Thank you for reading this story. :) I appreciate constructive criticism, and your time.

The first chapter feels rough, but enjoy.

Her feet would be the first things to go. Yes, the skilled little feet that brought her up to small-town fame. Hell, he'd use her own ice skates. The silver blades running along the bottom of her feet, always sharpened for the next competition, sent up a light spray of scratched-up ice. He felt the burning in the back of his head intensify, running down to his throat and fingers as usual. When she gripped the bottom of the shoe, he waited for her to slice open her palm, for the red to drip down onto the ice. That never came. With a skilled hand she grabbed the boot at the toes, spinning around, bent at her left knee, the other one extended out.

He'd go slow, sawing through beloved muscle and bone. Even if she escaped, she wouldn't be able to do what she loved anymore. How satisfying it would be to see on the Drerry's local news, Local Ice Skater's Feet Ruthlessly Cut off by Madman.

She didn't see him in the stands, freezing under his hoody. Wendy Spark was lost in her music, which was booming through the headphones so loud Jeff could hear an incoherent buzz.

He stepped down, placing his feet on the ice. She didn't look up.

It was only them two. The psycho and the skater. The murderer and the victim.

The burn turned to a pull. Jeff loved the feeling. It was intoxicating, making his joints relax, yet forced adrenaline into every vein and capillary, building up in his legs and arms, stacking higher until he couldn't take it anymore. By the time he'd reach her the sensation would be overwhelming, swallowing every pit of thoughts, leaving behind a breathless sensation. His moves would be just as fluid as her skating.

Then she yelled.

He'd been so caught in the feeling. In the time it had all set in she'd noticed him and stopped. She balanced on the blades, body straight and proper, hands cupped behind her back. He saw it as a sign of superiority, she saw a bad habit.

"No shoes on the ice." Jeff looked down. Mud trailed behind him in sloppy ovals. Somehow he'd managed to get almost to the center of the ice. A few more steps and he'd have her neck under his fingers, banging her head into the floor.

The words were on his tongue, ready to be hissed out. He stepped forward, but this was no rough patch of ice. His foot slid heel first. Jeff's world was shifted from the girl to the ceiling. Cobwebs hugged the beams and vents. The no shoes rule either came from the fear of slipping and breaking your neck, or the idea that a few steps will ruin the Zamboni guy's perfectly smooth ice. Either way, the shocked little intake of breath she made infuriated him. As if the little bitch cared.

"O-oh my god," she giggled, "Are you okay?" It took a moment to register. Not the words, but the hand extended to him. After seeing his face, most people would run off screaming. She. . . didn't. For a naive moment he felt kind of flattered. Maybe someone else saw his own personal beauty. Of course she didn't. He noticed her squinting. The girl wore glasses, which were somewhere in a gym bag. He also still had his hood up despite the embarrassing tumble.

Wendy stretched her hand out a little too prematurely. Her mother taught her that you should only offer help when you can see the person. Just another entry in "Martha's Words to Live By". One thing her mother didn't teach her but probably should have is to be careful. Her mom was kind of a hippie, believing in fair love and all that gunky stuff. After all the years of being drilled with sticky-sweet philosophies Wendy grew to be a tolerating person. Tolerable, perhaps

But even she had to falter when the blurred figure became a little more set in reality.

That looked painful.

Somebody had cut from the corners of his mouth until they hit the jaw bone, creating an extension of a smile. Wendy's Joker obsessed friend called it a Glasgow smile. It wasn't bleeding, but the edges were still red and rough. Scabbed over, like it had been cauterized. But not stitched up.

What hospital would just let a mutilation fester? Unless. . . he hadn't gone to get help.

His "smile" wasn't the only thing burned.

Wendy felt stuck in his bug-eyed gave. The man's eyelids had been burned off, leaving behind a border of black. A yellow hue hung around the blood shot whites.

She didn't think too hard on his skin, only noticing it was freakishly white. His hoody might have been the same color, before the blood and grime came in. Conflicting thoughts popped up.

He did this to himself, somebody else did, it's old, it's new.

Either way, it left a psychotic look in his eyes. They shined in odd areas, reflecting the dingy overhead lights. Odd. His tear ducts had to have been dry as jerky.

Then his hand shot out.

Wendy sucked in another annoying breath, this one for her own selfish fear. Fear for her life, for her feet, for the Olympic tryouts she dreamed of. His knobby knuckles twitched, the veins shifted in and out of view, faint rivers under scabbed, white flesh. For such bony hands, they held unbelievable strength. He pulled her ankle until her balance faltered. The hand, once extended, flailed in the air. Her face was pulled tight, eyes wide in shock. The lack of friction on the ice worked against poor Wendy. She was on the ground, hissing in pain.

Two things hit the ground; her brand new Iphone, which shattered, and his knife. Wendy went for the blade. Jeff had the upper hand and pushed her away.

The ice was biting her palms, sending painful pulses up and down her arm. Down on the ground the cold truly crawled. Fear of the lunatic mixed with dehydration. Breathing felt like swallowing air through a cracked reed. The sounds showed it.

The air grew heavy with shuffling. Wendy kicked, Jeff grabbed. She looked at the knife clenched between his teeth. It sat there, gleaming between two layers of nasty. He wasn't silent, either. When the cuff of her yoga pants slipped from his fingers once again, he let out an aggravated growl. Wendy swallowed. The dryness refused to fade. Even her audible breathing bounced off the walls. The building felt colder than ever, but to Wendy she had never felt more numb.

Adrenaline sparked. She couldn't take any more of his creepy face. A buzz skittered under her freckled skin, making her face feel constricted. And then it all released.

She reared back her foot that wasn't locked in his grasp and stomped into his leg.

"Let go!" she yelled.

Wendy watched it leak out from the dress pants. A stream started to get closer to her perfectly white shoes. She scooted back, digging the back of the blades into the ice. He stood, making her feel even tinier. He stepped towards her. Another slip wouldn't happen, even with her silent prayers. Heh heh, he was walking with a limp.

"Now go away!" She slid up, eyes filled with hate. Jeff didn't stop.

"Why don't you just shut up and go to sleep." he said. The air grew colder around their shared bubble.

She raised an eyebrow. Her bangs sank down into her face. Wendy flicked them to the side, never removing her eyes from him. "Why don't you go fuck yourself."

A stare down commenced. Wendy wanted him to blink. Jeff wanted to yank her head up by the hair and slit her slim throat. He took a long, threatening step. Five feet was a little too close for comfort. She skated back, hands in fists. Her hair was a brown, frizzy mess.

Another step. Another slide back.

His sudden move scared Wendy. But the girl was prepared. Jeff missed his mark, falling to the ground. He could feel her pride coming off in waves.

"You little-"

"Thank you for the little exercise, but I have places to be. If you want me, I'll be at the local police department." She turned and skated right, wallowing in her freedom.

Jeff sat there, watching her shake her tiny curves until she vanished from sight. A slamming door told him he was alone.

She got away.

The little knit walked out on him. Made him a fool.

He climbed up, face in half-annoyance.

He'd tear her throat out.


Not a fan of the ending, Wendy seems. . . Sue-ish? Oh, well. It'll get better.

Promise.