of Jonathan, and I was glad- if he knew, he'd kill him. Without hesitation. My brother was a bad, bad man, and everyone knew it. They must. No one could be that blind.

"Look Simon… I'm going to hold my head up high, graduate this place and move away. I swear it. I'll move to England, or Africa. Somewhere far, far away from him. Far away from them all. Mom is bad enough just turning a blind eye to everything." She probably had no choice. Her husband was the devil incarnate and her son was a demon.

"You're not just saying that to placate me, are you?" Simon asked in a warning voice. I shook my head, assuring him with "I mean it Simon. I need to get out of that place, and sooner rather than later."

"Yeah. Or you're going to die."

"Now you're exaggerating."

Simon's eyes were sad. "The thing is… I'm not. I know you Clary, and this hard exterior you have? One day it will crumble down completely. It will crash down around you, and you will jump."

I knew what he meant by 'jump.' He meant it literally. Like, Sherlock style off the nearest building.

Giving up with conversation with Simon, I carried on painting. It was a picture of the white cliffs of Dover. That was in England. Maybe one day… I would see them.

When the day ended, I didn't hover around long enough to see the busker. I was scared he'd talk to me again. Acknowledge my stalker tendencies. Or, worse, recognize who I was.

I did have my own car though, that was a relief. Occasionally, my father would confiscate it. What was he worried about? That I was going to run away? If I could… I would have done it years ago. My secondhand vintage sky blue Beetle was a far cry from Jonathan's brand new blood red Ferraris that were currently sat in the garage. He hadn't been allowed to take one with him to AlicanteAcademy, because he could and would break out and drive right back home.

My Beetle, Annie, was a little rusted around the rims, but other than that, she was brand new. My only source of freedom. Borrowed freedom.

The drive back home didn't take long, and when I walked in and hung my coat up, I vanished upstairs and grabbed a book to read. What else was there to do? Everything felt worthless and utterly irrelevant.

Like Simon suspected, I crashed. And crashed hard. For next to two months, I grew more and more reclusive to the point I just didn't go outside past my room anymore. I would lie there curled up in bed, sleeping through the day and waking up sometimes at night. My father ignored me, but my mother grew more and more worried. When the doctor was finally called, he confirmed her suspicions that I was heavily depressed. Mom sat with me, stroking back my hair for almost half an hour. I could see through slitted eyes that her face wasn't wearing a mask for once, but truly her. And she was as pale as death in her worry.

"Oh, Clary," she sighed as she pressed a kiss to my forehead. "I'm sorry."

On the day of the third month since I dropped out of school, my father finally remembered that I existed.

"Okay Clarissa, I've had enough. Up. Now. No more of this childish nonsense! The neighbors are talking and people are really noticing your silly little act" he snarled as he ripped the covers off me as I lay in bed debating whether or not I should try and get up for something to eat. My father yanked open the curtains and let the light stream in, burning my eyes. I sat up and told him quietly "I'm not playing."

"Get up. Now."

I swelled in rage, eyes burning with angry tears as I stared at him. "No."

"What do you mean no?"

"I'm done with being treated like fucking shit!" I yelled at him, clambering to my feet with rage propelling me forward. Not anymore. Never again was he treating me like dirt. "You treat me as if I am a stranger in my own home! As if I am a pet, not a person! No, wait… pets don't get treated as bad as me!"

My father glared, his black tie coming undone. It was the first time I'd ever seen him look anything but perfect in his expensive Armani suit. As if he were the devils advocate, he would only wear the finest cuts that were perfectly tailored to fit his broad shoulders.

"I feed you. I clothe you," he started quietly, eyes narrowing to slits. "I give you money and a home. A family."

I scoffed in disbelief, standing my ground. "We have never been a family. And what money? You give it to me, then hit me for actually spending it."

His lip curled up at the corner into a sneer. "Get out then, if that's how you feel. Go on- I won't stop you. Come on, go pack. I'm waiting. I'll even throw in some money for gas for that old banger of a car of yours."

No money or not, I had to get out. It was now or never. Now. Before my newfound confidence waned.

My father watched in amusement as I packed whatever clothes I could get my hands on, shoving them into the case haphazardly along with my brush and other essentials. I made sure to shove my box of pencils in along with my new sketchpad. My drawings were my diary. No words needed to be spoken, just swirls of color. A picture could describe so much more than words at times.

He followed me around the entire time I packed, occasionally chuckling. I knew what he wanted, what he was waiting for- for me to turn around, drop the case and apologize.

Not this time.

Valentine Morgenstern actually looked faintly surprised as he handed over the fifty dollar bill. Money for gas. It would last me a little while, but not forever. Huh, I bet my father had a finger hovering over the button to the bank already to cancel my card.

But I had a plan.

When I shoved my case into the trunk of my car and drove off without a look back, I made for the nearest bank. There, I took out ten grand. The entire time, I smiled as if it was my birthday- my father wouldn't expect this. Never. What a nasty shock he was going to get when he found out he was down ten thousand. As soon as I had the money, I went to another bank and announced I wanted to open an account. One that was in my own name, and mine alone. That no one else had connections to. After signing paperwork and sliding across a few notes to allow them to open my account and give me the card there and then, the money was safe and secure.

Dad was going to disown me now for sure. And the best part? I didn't care.

He had made a terrible mistake in underestimating me. I was of his blood, after all. Deep down, the Morgenstern fire raged within me. And right now, it was burning bright.

It was Thursday and almost four in the afternoon and I had a mind to be somewhere I hadn't been for three months. After parking up Annie, I wandered into Central Park.

He'd already started playing by the time I arrived. The crowd had already built, watching him with rapt expressions. When he finished, they applauded as per usual and paid up. Then, slowly, they dispersed and I was left stood watching the young man kneel next to his takings, counting it out carefully. I cleared my throat and he instantly looked up. I'd never seen his eyes in all the time I'd watched him, but now that they were boring into my own, I could see that they were the most curious shade of gold. And they didn't look like contacts.

He straightened up, climbing to his feet with his eyes fixed on me the entire time. "I was wondering if you'd ever come back," he told me in a light, amused voice. "Takings dropped by more than fifty percent when you stopped coming.

"Sorry," I muttered, breaking eye contact.

"What?" he sounded confused. "Wh-? Why are you apologizing?"

I tripped over my own words. "I'm sorry. I-I mean I didn't' I just…" I sighed and stopped talking. He wasn't gazing at me as if he was laughing at me. That was a relief.

"Two and a half years you've been coming to listen, little lady" he mused, rubbing his right hand with his left. "What's your name?"

"Clary. And you… noticed?"

"I never forget a face," he told me with a smile that seemed to light up his entire face. "And yours, I saw all the time. You're my lucky penny." A pause. "I bet you've been wondering… it's Jace."

I frowned in confusion. "What-?"

"My name," the boy laughed. "My name is Jace." A pause. "I'm finishing up now. Do you want to get a coffee? Or… something?"

My frown didn't vanish. "But don't you… well, don't you have much money? I mean… you know… you're busking for money…" I shrugged. Jace tsked me, turning away and starting to roll up his checkered blanket. I suddenly felt awkward- had I just offended him?

"I'm sorry if I-"

"Don't apologize. You haven't offended me in the slightest, sweetheart." He tucked his earned cash into a little leather pouch and slid it into his jacket pocket, zipping it up. "I can see why you'd think that, though. That I wouldn't have much money." He shoved his blanket into a rucksack and hoisted it onto a shoulder, sticking the black cowboy hat he used for collecting money on his head. He looked quite the sight.

Jace walked forward until he was stood directly before me, and I found myself surprised at how tall he was compared to me. He had almost a head on me. A pause, then he held out his hand, a smile twitching onto his lips. "Come on, shake it so I don't feel like a loser stood here."

I took it, and when his fingers wrapped around my own, I felt the calluses he'd no doubt gotten from years of playing guitar brush me. He had lovely hands. When he let go, he affixed a strap to his guitar case and put it away carefully, latching it closed and hoisting that onto his shoulder as well. I offered to carry the rucksack but he refused. "Nah sweetheart. Don't worry your little ginger head about it."

As we started to walk off, I asked if he wanted a place to put his bag and guitar while we got a coffee. He thanked me and nodded.

"I love your car," Jace told me when he faced Annie, patting her on the side. "Damn, my dad would kill for one of these. He has a thing for the oldies like this. What's her name? I know you chicks usually name your cars… right?" his aureate eyes were twinkling. I arched a brow and nodded, eyes flickering to the worn leather case holding the guitar inside. "She's called Annie." With a slam, I shut the trunk and locked it.

"Well Annie," Jace grinned, patting the hood. "I like you. What's your number?" he turned to me. "Can I leave my number with you for her? She's hot."

"She's not looking for anyone" I laughed, patting the roof. He looked so much more attractive now his hat was inside my trunk. His hair shone like spun gold as the weak sunlight bounced off it.

Jace faked a look of intense disappointment at the rejection. It made me giggle quietly.

Why had it taken me so long to say Hello to him?

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