"You don't understand, Lila." Ophelia Michaelchuq leans against her kitchen table, phone up to her ear. "I can't ask him, he has to ask me! Yes, it's that important! This isn't the Sadie Hawkin's dance, for God's sake!" the 17-year-old rolls her eyes at her best friend. "Whatever, I have to go do the laundry, anyway. I'll see you." she hangs up on Lila, setting the phone down on the table.

"Let's get this started." Ophelia bends over to pick of the full laundry basket when she feels a large, though, calloused hand cover her mouth. An automatic scream escapes her mouth, which is freed for the millisecond she is released from the hand's grasp. Before she can figure out what's happening, shirts and socks from her laundry basket are being stuffed in her mouth, and she is being tackled to the ground. She barely gets a look at the man who is doing this to her; all she can collect is that he's wearing black... What looks like pantyhose... Over his head.

She flails and struggles, waving her hands and feet, attempting to get even the weakest blow at her attacker. He seems to take no notice, and instead begins to cover her nose and mouth with the rest of the dirty clothes she was supposed to be washing until her air supply was completely cut off. Ophelia's eyes begin to water as she realizes what's happening. He is trying to kill her.

Her lungs burn and scream for air, and she can slowly feel herself drifting away. She begins to lie still after a few minutes, breathing slowing until it stops all together.

The killer checks her pulse to double check that she was really dead before releasing her from his grasp and uncovering her face. She was blue from lack of oxygen, eyes rolled to the back of her head.

"Perfect." he sneers, scrambling out of the house through the back door when he hears an, "Ophelia, we're home!" from the front of the house.

He's already a good block away from his victim's house when he hears a shrill screech. He smiles evilly as he slides into his car, starting the ignition, the pure adrenaline only a kill could supply him coursing through his veins.

-•-•-•-•-

"I don't see what the big deal is."

"It's a very big deal, Patricia!" Mara insists, pausing from serving herself chicken. "He's a murderer! He could kill anyone! At any time! Even one of us!"

"Oh, please." Patricia scoffs, waving her off. "He's not going to kill one of us."

"You never know." Jerome teases, leaning down so he's face-to-face with Mara. "Maybe tonight he'll sneak into your bedroom and kill you!"

Alfie comes up behind Mara and stuffs his napkin in her face. She shrieks and brings her hand up to whack him. "Guys!" she shoves the two laughing boys away. "Stop! It's not funny!"

"It's pretty funny." Eddie smirks.

"It's a stupid way to kill people, anyway." Fabian changes the subject. "Stuff their face and suffocate them?"

"It's... Inventive." Nina shrugs, spooning herself green beans. "Creative, I guess. I think they could've come up with a better name than 'The Stuffer', though."

"Like what?" Joy raises an eyebrow. "Mr. Stuffing?"

"Stove Top?" Eddie suggests.

"If you ask me, 'The Stuffer' fits just fine." Amber butts in. "It's not like he gave us much to work with, anyway."

"Did you see on the news, though?" Jerome questions. "About his latest killing? He usually takes the cloth out of their mouth after they're dead, but he left it in there this time! Do you think that means something?"

"Maybe that he got a little smarter." Fabian supplies. "It's not very smart to carry around a handkerchief with someone's saliva on it after you killed them."

"Can we change the subject, please?" Mara practically begs. "I'd rather spend my supper talking about something less... Gruesome."

"Fine," Jerome sighs. "Beautiful weather we have here today, yeah?"

They go through the rest of dinner talking about little trivial things; homework, teachers, TV, that sort of stuff. After a while, one by one, the students begin to disperse.

"I have to go finish some homework." Patricia stands up, scarfing down the last of her chicken.

"I never knew you were one to finish homework, Yacker." Eddie gives her his famous half-smirk.

She sneers back at him. "No one asked you, Slimeball." she storms up to her, Joy, and Mara's room, leaving behind a grinning Eddie. Joy smiles knowingly down at her plate.

"What?" Eddie exclaims at Joy's expression.

"Nothing, nothing." she holds up a hand in her defense. "Just when are you two going to make out?"

"I'd rather make out with Corbiere, thanks." he flashes a fake smile.

"No, you wouldn't." Fabian raises his eyebrows. "You don't shut up about her."

"See, Eddie." Amber drawls. "Even Fabian can see it, and he can barely even get his own relationship together."

An awkward silence hangs in the air between Nina, Fabian, and Joy, due to Amber's comment. After a few moments, Eddie finally breaks it.

"I don't like her, she doesn't like me." Eddie shrugs, standing up and stomping to his and Fabian's shared room.

"I'm just... Going to go do some homework." Mara lifts herself up from her seat and awkwardly shuffles upstairs. The last remaining students begin to clear the table when they hear a terrifying, loud scream come from upstairs. It was Mara.

Jerome almost drops and shatters his plate as he dashes upstairs to go find out what the problem is. He couldn't help but think that something was hurting Mara.

Close, but no cigar.

As he comes up behind the sobbing dark-haired girl, his breath gets caught in his throat.

There, lying on the ground, with several colorful bandanas stuffed in her mouth, is none other than Patricia Williamson.

He drops to his knees, checking for a pulse. "Don't die, Trixie." he growls, desperately pawing for any signs of life. He hears people come behind him. "Patricia?" Eddie's voice calls.

Jerome sighs in defeat after a while. He wipes his eyes, turning back to his friends, Vera, and, now, Victor. "She's dead." he half-laughs in disbelief.

"What?" Eddie falls to the ground next to Jerome, shaking the dead girl, trying to get her to wake up. "Patricia, wake up. I'm sorry for calling you so many bad things, okay? Just wake up. Please, Patricia. Wake up." His attempts have no effect. She's dead, for good.

Someone must have called the police. Sirens wail from outside and red, blue, and white lights flash, flooding the room. There is the pounding of feet on the stairs, and, seemingly out of nowhere, paramedics shove past everyone and to Patricia.

"Step aside, son." one demands to Eddie.

"No!" he exclaims, trying to push past the men and women. "No, I have to help!"

"You're of no help." one growls and Eddie steps aside finally, a blank expression on his face.

After several attempts to wake her, to no avail, one paramedic stands up solemnly. "She's gone."

"C'mon." Eddie insists. "There has to be something you can do! This is the twenty-first-century!"

"There's nothing we can do, son." 'Son'. The term made Eddie feel terribly small. "She's gone."

"No, she can't be!" Eddie refuses to believe she's dead. She can't die, she's Patricia, she's perfect, immortal...

"Listen to them, Edison." Victor comes up behind Eddie and lies a hand on his shoulder. "Patricia is dead!"

"No, she's not!" Eddie shakes free of Victor's grasp and races to his room, where he collapses against his wardrobe and rests his head in his hands.

No, he refuses to believe it.

She's not dead.

But she is.

Patricia Williamson, the girl he may love, is dead, murdered.

And there's not a single thing he can do about it.

A/N: oh my gOD I CRIED SO MUCH WRITING THIS OKAY

ahem. Okay.

I'm writing this because I'm crazy. I won't update as often as I do "I Knew", but I'll try to update at least once a week.

SO. Get ready for an emotional rollahcoastaaaah. Woot wooot.