Author's Notes:

1) This story was originally a fanfiction posted on what used to be Quizzilla, but was taken down once Quizzilla went under. Because I could not recover the story in time, everything was initially lost. I am rewriting the entire story from memory.

2) While it is a Xiaolin Showdown fanfiction, it is primarily focused on Chase Young. I wrote the story initially to provoke at the true evil and darkness that I believed existed in Chase Young, but the creators of the show were creating a children's cartoon.

3) This story is extremely graphic, dark, violent, and tackles mature subjects such as rape, abuse, death, and drug addiction. It also is heavily focused on murder and violence, with much gore and graphic details. I am inspired by authors such as Stephen King and Jack Ketchum, so my writing style will try to mimic theirs as much as possible. If at any point you are disgusted or disturbed by my writing, you are free to skip ahead or stop reading this at any point.

4) I'm pretty certain that at any point this story will get pulled and no longer be available. Should that happen, you are free to contact me and I will send you the original copy. You can contact me through Private Messaging on here, as well as at my many other affiliates; (email) lizlucas5 at , (Facebook) lizlucas619, (Twitter) at lizlucas_writer, (WattPad) LizLucas, (DeviantArt) Liz—sama, and (WordPress) The Lorelei Chronicles.

5) I love reviews and followers. If you are enjoying the story or have an opinion, please review and leave me your comment. Thank you.

Prologue

For most of my life, I maintained a somewhat normal living. Other than Mother, no one knew of how extraordinary I really was.

How powerful I was...

Not even my roommates, Angelina and Christina, knew what I could do. I obtained a subtlety that, if there were others out there like me, I would be envied of. I flashed myself a knowing smile in the bathroom mirror, my red eyes glinting off the surface, captured by the florescent lighting. The remains of my long black hair covered the sink—I had done the unthinkable. I cut my once beautiful, long black mane that reached to my knees to an unsavory layered, short length just past my chin.

Mother would hate me.

She already did.

I gripped the scissors a bit tighter in my left hand, wondering if I could do it this time... If I could go through with it...

Five. That's how many times I've tried to kill myself.

I've lost count of how many times Mother tried to kill me.

I dropped the scissors back into their container on the back of the toilet. Another day, perhaps. I didn't want the girls coming home to this mess and more. It wasn't fair to them—they, unlike everyone else, actually treated me with some decency and kindness.

It this society, I was a paraiha. I was strange. I stood out, even when I didn't mean to. And it was thanks to these cursed eyes.

The eyes of a monster.

The eyes of a demon.

Of a killer...

My story begins before my birth. It's not a happy one, not even for my Mother, who some would say got the better end of the deal. She started off on her own at the age of eighteen with a wealthy husband and brought into the world of class and prosperity in the Upper New York Class—literally a from-rags-to-riches story. Mother was often welcomed and greeted with love and affection into that world. She was loved—she fit in. And how couldn't she? A beautiful, attractive young woman with long blond hair and chocolate brown eyes, light skin that was near perfection, and lips so full and red, when they smiled, the light of the room quickly dimmed to allow her to glow.

Her and her wonderful husband married. They were in love. They talked about kids and family and future. The quintessential three for a long, happy life. But her husband was damned from the get-go—low fertility, and he was not known for wanting children. He was gone much of their marriage, but Mother claimed to constantly wait for him, never straying in faith and love. They all believed her, including her husband, until one night it happened...

Now the story changes here, depending on who you talk to. Mother's husband claimed that she did, in fact, stray. That he knew she was unfaithful, in particular of this night, when the phone rang countless times and she never answered. Her husband believed she returned to an ex-boyfriend that he furiously disliked and wanted removed from their life.

Mother, however, claims over and over that she was faithful the entirety of their marriage, and that my conception was nothing more than the most violent crime committed to any woman—rape. She cannot recall how it occured, but in the night of question, she took one too many of a prescription cocktails to acquire some sleep—much more than her regular dosage, which seemed to have no affect on her. And somewhere between consciousness and a drug-induced slumber, she felt a man—heavy, strong, and hot, like fire—crawl into her bed and begin to take her. She endured pain and struggle as she bobbed back and forth into dreamland and reality, and the torture lasted hours, neverending, until dawn broke over the horizon. And the man disappeared into thin air.

Her husband did not trust her, did not believe her. But he did not leave her, either. Instead, he started his own slew of affairs on the side, taunting Mother by openly discussing with them to her, bragging of his mistresses beauties and personalities, nevermind the gloating over what he could do with them in bed. Mother grew to hate him, especially during the nine months she carried me. And when I was born, her husband was shacked up in a hotel room with his preferred mistress for a week, leaving her abandoned with a new child.

Upon my birth, Mother immediately hated me. She took one look at me and begged the nurses to take me away. One even claimed that she begged the nurse to smother me in my sleep, so she would not have to suffer with raising a "Demon child." Mother was never religious, but something about my birth brought that out in her—she became weary of God and his unconditional wrath, and that she was damned for carrying a Demon child. She confided in her husband about the strange child she delivered, but he would not hear it, and vowed to her that he would never touch her or the child from that day on, that his hate for her burrowed so far deep that he could not bear to be around her any further.

Mother was miserable raising me. By the time I was three months old, I started to show signs of how wonderful and gifted I really was. Baby toys and furniture would move of their own free will, with me giggling in a corner, entertained until I was content. Small, shadowy handprints formed on the walls and ceiling of my nursery. And late at night, she watched, in dumbstruck horror, as a misty pale arm stretched from my crib and touched the ceiling, before evaporating into thin air.

It was confirmed then that, indeed, I was a Demon child. Born with a rare gift, I could move things with my mind, urge things to bend at will and morph them to unrecognizable forms. I was a seed that would bring misfortune to her. Already her husband loathed her and me for my existence, and she yearned to win his devotion back. So she calculated many different ways to kill me.

The first was when I was six months. She was giving me a bath—the only time, other than feeding and changing me, that she bothered to have any physical contact with me. She undressed me and placed me in the water, and, with hands shaking, gently shoved my head under the surface, holding it there until a flurry of bubbles came up. To her surprise, I didn't struggle, but I opened my mouth underwater, and while no sound came out from me, a force awakened, and it shoved Mother back against the door, shattering the hanging mirror and causing her to slice the flesh of her back. I floated to the top and laughed, as though aware of what I had done.

It came again not much after that. Mother tried to smother me in my sleep. But when she entered my nursery, I was awake, and the pillow in her hands tore to shreds, leaving her in a cotton mess at the foot of my crib, her sobbing on her knees. She tried plenty of times more—poisoning my bottle, which laid untouched for hours at my feet; coming at me with a knife, only to be thrown across the room; leaving me abandoned on the street to starve, only to be found by kind strangers and brought back home (Mother did enjoy playing the grieving maternal on these ones); and, my personal favorite, firing a loaded weapon at me, only for the trajectory to be blocked and held in midair before dropping to the ground. She could not kill me, no matter how hard she tried.

Then she stopped when her husband passed away.

He died from heart failure, but Mother believed that it was me who caused it—I was nine at the time, and there so many of "them" that I lost count, let alone their reach, and had just discovered that "they" could pass through people without causing any external damage, but plenty more of internal damage. I didn't care for the man. We were mere strangers living in the same house, casting meaningless glances at the other's way. He never addressed me as anything other than "It" and merely called Mother "woman," as though he no longer cared to know us on a Human level. But Mother grieved for him—I assume since she never fully stopped loving him, as she never started to love me.

As I said, she stopped trying to kill me at that point. She merely wished I were to go away. She pleaded with my grandparents to take me from her, and I would go with them, if only for a short while to return back home to her. And even after all that she tried to do to me. I still desperately wanted her to love me, to crave me as hers. For her to claim me as the daughter I was supposed to be. But she never did. She only resented me, and pretended that I wasn't there—I was blocked out by a sewage of alcohol and drugs.

Mother finally got her wish. I was seventeen. I met a boy. A nice boy, charming, sweet, funny. Mother liked him. I kind of did, too. He fell for me hard, that there was no one else there for him. His name was Richard, and slowly, very slowly, I began to love him, too. We dated for a short while before Richard begged me to marry him—we were barely out of high school, slowly transitioning into college. Mother urged me to marry him right away—she saw a ticket to get me away from her, and knew that Richard came from lots of money.

I agreed to it, and while the wedding was lovely and beautiful, I started to hate Richard immediately within that night. He was not the same man that I believed him to be.

I was excited for my wedding night. My first time, taken by the man I loved. But Richard was not kind, selfless, or gentle in any means. He was forceful, demanding, and while I was eager to please, if I didn't perform a certain way, he grew angry and furious, often hitting me and shoving me. He ripped my lovely, expensive dress off me and threw me to the bed, where he took me in so many violent and violating ways, to this day, I cringe with pain—it's been three years.

We were barely married for six months. Needless to say, even though Richard was a brute, he wasn't very smart. Immediately after our volatile honeymoon, I began to calculate a plan to leave him quietly and subtly, while leaving him with nothing, as he did almost every night of our marriage. I gained control of his finances, and acquired money of my own without his knowledge. I hid it well, oh, so well, and he never suspected anything happening to his money directly under his nose. He was foolish, stupid, definitely. And I did have some fun toying with him, playing tricks on his mind and making him believe that he had any control over me and this life he claimed to create.

Then I was just waiting. Waiting for the right time, for the right moment...

He beat me to it. Literally.

I'm not sure how he found out about it. Even to this day, it baffles me. But he quickly learned about the money, about me building it and stealing it from him. He wanted to know about it, how I was doing it, and then he was going to kill me right afterwards. He hit me so many times, I could only see red through my eyes, and it wasn't in rage. My head bounced up and down off the wood floors like a basketball. He hit me countlessly in the face, chest, stomach, and back. He clawed at my eyes and tried to gouge them out, hoping to kill me right then and there when I refused to talk.

Then it snapped in me. Something that had been buried away, sleeping soundlessly, for years.

My eyes opened for the first time. And I saw what I could do.

"They" swept out of me in a rage, protective and fighting, reaching for the man huddled over me. "They" reacted to my anger, my emotions. "They" took control.

I felt his body under my invisible grasp. His arms and legs wriggled under my hold. His face covered with fear and panic as he was lifted off his feet, spun in the air briefly, and I pulled at the strain in my mind—the puppet strings that controlled "them"—and in that split second that I knew what I was doing, his right arm sliced in half at the elbow, and his head split down vertically, blood spraying everywhere but me—"they" provided the perfect shield, diverging the spray away from me. His brain matter splattered against the wall behind his corpse, and what was left of him flew across the room and slunked down to the floor. A dead pile of rotting flesh and organs...

It all collapsed in me at that moment. I was free. I could leave. And no one would ever figure out that it was me—the cops never did. To law enforcement, it was some crazed intruder, since there was no evident signs of a weapon used on him, none that they could identify. I was at first a suspect, until the cops were baffled as to what could possibly kill him, and figured that there was no way I could've done it when it had to be a large figure that could throw him across the room—and I was half of my husband's size.

I let a year pass before moving on. Mother refused to talk to me. She pretended I didn't exist, and merely moved on with her life without me. I didn't mind. I started my life over again.

I enrolled into a university using my husband's money. I found a three-bedroom apartment on the other side of town and started sharing the rent with two other girls that I grew to like. I found a full-time job in downtown as a bank teller, and I began living my life with as much normalcy as I could.

But something was egging me, provoking me. It prodded at the back of my head, the same as it did the night I killed Richard.

I didn't know what it was, but it was coming, and fast.

So I braced myself for it each day, waiting.

Wondering, will this be the day I die?