Black, unkempt hair falls in her face, hiding her eyes in a veil. She wears a crimson, ripped small dress. She is a very young girl: only eight years old. But already, she has seen more than you could ever begin to imagine. She looks innocent, holding a small baby doll behind her back. But, as the child draws closer, the horrible truth is revealed. Crimson eyes flicker like fire behind strands of coal hair. The baby she holds in her tiny, grubby hands is not a doll at all, but the corpse of an infant. There is no smile on her pale lips, only a grimace. Where her feet hit the ground, bloody footprints appear. Behind the eerie child are blood and chaos. Chaos and sorrow and death are all she has known, therefore, it is all that she leaves behind. All bend before her; shaking in fear. Fear is all she knows, and it is what she wants everyone to feel, to know what she feels like. Before she destroys them, before they take their dying breath, they only know fear. Fear of the girl, of the woman who is hunting them, focused on their destruction. At the age of eight she gave birth to her first child. It was her father's child. And he was taking away from her the moment he was born. She reached out for him, but never got to so much as hold him. The same happened to her second child. She wants nothing more than to hold a baby, her own baby. This need is above even her thirst for blood and vengeance on humankind. The little girl with the glowing red eyes is only an illusion. An illusion that gives way to the truth, the true her. A walking corpse of a grown woman. Her eyes sockets are empty and lifeless, her skin pale and battered, her messy, coal hair falls unkempt, covering her breasts. She still longs for children, for blood, for vengeance. But is she really so evil? Isn't it the men who did this to her that are evil; the men that abused her and raped her and experimented on her. The men that gave her the strong, telesthetic abilities in the first place? If she had known but one tiny bit of happiness in her short life, then perhaps the world would not be crumbling beneath her feet the skeletons of many men in pools of blood. The surface of the earth on fire, burning quickly. These men could have saved the world from its imminent destruction if they had but let Alma Wade be happy, just once. If she had been loved.