I apologize, firstly.

Secondly, I admit that I make no guarentees on where this is going. I'm sure I had a direction at one point (like when I started) but I seem to have lost interest; this story's shine and allure has ebbed away with the beginning of other projects and just life in general that's been stealing my attention.

I honestly haven't written ANYTHING in the last year. A few paragaphs to new original stories that never went anywhere. My writing has been bleak, I tell ya.

Just like my soul.

Kidding. Did I mention that I read City of Fallen Angels recently? Mortal Instruments quotes have been spewing out of my mouth everywhere now.

I can't tell you when I'll update again. I don't know if I will update again. I just don't know.

REVIEWS:

ISuckAtUsernames: Dude, when I saw that you reviewed my story and actually liked it, I almost peed my pants. No joke. I'm in l.o.v.e with LoveHate Relationship. Fangirl-in-love. That serious. Everyone, go read this story!

DeadSerious: I don't know, I mean, JP mentioned that he drew in the books. I just always see him as more of an artist than a musician, like some people. He seems like he'd be more tortured or secretly emotional or something, which is kind of an artist thing. :P also, art is an incredible outlet for emotion. Seriously, best stress reliever ever. Trust me.

Punk-Rebel-Chick: Yeah, I edit my own stuff and I'm no Supergirl. :P I miss stuff, and I love you guys for not caring. I know I can be kind of a snob when it comes to bad grammer, and write off stories because of it and I really shouldn't do it. So, thanks. :)

OuttaControl: I applaud you back in your standing ovation! I'm glad I didn't sound too bitchy because I really felt I did. :P and I believe it'll please you to know that indescribably is, in fact, a word. :)

The Layman: Well, is this enough streetcred for you? Read on, my friend.

ashpi: Oh God, Fang made me want to quit reading! But of course, when Angel came out, I bought it and read it. Honestly, I think the first three books are the only ones that should actually count. They were the best.

Also, Griffiths Iggy, I give you every right to be upset now. It's been a while, and I seriously considered at one point during this time to just put this story up for someone else to take my jotnotes and ideas and do their thing with them. Actually, the postion is open.

Adoption, anyone?

Disclaimer: Not close to mine. :( :(

Kisses,

{-Inky-}

Oh, hey, 254! Holy badword!

Kryptonite

Chapter Eleven: Three Strikes, I'm Out.

Max POV

So get this: I relaxed. Seriously. I honest-to-God, slumped shoulders, easy-smile relaxed. I allowed myself to fall into the simple routine of getting up, going to school, chatting with some friends in my classes, and then coming home carefree and normal like every other teenage girl in this side of the city. I avoided Anne with every skill I possibly had (which is more than a few, if I must say myself), played Scrabble with Angel after dinner, and watched Fang paint his feelings onto his wall after the kids had gone to bed. I'd even taken an indefinite amount of time off from the bar. And I didn't even realize what was happening.

Strike one for Max.

A few weeks went by, and September vanished and October conquered, and my mind was on anything but the dates. The note at the bottom of the trunk in my room, buried underneath some blankets and my Converse (somehow Nudge had converted me to flats –insanity, I know), was completely forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

Strike two.

So, here I am, laughing with this girl from my last period English, whose name I think was Kelsey, and I couldn't find it in me to look around and check the perimeters, plan escape routes, profile the crowds, anything. It was like I'd gotten so used to being around people who weren't psycho and paranoid like me, that I'd become one of them. The carefree normals.

Strike three. I'm out.

I walked down the steps on my way home. Iggy was sick today, Nudge had cheer practice so Fang was hanging around until she's done (most likely making out with Red), and so I consented to just walk the eleven blocks home. Headphones in my ears, head down, I blended into the crowd like nothing, but I wasn't watching. I was sloppy. And sloppy does not cut it.

I turned the corner, flipping through my playlists, when a body blindsided me from the left. My iPod went flying and I slammed into the concrete, skidding mostly on my shoulders. And my brain panics.

I fucking panic. Me. The girl who's survived Hell.

Like a child, I cower and attempt to shield my face with my hands, but my attacker has them gripped in his hands. His ragged fingernails are digging into the soft flesh of my wrists. Stupidly, I try to pull away, which only makes him clench his fists harder. I think it's this pain that snaps me back to reality. The last few seconds flash across my eyes, my weakness and predictability and I see pure hot rage. Mostly at myself for believing things were different, that I could lose myself and pretend I wasn't part of this anymore, but also at the asshole attempting to put his fingers straight through my wrists.

Right about now, most people would be describing how their vision goes red with rage and they find, deep inside themselves, an impressive burst of strength to spring up and beat the living hell out of their attacker, snarling and looking like a total BAMF.

This is a lie, nine times out of ten.

In real life, about sixteen scenarios where I end up either slamming this guy's head against the brick wall of the alley or with my fingers wrapped around his pudgy throat fly through my mind, each making me angrier than the last, until it's like my body quits. My arms go slack from around his arms and my eyes close. Exhausted. The sudden lack of struggle sends me hurtling to the ground, where the back of my head connects painfully with pavement, as he lets go. A strangled groan works its way out of my throat, mostly from the lack of air and the stinging resonating from my skull. His eyes, a watery blue, get big.

I find it in me to sweep my legs out, catching him just below the kneecaps, so that he stumbles for a moment. I'm buying time, so I make effort to sit up and crawl over to grasp an old broom handle lying next to the dumpster behind me. I'm still on my hands and knees when he recovers. A well placed kick to the middle of my back, and this time my face finds the ground. Blood trickles over my top lip, a stream from my nose. I can taste the rust.

He goes to slam his boot into my ribs, but I roll and he gets my stomach instead, making me grunt and double up. I'm practically fetal on the dirt, and I can feel his condescending smirk growing. The third kick comes, but never connects. Someone tackles him from the left, flying farther back into the brick alley, further from the busy street. I gasp for air for a while, listening to the two of them struggle on the ground before I push myself to my feet. My fingers still clutch the broom handle, so I use it to support myself. My vision hasn't quite straightened out from the first head-banging I took, and my nose is still bleeding. Bruises are beginning to form, I can feel them, but I manage to make the steps over to the two figures, both dressed in black, grappling on the ground.

One is brunette, and the other blonde. I don't even realize I've done it until the broom handle cranks the blonde one ever the head, and he immediately collapses on top of the other one, the darker haired one. I stand there, panting and sweating, strands of hair falling out of my ponytail and into my face, unmoving as the other guy pushes Blondie away and struggles to his feet.

He was short. I mean, I'm pretty tall for a girl of my weight and age, but he was short; eye level with my heart, which meant he could probably see it uncharacteristically pounding out of my chest. Curly brown hair. Solid blue eyes, high cheekbones, with just a little baby fat. Nothing stood out to me, nothing that screamed familiar. But he was staring at me like I was the Messiah, come to save his soul or something.

We stood there for a long moment, just watching. Caution saturated the air, and his dark eyes remained stationed on my brown ones. I refused to loosen my grip on my makeshift weapon, or lower my offensive stance. I was done with the risks. My guard wasn't going anywhere. Blood trickled down a small cut on his forehead. Around us, outside the tense air in the alley, the sounds of the world continued like nothing had happened. I felt like puking. I was sure I had a concussion, minor if anything.

He blinked, and backed a few steps back.

I opened my mouth, unsure of what would come out: Hostile Max from the streets, or just Slightly Grumpy Max from the Martinez house. I didn't find out. He took off up a fire escape and over the roof of a building, and I couldn't summon the energy to give chase. He didn't try to kill me. I let it go. I had bigger things to worry about.

The walk home was long, even longer than it would've been if I hadn't spent the whole time running tabs on every person who so much as brushed by me. I guess being attacked in the middle of the day really sets a girl on edge. I'm sure more than half the time someone was staring at the blood still trickling slightly from my nose, which I'd done my best to clean up.

Of course, I thought getting home would mean I would be given a chance to relax, scrub the blood off myself, maybe reset my nose so it heals without a crook.

No such luck.

Naturally.

I love you guys for sticking around.

:)