Title: My Bloody Valentine

Author: Angela

Summary: The Boogey Man is real, and tonight it's in the form of a quicksilver mad Darien Fawkes. I'm ashamed to admit this was inspired by a Good Charlotte song.

My Bloody Valentine

I don't know why I came here, why I wanted her so badly. I was driving down street after street, looking for something but not knowing what it was, and then I passed by her house. I ached at the sight of it. I know that ache, and I know that I can't leave here until it's gone.

She was my girlfriend in high school. She didn't put out for months, and even when she did, she wouldn't go down on me for another few weeks. Said it hurt her throat. I took her to the prom even though I thought it was stupid. I gave that bitch so much time. Every time the wait wasn't worth it, but I never learned. I was in love with her, and she made me feel like a fool.

About two weeks ago, I was driving down this same street and noticed her holding hands with this guy, walking into the house I'm parked in front of right now. Even after all these years, it hurt to see her with someone else. It shouldn't have, but it did. I didn't realize how much until now. I shouldn't have felt that pain. I hate her, and I hate him.

"Hancock" is on the mailbox, one of those brick things that all these damn suburban assholes have. Married, are they? Great.

Walking from my car to the house, a two-story place with white wood paneling, I can only think of how fucking stupid it is that they live in a house this big. What the hell could two people do with all that room? Unless they have kids. Even better.

She left the door unlocked, stupid bitch. She thinks she's safe because the guy moved them into a nice calm neighborhood. She doesn't have to worry about criminals. She doesn't have to worry about people like me. Such stupidity deserves what it's about to get.

Typical living room. A tan couch sits in front of a coffee table, which sits in front of a television. Shelves of books and little high-priced but worthless pieces of memorabilia. An end table with a lamp on top of it. Curtains covering the one, big window in the room. Pictures line the walls, but it's too dark for me to make out what I'm sure are smiling faces. This is making me sick.

The whole place is dark. Standing in front of the stair case, I can hear water running upstairs. She's taking a bath, hoping for a relaxing evening, I'm sure. Sorry, sweetie, but it's just not your night.

First step, second step. Third, fourth. Wait 'till you see my face, Katie.

I can smell the bath oils. Something with lavender, same shit she used back in high school.

My steps aren't making the slightest noise. She's singing. Breathy, high-pitched streams of torture. She never could carry on a tune. The door's a little more than half way closed. As I reach to push it open, I notice that, of course, I've still got blood on my hands.

I tore him apart like a fucking doll, not more than an hour ago. He didn't even put up much of a fight. What a pussy. Blood is all over my clothes, too, and I don't need to look in a mirror to know it's on my face as well. But that's to be expected when you rip into a man's jugular with your bare hands.

Soundlessly, I start to push open the door, expecting a scream, but she doesn't see me. She's facing the opposite wall, sitting in a pool of bubbles. Leaning against the wall, I stare at her, wondering if I should just wait until she notices me. She's just as pale as she was in high school, her hair just as black. Maybe I'd be able to stand here for a ten, fifteen minutes, if it wasn't for that god damn singing.

I make it to the tub in three steps and grab her by her hair before she can react, push her head under the water just as she starts screaming. Blindly, clumsily, she tries to grab my arm. She's yelling underneath the water. It's hilarious because she's just wasting her breath and energy. I lift her up, let her choke and scream for a couple of seconds, then shove her back under.

I let her struggle, acting like I'm having a hard time controlling her, letting her think that just maybe she has a chance. Then I yank her up by her hair and slam her head on the porcelain edge of the tub, leaving a smear of blood on it. She immediately goes limp, but I continue to hold her up by her hair. Blood drips down the middle of her face, seeping into one of her eyes. I stare at her for a while, wishing she could see the disgust on my face.

I let go of her hair, and her body falls back into the bubbles and water. I wash my face and hands and plan on going back home to change. I've got a lot more to do tonight, and I don't want to attract the wrong kind of attention, not so soon. I can't have my plans spoiled.

As I'm about to leave, I notice a baby crying. Well, I can't just leave the little critter here all by itself, now, can I? I turn back around and start down the hallway.

This has been a great night, and it's about to get even better.

The End