I awoke in the morning, my face smashed into my pillow. My hands were curled at my sides, the soft black gloves still snug around my fingers. I groaned, hauling myself up, rubbing my eyes. I looked around my room, seeing the Bloody Painter was no where in sight. Perhaps he wouldn't come today... I mean, it was a long shot after all. I lazily stood, hearing the springs in my bed creak as I did. Memories of the previous night invaded my mind, warmth spreading throughout me. After the Bloody Painter slit Jeremy's throat, we simply stood, watching until every last drop dripped down into the bucket. Once done, we left the body hanging where it was, collecting all the tools and the bucket. Our truck through the woods was quiet, but not in an uncomfortable way. He had walked me to the edge, until my home was in clear sight. I told him goodnight, then started ahead, his figure disappearing behind me.

I could get used to this. I wasn't even going to lie to myself, I was happier now than I have been in a long while. I padded into the bathroom, a much needed shower my first priority. I started the water, turning the handles until it was scolding hot. I then shrugged out of my black and red hoodie, then pulled off my black jeans. Perhaps I should wash them later... make it a usual outfit when I go off with the Bloody Painter. I nodded to myself, stripping out of the rest of my clothes, then jumping into the scalding shower. Steam billowed around me as I quickly took the shower, not wanting to still be in here when or if the Bloody Painter arrives. Although I do doubt very highly that he would come this early. How he managed to still stealthily creep through daylight unnoticed is a mystery to me. But it just made him all the more intriguing.

Once done, I hopped out, swaddling a towel around my torso. My brown eyes were half open, sleepiness still tugging on the back of my mind. I had to get used to the times of my new... hobby. I laugh bubbled up through my lips as I rung out my hair with another towel. Walking out of the bathroom, I felt the icy cold air from my room hit me like a wall, steam pouring out like fog. Hurriedly, I got dressed and dried my hair. Styling it like usual, I threw it up in a quick ponytail allowing my pierced ears to show. I peeked out the window once more, seeing nothing in sight. I bit my lip, disappointment beginning to fill me. Yeah, it was most certainly a long shot expecting him to come. To think that we could possibly even be friends? No. To him, it was nothing more than work. I was an assistant, a prodigy, a potential killer that he wanted to mold into something.

I sighed, walking out of my room and into the kitchen once more. I peeked around the corner, seeing both of my parents gone once more. A sight that used to upset me is now blissful to see. I made a quick bowl of cereal, scarfing it down, following it with some water. I leaned back on the wooden kitchen chair, listening to the silence that echoed around me. A sudden, quiet knock got my attention, causing me to stand in an alarmingly fast rate. The chair tumbled to the ground, the boom echoing around the empty house. I quickly picked it up, then broke off into a sprint to my room. I grabbed the doorway, pulling myself to a stop as my eyes instantly fell upon my window. A smile involuntarily broke across my face at the sight of the Bloody Painter.

I hurried to the window, nearly throwing it open. I couldn't help but wonder why he knocked, when both of us knew he could get in easily without my assistance. For a killer, he still did seem to appear to have manners, which was shocking. He stepped through the window, easily landing on the carpet below. Blood splatters appeared to be fading on his mask, but he didn't seem to mind it too much. His hands were tucked into his navy jacket, his light blue eyes appraising me. I shut the window, releasing the black drapes so they swung over. Didn't need anyone walking by and see a killer in my bedroom.

"Hi," I started, walking over to my bed and plopping down. "I didn't think that you'd come today," I chuckled to myself, my blatant honesty causing him to laugh.

"Yes, I just have so many things on my schedule to prevent me from coming," he sarcastically replied, sitting down at my canvas.

"Still," I shrugged, crossing my arms.

He faced my canvas, screwing off the lid of the blood jar once more. "Do you mind?" he asked, signalling to the blank canvas in front of him.

"Not at all," I replied, shaking my head.

"Why don't you paint as well?" he offered, scooting over, patting the space beside him.

My eyes widened, my heart thumping unevenly. "Um... sure," I replied, baffled. I have never painted with anyone before, let alone on the same canvas. How was this going to work?

Wordlessly, we began to paint, each of us taking one side of the canvas. Blood was all we were using, the texture still unusual to me. I gripped my thin paint brush, thoughtlessly drawing random lines. I nearly had to force myself not to look over at his side, knowing once I did I wouldn't be able to look away. I continued on, noticing how the blood slowly trickled down the paper until finally coming to a stop and drying. We continued to silently work, our sides slightly touching due to sharing the same seat. Our arms would brush against each other when either of us would get more blood on my paint brush or dip it in the small glass of water.

He finished before me, his side nearly covered with blood from what I could see out of the corner of my eye. I was nearly finished, still not knowing where this had come from. I knew exactly what it was, yet I hoped he couldn't figure out what it was. Although it was miserably obvious in my opinion. There was the frame of a window, the scene shaded with the blood. The most prominent thing was the figure of a boy behind the glass, it being the thickest and darkest part of the painting. I peeked over at the Bloody Painter's side, amazed by what I saw. It was the same thing... only from the other way around. The scene of my window from the outside, the view of my bedroom on the inside. A darker figure sitting in front of my canvas. Me.

I looked up at him, my eyes wide, my mouth dropped open. His blue eyes were stunned as he took in my drawing, before he threw an accusing look my way. "You peeked, didn't you," he grumbled.

"No," I replied, shaking my head, furiously. "I was about to ask the same of you."

He cocked his head, his eyes falling back onto the still drying canvas. "Amazing..." he whispered as his baby blue orbs scanned the painting.

"What is your name?" I asked, the words exploding from my mouth without a single thought. "I'm tired of called you Bloody Painter like everyone else. I know you wanted me to kill and be more comfortable around me before you reveal your name... but I just have to know. You should see by now that I am more serious about what we do than anything else in my entire life."

His eyes still were locked on the painting, no response coming from him. I waited, still not seeing anything different from him. I sighed, standing up from our seat. I was about to turn, and leave, when I finally heard him speak.

"Helen. Helen Otis," he whispered.

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