I don't own TMI, btw's. Cassandra Clare does. First fanfic- Try to judge my story, but not too meanly. Thanks guys (:

Chapter One: Sold for How Much?

April 17, 1819 was a significant day in time. It was the day Miss Clarissa Fairchild was sold from the Penhallow household in Maryland to work over 200 miles away at the Lightwood Manor in Georgia. This, of course, was normal though. She was sold from one house for her fiery attitude, but then her rare beauty and unique appearance caused her to be sold quickly to the next. That's right, Clary was one of the most wanted slaves in the southern states. For what? She didn't know. Because, who would want a petite maid with uncontrollable red hair and skin so pale, every scar she had was noticeable?

Clary had worked at so many houses, she wasn't even sure if she could count that high. So when she was sold (for an unreasonably high price), she assumed it would be like normal and prepared to be whipped with the worst whip, and flirted with by the grossed men.

But, the Lightwood house was different than any of the other houses she'd worked at and she'd find that out extremely soon.

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She gritted her teeth as the whip slashed against her back for the thirty-second time. Her vision black for a few seconds, but she forced herself to keep her eyes open. I don't deserve this, Clary thought as the stinging ripped through her thoughts again. All she had done was tell Sebastian, oh- excuse her. Mister Sebastian that she was in no way at all helping him "make his bed". Any sane girl would do that, especially if she was only seventeen! Forty lashes in front of the crowd, he exclaimed when she refused, and she was dragged out to the whipping post (it should just be called her best friend) and tied down, while all her friends were forced to watch as there Little Miss Firemouth was whipped for the forth time that week.

It started to fall numb around sixteen, she told herself. Plus, home with father and Jonathan in Africa was a billion times worse. Why her father chose to live near the African tribes on the coast were beyond her mind, but that's where Clary lived, before she was captured and sold to the Americans (by her own father). Her father, Valentine Morgenstern, would whip her and use her for crazy experiments like a potion that would make you regurgitate or a pressure point on the body that would cause the body to fall numb. She had nothing to save her and her mother wasn't there to protect her daughter either. Her mom, Jocelyn Fairchild (Clary had taken her mother's maiden name), had died in child labor of Clary's little brother, who was stillborn. After her father's tortures every day, her brother would take her to his room and force her to lay in bed with him. Now, Clary thought was definitely better than Africa.

A sharp kick in her side interrupted that thought and she felt her arms being untied. The overseerer's whip lightly slid across her back and Clary couldn't help it. She flinched. "Get back to your cabin, girl. And be prepared- I think the Master's ready to get rid of your mouth. The auction's tonight," he whispered to her, his breath almost making her pass out right there. Then, he kicked her in the ribs again before he walked off. "Get this scum outta my sight."

Clary groaned when her body was lifted into the air. Her back was numb with pain and her breath- shallow and rough.

"Les get ya cleaned up, Claire Bear," Luke Garroway, her technical father, muttered in her ear, and her body was cradled by Luke's strong arms. She heard a miserable scream and all she wanted was for it to stop. Then the cold, hard truth hit her dead in the face. That screaming was coming from her.

"Clary, come on girl. I know it hurts, but we tol yer not ter talk back ta Master Seb again this week. Whas that make the count fer this week? One hundred eighty lashes just this week? That's not even counting this month," Helen cooed in her ear. Clary could only moan. She didn't want to open her eyes and her back ached with the agony of the reopened lashes from one week ago, infected lashes from this week, now the brand new lashes from today.

"Just get 'er back to the cabin. 'er back is major infected and if it ain't treated, we may lose our Little Miss Firemouth."

Clary was carried to her cabin that she shared with fourteen others and was laid down on something softer than the floor, but she didn't want to open her eyes to find out what.

Everybody was speaking, but their voices were no louder than murmurs.

Someone began to put a cold, wet cloth on her back and that's when the pain came. Excrutiating pain all over her entire back. Clary gasped, her voice hoarse.

"I'm being sold... tonight," she murmured and she heard many gasps.

"If you get a chance, Clary. Don't forget- follow the drinking gourd to your freedom. We love you, Clarissa Fairchild." And with her hearing goodbyes, Clary drifted into darkness.

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"Get up girl!" Clary was awoken with a feeling of nausea. Her eyes snapped open and then she sighed. She recognized where she was. An auction. Her wrists were bound and her ankles were shackled.

"I let you sleep through the ride to get here, now act alive, Fairchild," Master Patrick growled at her. Clary stood up and crawled swiftly to the line of Africans on the side of the stage. As she waited in line, she noticed a gorgeous girl in front of her with blue-green eyes and lovely ringlets around her face. The girl looked extremely nervous.

"Relax, honey," Clary said to her. "We're all going to get sold, don't worry."

"I know," The girl said. "But, to whom is the question. What if he's really mean?"

"What's you name?" Clary asked.

"Helen."

"Well Helen, accept this fact. We're slaves. Everyone is mean to us."

"Not everyone," Helen disagreed. "I once had a very kind master who let me have my own room in the house!" Clary rolled her eyes.

The conversation was interrupted though when a war cry was heard and a man- probably no older than twenty-five, crawled straight out of line. His face was full of determination. "Freedom or death," he shouted. Someone chose death for him though and with a bang, the young man had collasped on the ground.

"See Helen? This is one of the reasons I don't believe that. It's impossible to have a caring master. So you should suck it up if you get someone cruel because that's how life as a slave goes."

"CLARISSA FAIRCHILD, SEVENTEEN, OWNED BY PATRICK AND JIA PENHALLOW," someone shouted and Clary winced.

"Wish me luck," she told Helen and was pulled up onto the stage.

"Let's start the bid at $200." and on and on the bid went. It grew higher and higher until one voice finally broke through the rest of the crowd.

"2,000." The crowd of men went silent and no one seemed to want to pay higher.

"Anyone want to challenge him, folks?" the announcer challenged. "Once? Twice? Okay, Clarissa Fairchild has been sold! What's the name, Mister?"

A man with black hair stepped out and his brown eyes were hard. "Lightwood. Robert Lightwood."