Hellllloooooooooo faithful readers! In honor of the new book, Spirit Bound, by Richelle Mead, I decided to put a quick update on here! So Enjoy!

Read, Write, Love [//.O*]

By the way, sorry for the shortness of chapter. Promise the next one will be extra long!

You Don't Know Me

And You Don't Wear my Chains

Ooh Yeah

She said I think I'll go to Boston

Where no one knows my name

I want to see the sunrise

I'm Tired of the Sunset

Boston

Where No On Knows My Name*

CPOV

I whisked into the tall mansion that sat on corner of Eldwood. A strong wind blew in, slamming the door with a big BANG that made me cringe and duck my head, waiting for my father to come racing down the stairs and punish me. But no one came crashing downstairs. Everything was silent except for quiet ticking of the grandfather clock that belong to my mother in the corner.

I heaved a dry sob at the thought of my mother. When I was the young age of three, my mother disappeared. No hints, no signs, no thoughts as to what happened to her. Just, Poof. Gone. Just like that. She left behind everything she owned—including the one picture of her I had that my father didn't burn or stash away from my curious eyes. He's never seen it—if he did, who's to say he wouldn't take that one away from me, too?

My hand unconsciously went to my back right pocket, feeling the subtle thinness of the cardstock photo. The image of it was burned into my mind; A woman with firey hair just like mine and sparkly, joyous green eyes filled with awe and excitement. She was sitting under an oak tree at sunset. The glowing blood-red ball of fire in the sky behind her only seemed to highlight and illuminate her hair even more. Behind the camera, I imagined, was my father, before he turned into the horrible thing he is today.

Shuddering, I let my hand slide down my thigh, away from the photo. Groping at the tight denim, I reigned my fear and anger back into the back of mind to be sought later for a better, useful moment.

My heels clicked and clacked as I walked across the marble flooring to the grand staircase that wound up three floors. I hurried up them, taking two at a time, staying only on the balls of my feet to make less sound. I got off the stairs at the second floor, which was, as I liked to call it, my floor.

This floor belonged to no one else but me. After all, there were only three doors; two of which were my bathroom and bedroom. The third was my art gallery, filled with large canvas paintings, Kodak-worthy photos, and bursting-with-life sketches. It was the one place that I knew I could go to get away from the world, the pain, the fear—

I gulped. No, don't think about that. I shook my head furiously, red curls flouncing. To get my mind off things, I bustled into my room, shut the door, and flicked on my computer. I wondered what ShadowsAngel had posted today. I wondered if he had as much of crappy day as me.

The internet page popped up and I went into my favorites. ShadowsAngel's Blog, ShadowsAngel's Blog…. Finding the right link, I double-clicked, hard, on the flimsy plastic of my mouse. I drummed my fingers as I waited for the page to load. Finally, WELCOME TO…SHADOWSANGEL'S BLOG! Satisfied, I started to read:

WELCOME TO…SHADOWSANGEL'S BLOG!

I don't know about you guys, but I had a suckish day today. First, I find out that I'm not as big as a player that I thought. Which, quite honestly, is not even the important part. The important part is that my life epicly sucks. Really. It just plain out sucks.

First, my drunk-assed sister, Arianne, throws a punch at me when I started ignoring her. It hit me smack in the back of the head. I toppled over, hitting the hardwood floor of my apartment with, to her, a satisfying thud.

My head still throbs.

When did my sister get such a punch?

Why does my life still epicly suck?

When will I stop asking these rhetorical questions?

Anyway. At least I still have the studio. Miss Markowits says I'm getting better every day. So good that she gave me the key to the studio. Yep. I wear it around my neck everyday, though under my shirt. No one needs to ask questions. Point is, I found my escape. Piano has become my drug. It's my sweet escape, my paradise, my way out of this crude world.

And for all of you out there saying, "Emo loner," hey, at least I'm not doing drugs.

Instead, I prefer to vent my feelings through the powerful instrument of the piano that can be loud and angry (lower keys), playful and light, (middle keys) or soft and sad (higher keys).

Isn't that something?

Try a piano. I recommend it.

~ShadowsAngel

My heart gave a squeeze for SA. The poor guy's abusive, drunk sister has gone over the line this time. At least he has music, like I have art. It was one of the reasons I felt so in touch with SA—both of us were looking for an escape, an we think we finally found one.

I quickly tapped in a comment, saying simply, "I know how you feel" before flipping the switch on my computer, the room going dark. The barest hint of a full moon shined through my practically see-through white curtains. I stared at it in wonderment, a hundred thoughts buzzing around my head like little bees caught in a fake hive.

I crawled into bed, pulled the comforter up to my chin, and shut my eyes, slipping into a dreamless sleep, heeled shoes and all.