So. I got to thinking, we know Freddy kills, but why children? So I came up with this idea. I know I already have a story on the go, but yeah, this won't be an ongoing thing, just a one shot. Yano? I know some facts of this may not be up to scratch, but I either didn't know or couldn't remember them, and being the lazy person I am, couldn't be bothered to look them up. Okay. Rambling over.
Children.
The little bastards that they were.
Children were supposedly born innocent, perhaps it was true, however, it doesn't take long for that innocence to be sucked out them, moulding them into the cruel, heartless little beings that they are.
His mother had abandoned him at the tender age of three, selfishly taking her own life, leaving him in the care of an orphange. Even to this day, he still couldn't see her reason for commiting suicide.
She was a nun, a God-fearing woman and it was to his understanding, that suicide was a huge sin.
So what if she'd gotten raped? She got a child out of it, didn't she? Did it matter that she was unable to go anywhere without being pestered for her story? It didn't matter now anyway, the selfish harlot had left him to rot in the orphange, it was crystal clear she didn't give a damn what happened to him.
That's when he got his first taste of how cruel children could be.
Not a day went by where he wasn't beat up, tormented and ridiculed for his past.
It wasn't his fault he was conceived the way he was.
Why couldn't they understand that?
Seven years he put up with his fellow orphans, watching as more and more of the little brats got adopted by people who looked like replicas of the six year old pictures of their parents.
The pretty blonde mother with the dark-haired father.
He was never picked, not even close.
Most times, the adults didn't even speak to him, let alone choose him.
They workers who ran the orphanage had even tried putting ads in the paper for him, of course, they always highlighted his bad points and used horrible looking pictures of him. They were secretly hoping for his failure to find a family, he knew it.
That's when that man answered the ad. How he was ever deemed a fit guardian, he'd never know.
The drunken, bible-bashing Jesus-freak didn't even give him a proper room. He lived in the basement on a camp-bed.
If he wasn't listening to slurred passages from 'the good book' he was getting the shit beaten out of him.
School was supposed to be his release, of course, it never was.
He never fitted in, no matter how hard he tried.
Eventually he stopped trying, living in resentment of the snot-nosed brats who got everything, yet deserved nothing of what they had.
They deserved to suffer, as he had.
The daily taunting of the chant 'Son of a hundred maniacs' were enough to drive anyone to overwhelming insanity.
At times, he thought that's exactly what they had done to him, but he would never allow them to break him.
He got back at them in any way he thought possible.
Accidently, he had killed the class pet hamster, unbeknowst to him the thrill he'd get from it.
The children of the class hurt at the death of their furry companion, he could read it in their eyes. Even the toughest of the bullies.
Thus, was born his most effective measure of getting back at the brats who tormented him for eight hours a day, five days a week.
He had somehow made it through highschool and landed a job in a factory. Shut away from the moronic beings of children, which suited him just fine.
Then he met Loretta.
Things had happened quickly and he didn't know that these feelings even existed.
Loretta showed him kindness and love, when no other person had, for this he tried his damned hardest to return the feelings, for he did love her, he just wasn't always able to show it in the appropriate ways.
Then she dropped the bombshell.
Eighteen months after their marriage.
She was pregnant. Loretta was bringing a child into the world. His child. One of the creatures he despised.
He tried to repress his disgust, Loretta was over-joyed and he couldn't bear to see her hurt, especially if he had caused it, knowing it could have been avoided.
The forty weeks of pregnancy passed far to quickly for his liking and before he knew it, his wife was in labour, pushing out this, this monstrosity into the world.
The child filled its lungs with air and gave out a cry and the nurses cut the ambilical cord and cleaned the baby off, wrapping it in white sheets.
He was handed the child and told it was a girl. He gazed down at the little one, and felt an over-whelming rush of love.
This child was perfect, she retained the innocence he had lost so early in life and he was determind not to let anyone take that away from his little princess.
His little Katherine.
His wife and child returned home three days after the birth of his miracle as he so fondly referred to her.
He vowed to shower them both with as much affection as possible and no one on this Earth would ever harm him.
The next day, the first child of went missing. Six year old Elizabeth Mets. The first victim of the Spingwood Slasher.