WOW. You girls REALLY hate that model, don't you? Do you have any idea how many reviews I got to the tune of: "Chenoal! It was Chenoal! That supermodel POND-SCUM! Shoot her!!!!"

You girls are great. I heart you.

It wasn't Mrs Grey either. Or Paul. They got the next close amount of votes. Although one darling lass did say that it was Suze. Um. It's not, love. It's really not.

So my prize still stands. I'll write a lovely, fluffy one-shot featuring Nick and Yourself to whoever gives me the BEST review for this chapter.

And?

I love them long and luscious.

. . . like my hair.

No.

Really.

Like my hair.

Lol, no, I'm just shitting you. Don't write anything about my hair. That'd be silly.

Warning: this chapter is a big kid one. Don't blame me if you read something you don't like. And instead of slamming it if there's no fluff, try appreciating the aesthetic value.

So go! Read it! Love it! Then review it!

. . . Freak I'm corny. Lol.

-21). Surrender

My eyes opened and the first thing I noticed was that I was alive.

Awesome.

Second thing I noticed was that I was alone in an empty room, soaking wet, and tied in place by means of rope around my wrist and a D ring set into the concrete floor.

Not so awesome.

I had a fair quantity of rope length. Enough at any rate to try and pull myself from a heap on the floor into a seated position. Stupidly, I tried it.

I couldn't prevent a small yelp being torn from my lips as the attempt at movement unexpectedly made my body completely seize up. I lay there, trying not to move again, trying not to breathe, as I waited for the screamingly agonizing pins and needles to release me.

Tears ran, unbidden, down my cheeks.

Fucking hell . . .

My body . . . my body was frozen raw . . . my limbs ached and felt bloodless of just sheer cold, and I noticed that I was really truly drenched through.

Disorientated and shivering, I slowly and carefully tried, again, to sit up.

You'd think I would've learnt my lesson the first time.

Suffice to say . . . Didn't work. I gritted my teeth and tried not to make any noise as, again, my body seemed to petrify.

It took several, agonizing attempts, extending over God knows how long, before I was eventually able to sit up.

And by then . . . mate, I was fucked.

Through bleary eyes and heavy lids, I managed to ascertain that I was in a large concrete room. The walls were all painted dark blue, but the floor was just left a gluggy grey. I had a vague idea that the roof was also ridiculously high up, but as I was entirely unwilling to crane my neck to see for sure, I was only guessing.

There was also a door; which I sincerely doubted was locked from the inside. There were no air vents, just one lone, tiny skylight set in the roof. I didn't entertain much hope of that though. Even if I weren't chained to the damn floor, it would still be too high.

The only thing in the room, other than me, was a large white plastic fan. Battery operated, must have been. It whirred away steadily, projecting icy cold air from left to right.

From right to left.

It suddenly dawned that the cold concrete floor and icy air were not helping my frozen alive state.

That BITCH . . .

My yellow cotton tee-shirt was soaked through, and clung uncomfortably to my chilled skin, and I was not unaware that the cold water had made it completely see-through. My summer shorts were heavy with water as well, and the fibres of the denim rubbed painfully at my skin.

I started to tremble. It cheered me slightly that this didn't re-invite the paralysis.

Water droplets ran off my hair and onto and down my legs as my shaking dislodged them. I watched their progress bleakly, almost as numb in mind as I was in body.

I knew who it was now . . .

I guess you could say that it ALL made sense now. I only really had one last question left unanswered. Why wasn't I dead already?

She want to gloat or something?

Did she want me to lie here, frozen and growing colder by the second, berating myself for NEVER having suspected her?

Because I hadn't.

Not for a single second. I would never have thought that Lisa Vanderleigh could have murdered her own daughter.

I sat there for what felt like forever, helpless but to wait as the cold seeped through to my bones, making them feel brittle and alien.

I was pretty sure that that wasn't no accident, either.

I didn't just happen to be drenching wet.

It wasn't merely unfortunate there was a huge fan in the entirely concrete room.

I'm pretty damn sure I was supposed to be feeling like a leg of mutton in the freezing works.

Bitch.

Eventually I lost track of time. My wristwatch and cell-phone had been removed from my person (I tied not to dwell on this,) and I had no means whatsoever of distinguishing one hour from the next.

After a while, my stomach began to feel like it would digest itself for hunger, and I really wouldn't have said no to a bathroom break . . .

Of course, it's a little hard to care too much about that shit when you're more preoccupied with frostbite and lifelong paralysis concerns.

I was able to discern by the skylight when night fell. Adding insult to injury was how perfect and clear the night sky looked. I could tell, that beyond my own glacial incarceration, it was temperate night.

I sat there and just waited. It was all I could do. I sat there and waited for my own death. Not exactly an awesome thing to have to wait for, but I was kind of low on options.

She hadn't exactly provided me with a PSP or anything. Talk about cheap.

Although I would have settled for NOT DYING OF HYPOTHERMIA.

I've said it once, and I'll say it again.

BITCH!!!!!

At first I couldn't decide wether I wished she would never come in, or if she'd just hurry up and kill me already. Yet as the hours stretched on, I found myself more inclined to favour the latter.

I don't mean to sound garish, but it was FUCKING COLD!!!!!

Then the door slowly inched open.

Frantically I found myself going back on my pervious fatalist aspirations.

No no . . . I though to myself frantically. I changed my mind . . . . you can piss off now, I'll just hang out here and wait till my heart congeals . . .

Stacy's mum stepped around the door and practically sashayed up to me in my shackled state. If I could've been certain that any spitting on my part would not have solidified before I'd gotten it all the way outta my mouth, I mighta given it a shot.

"Aww, Melinda, sweetie," she purred. I just shivered some more. It wasn't like I had a choice or anything. Then she reached down and with a deft flick of her (not frozen) hands, she untied the rope.

You know what sucked the MOST? She'd left the door wide open. If I wasn't stuck to the floor like an icicle to your tongue, I was sure I could've made it. THEN it would be all fool her for leaving the fucking door open. And untieing me!

Wait. I guess she knows that.

I guess that was her idea then.

A wound-and-salt sort of thing, I was assuming.

"Keith!" she called. "Keith, darling, come here! You'll love this."

Keith then materialised at her elbow. The abruptness of this may have made me jump, but again. I felt a little like an Igloo.

Keith looked down at me, in all his beefy glory. He held a slight wooden chair in his hand, but any significance of this did not dawn on me. Keith snorted at me, a shivering huddle on the floor. "Sucks to be you, princess."

I had to agree.

Although, if you ask me, it'd suck to be Keith as well. On a good day.

However a new feeling was beginning to permeate the awful numbness, and my—unsuccesful—stabs at alleviating humour.

Fear.

I'm no martyr. I'm scared shitless to die. Especially at the hands of my best friend's sadistic patho of a mother.

Bummer.

I'm sure you think I'm being cavalier right now. Joking and all. I'm not trying to. I just don't think I could handle—handle—THIS any other way.

Lisa noticed expression on my face and smiled widely.

The only thing I could think of right then, was that movie, "The Bank Job" with that guy from "Transporter" in it. In it the baddies steal this guy down into a vault, and then torture him with a blow torch to get him to tell them where his friend is.

And—

And all I see in my mind was an image of me lying on this concrete floor with my—

With my skin all melted and pooling to the concrete floor.

—I would be left here.

—And my skin would cool in the air and set to the . . . to the concrete . . .

My spine curled, and my forehead met up against the unforgiving cold concrete ground.

"Look at me Melinda." Lisa murmured.

I didn't. Not because I was going for any great defiance thing, but because I literally could not raise my forehead from the icy cool concrete.

My body began to heave slightly. It took me a second to work out that I was crying, tearless sobs. My body was too overwrought to produce actual tears, so it was just going through the motions of fear.

This just freaked me out more.

I heard her mutter something, but I couldn't distinguish the words. The next thing I felt was Keith's beefy (and burning hot compared to my overall body temperature,) hands on my head lifting me up by my drenched hair. He heaved my traumatised body clear of the floor and chucked me into the wooden chair, and I grasped at the sides, in an effort to keep myself upright.

"Mother fucker," I wheezed, not quite having enough air or voice to make the words distinguishable even to my own ears. At any rate, Lisa just laughed at me some more.

I stared dully up at her, made stupid by my knowledge that there was no escape.

"Hey! Hey Melinda!" Keith wrenched my head in his direction. "Are you surprised??" He exclaimed with glee, like a child boating over their hide-and-go-seek victory. "It was LISA, this whole time!!!"

Lisa smiled at her devotee; like a mother indulging her child's "In your FACE, I win, clever me!" sing-song.

I wouldn't get too excited about that there Keith. Lisa kills her kids, hadn't you heard?

Of course you had.

You pulled the fucking trigger.

. . . This would be so much cooler if I could say it aloud. But two things: one: It would have taken WAY too much effort to try and shape my numb lips around the words, and two: I hear its never a good idea to piss off anyone when you're a hostage.

That seemed to my numb brain like pretty sound advice.

Then again.

We're not always given the choice.

"Yes . . " Lisa drawled. "It's true. I killed Stacy. Stacy . . . Brian . . . Alanna . . . That British fellow . . . and I had a go at your mum . . ."

"Would," My voice came out as a rasping, husky snarl. "Would you like a gold star?"

. . . FUCK UP, OK??? It was the only smart reply I could think of!!!!!

LIKE YOU COULD DO BETTER!!!!!

Lisa frowned. "What?"

I decided that was enough out of me, and sat there mute.

Lisa obviously decided to let it pass. Instead she began to slowly circle me. Warily, I lifted an aching arm and had a go at pushing Keith's fat hands of me. It was successful, and wasn't at the same time. Regardless, he let go of me.

"So," Lisa drawled from somewhere behind me. I swung my head around, trying to see her. "No stunned disbelief? No incredulous stuttering of my name? 'Oh dear oh my!'" She cried in a damsel falsetto. "'I cannot believe it! I trusted you! You were my friend!" And she cracked up.

"Um, actually," I said in my sea-crustacean voice, "I don't sound anything like that."

. . . Way to tell her Melinda.

Abruptly I heard her cease her mockery. "Well of course you don't."

"No-no." I stuttered, wary. "I don't."

"But you see sweetheart," she said casually, moving to stand over me. She leaned forwards, placing a hand on the chair's armrests on either side of me. "You will." And she reached out to tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear.

I could only stare, petrified.

Lisa smiled at me apologetically, in a manner that still didn't quite reach her cold grey eyes.

Then with a quick flick of her arm, she pulled something from the back waistband of her jeans. I didn't see what the object was.

"You see Melinda," Stacy's mom whispered, leaning even closer to me. "Everyone screams the same way when they're dying." She shot a look at Keith, obviously enjoying a private joke. "Take our word for it."

Keith chuckled.

Belatedly, I began to fight in earnest.

Keith was there before I'd made any progress, slamming me back into the chair with a force that should have broken it. Or me. The chair tilted backwards with Keith's force, and I scrambled for balance. Lisa strode forward and grabbed me by the throat.

I'll thank her some other time.

Also on top of my recent good fortune, Lisa finally decided to show me what it was she'd had behind her back.

I honestly, wish she hadn't.

She was showing me by pressing it tight up against my check, and even though I couldn't see it exactly, I know a knife when I feel one.

Suddenly, she slid the blade sideways and I felt a painful stinging and the warm wetness.

My eyes widened in shock and pain and I reminded myself to keep breathing. No need to make her job easier.

Brave words . . .

I wonder if I'd still be feeling the same way when she started scraping bone.

Lisa watched calmly as I swiped uselessly at the blood gushing down the side of my face. "Oh dear," she said sympathetically. "Your pretty face. What a shame."

Tears mingled with the blood and I wondered fleetingly of this was all a case of prom queen resentment, or something. Lisa got passed up for the crown back in 1972 and never got over it; now she's overcompensating with me—?

Then I realised, no, that probably wasn't it. She's just crazy.

Well, neither scenario was looking too promising for me anyway, so I dunno why I was getting so hung up on it.

"Oh yeah?" I then managed to choke out through tears, snot and, oh yeah, MY OWN BLOOD, "Well you own a mustang convertible! So SHAME!!"

Lisa sighed at my pathetic—yet valid, wouldn't you say?—comment and stepped back from me, dangling her instrument in the air by it's handle. "Recognise this Melinda?"

Reluctantly, I looked at the blade, if only out of a lack of other alternatives, only to give a start and realise I DID recognise it.

No . . .

It is Nick's.

This is Nick's knife.

I knew without a doubt that it was his. And even if I were in any way inclined to doubt it, the engraved initials at the base of the handle would have been enough to dissuade me.

How the hell did she get that?

I tried to process this. The knife was from his top left bureau drawer! I remember it! I came across it when I was staying with Nick.

"What's that?" I'd asked him, instantly wary of any object of violence. It's not like I was hiding out from a sadistic murderer or anything.

He muttered some pathetic explanation and tried to move it out of my sight. I wouldn't let it go. It bothered me that he had such a large knife. I mean, it wasn't like it was a pocket-knife or anything, this was a full out dagger.

Eventually, he'd sighed. "It's a family heirloom, alright?"

"Aside from the fact that the Slater's only heirloom is money, how can you expect me to believe that this has been in your family for generations when I can, in fact, clearly see the present generation's initials on the handle?"

He'd rolled his eyes.

"Nick?" I persisted. "What? Your ancestors could tell the future? KNEW what your name was going to be? Scratched in your initials on a lucky guess?"

"I'm named after my great grandfather, Melinda."

". . . Oh. Well that makes WAY more sense."

He rolled his eyes again, probably once again marvelling at the neurosis of his girlfriend.

"Still though," I attempted. "That is one . . . HUGE knife."

He exhaled gustily. "Yeah. It's all about dynasty power, symbolism, legacy, blah blah blah . . . It's stupid."

"Oh. Ok, yeah, I get it."

I think it goes without saying that although I'd agreed with him at the time, I didn't really get it. At all. Symbolism? Legacy? Dynasty?

DOUBLEYEW-TEE-EFF?

NOW, as in right now, with the knife being dangled in my face like chocolate cake in an anorexic's, I suddenly got it. It was a sacrificial dagger. Ornamented for the purpose of reminding each of the Slater kin of their position on the hierarchy of life.

Slaters' must always be at the top, with their daggers.

People (like, oh, I dunno, ME,) come at the bottom. We're the sacrifices.

This ephiphany—while enlightening—did nothing to alleviate my present situation, however. And Stacy's mum must have seen the knowledge in my face. "Oh yes," she murmured. "It's your boyfriend's own little knife—" Little wasn't an adjective I'd use, "—that's going to be making you scream your perfect little head off as I try my hand at facial reconstruction."

I sucked in a breath. I'm kind of fond of my face really. I mean I'm no Aishwarya Rai or anything, but whose complaining?

"Ironic isn't it?" she added happily. " . . . I hope he isn't too attached to your face."

"It's—It's—the knife—is just an object." I tried, "Nick's not behind it."

Keith stepped forward then. "Maybe. But I reckon he wishes it was. Last I saw, he wasn't too fond of you."

. . . memories of his attempts at arson come to mind. "YES!" I said too loudly. "He broke up with me because I cheated on him! He hates me now, and I hate him!!!"

I was barely fooling anyone anymore. Sure enough, Keith sniggered.

I was so glad everyone thought this whole thing so damn funny.

"Maybe you're right Melinda," Lisa nodded, a smile too playing about her mouth. "Guess it means nothing to you that I've decided he'll be killed anyway. Never liked him. So just so you know, even if you did . . . say, dump him just to save him . . . " she shrugged.

I began to cry.

I couldn't—I just couldn't do this. I couldn't handle this woman. She was CRAZY, she was DERANGED, and she would do anything to mentally dismantle me.

I felt like screaming at her, STOP!!! CUT IT OUT ALREDAY!!! IS OVER! I'm DONE!! YOU WIN!!!

But she already knew that.

She had the perfect tricks to get in a persons head and dismantle them.

She got the world think her own daughter had killed herself.

And she'd got me to find Brian. To find Daniel. And to find Alanna.

She'd got me to realise the link between all these 'accidents'. The link that was . . . me.

And now she was ready to kill me. I could see it in her eyes. And probably, she'd ensure that it was Nick who found me. Probably bloody and mangled and riddled with holes made by his own knife.

Yes. That's what she would do.

My eyes drifted shut and I swallowed.

I wondered how much it would hurt him to see me like that? If he would know that I'd lied to him. I loved him. I loved him so much. I wondered if he'd then be put through the same torturous pain I knew Lisa was going to bring my way very shortly.

I hoped not.

But there was nothing I could do about it.

More tears slid out from beneath my closed lids.

"Aw, there there," Keith cupped his hand around my cheek and kissed a tear off. I just cried some more. "Hey, I know what might make you feel better!"

I heaved my lids upwards and with a massive effort, rolled my head up to meet Keith's gaze. It would only be worse if I didn't. I've just figured out: the path of least resistance is best.

Apathy . . . apathy is like cocoon. You become so swathed in it, that you can't feel anymore; and you can only hope you never will again. No matter how big the knife.

"NOT knowing why!" Keith exclaimed gleefully.

Stacy's mom glared daggers at him, a look that all too clearly said, 'fuck up homo! You're killing my moment!'

Because I knew most of it now. I knew what happened. I knew what was going to happen. All I didn't know was WHY it happened.

And I had a pretty good idea that no-one here was about to spill the beans.

Lisa turned her back on Keith. "He's right," She purred. "All is NOT going to be revealed. Not how, not when, and certainly not why."

I began to laugh hysterically thourght the flood of tears dripping from my chin. "The broad thinks," I choked out between giggles, "she's Doctor Suess" I hiccoughed, and then cracked up.

I don't know what was wrong with me. THIS WASN'T FUNNY!

Keith stared at me in disbelief "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked, in regards to my sudden burst of wit.

"Does she NEED a reason? She's a fucking psycho! Who owns a RED CONVERTIBLE! Shame!" I added to Lisa forgetting that I'd already said this. I then dissolved into giggles again.

I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop myself. It was the least funny moment of my life and I couldn't stop laughing. Seems Lisa's not the only patho in the room.

Lisa smiled calmly. "You're awfully funny for one whose going to have the point of her boyfriend's knife sticking out of her forehead soon."

. . . Yeah. There was that.

Abruptly my laughter cut out.

"Because you know," Lisa ploughed relentlessly on with her psychobabble, "Melinda, I'm like a magician, you see. And a magician never reveals their secrets. Otherwise your disappearance wouldn't be quite so . . . perfect."

I looked at her with bleary eyes. I didn't say it; but I'm sure she knew what I was thinking.

Yeah. Ok. Hurry up.

There was nothing, NOTHING I could do. I'd tried everything. And because I hadn't just let her kill me in the beginning, Alanna and Daniel and Brian were dead as well. I couldn't stop her. I wasn't enough. I was only making it worse.

My heart tapped out a dull rhythm, and I finally surrendered something I'd been fighting for for a long time.

My life.

"So, Melinda." She said my name like it was a punch line of her favourite joke. Which, I guess, is not a bad analogy. "Has this been fun?"

I didn't have anything to say to that.

She walked forward and pulled my clenched knees apart, coming to stand in between my legs. Like she was going to . . .? Fuck that's weird.

I saw Keith start to chuckle behind her, and it dawned on me that I might not be that far off . . .

Oh my God.

Poor Nick.

He was going to find the aftermath of whatever Lisa decided to do . . .

Lisa placed her arms around my neck and arched her chest into my face. I looked up at her with dull horror. What the HELL . . .

Then her next statement threw some enlightenment on the situation. "Teenagers are funny aren't they," She asked. I don't know wether she was talking to me or Keith. "It's all about sex when you're sixteen."

My breathing stilled.

"Can you imagine . . ." she drawled, sliding the point of Ni—the dagger over the bare and goosebumped skin of my thigh. '. . . How beautiful it would it be if Nick found Keith—"

That's when I screamed.

Keith came out of no-where, and was behind me, his big hands covering my mouth.

"Scream all you like!' Lisa huffed, throwing her arm up to my throat, and pressing the big dagger tightly over my throat. I froze.

Dreadfully gentle, Lisa slid the blade down the front of my tee-shirt, cutting the fabric apart. I could hear Keith's heavy breathing behind me.

I began to shake again.

Not from the cold this time.

Lisa held the point of the knife at the base of my sternum, below my breasts. "No-one can hear you princess."

And without giving me a change to respond—not that I had anything to say anyway—Lisa bent at the waist, and used the weight of her body to slash the knife horizontally over my ribs. I screamed again, as the knife slid over my rib-bones. It hurt SO bad, how could anything—

Lisa reacher out and swept a hand over the incision, in an almost loving way. A guttural sound was tore from my throat as her skin made contact with the flash mess. Blood flew out, and I doubled over, trying to protect myself, but wrenched back against the chair by Keith. My body went limp, and I would have fallen, if not painstakingly held in place. Blood was everywhere, streaming down over my stomach and thighs, making a splatter pattern on the cold concrete.

It felt like fire. Torn, and hot and BURNING.

My head and neck slumped over, I clenched my eyes and teeth tightly, trying to stay conscious. God knew how worse it would be if I didn't. I screamed incomprehensible words at her, tears running into my throat and partially choking me when I opened my mouth. I spluttered and the motion seared my stomach over again.

"Oh shush," I barely made out Lisa's voice. "It's not deep, really. Those sort of wounds just . . . sting a little."

My eyes rolled back into my head as I took hold of my lip between my teeth and tried to breathe deeply.

Then I heard a different sounding scream. At first I just thought it was me again, I juts didn't know it. Then I made out Stacy's voice.

"No!!!" I heard a flurried rustle, and the muffled sounds of movement. "Mum—" The weight of keith's hands left my neck, and then I heard a sound that sounded a lot like a sixteen year old ghost having the shit knocked out of her by a big beefy forty year old ghost.

I swayed, and hit the cold concrete floor. I whimpered at the impact, and my body curled into itself. I just let myself sink pathetically into the floor.

God, God this—

. . . save them, save them. Get them—away—

"MUM! Please! What are you DOING?"

"Means to an end sweetheart," came the unruffled reply.

"Melinda!" Stacy screamed at me. I didn't move. I didn't open my eyes. I didn't know if I could. I felt so weak. I could feel the sticky wetness of the concrete, and belatedly. I realised what it was. There was so much . . . felt so dizzy . . .

"Melinda, it's OK!!—oompfh—Fuck, OFF!!!" I heard a rush and then a loud crash.

Then soft hands were on my wrists, patting my forehead, "Melinda," Stacy gasped, "Oh my God, Melinda, can you hear me? Listen, it's OK, Nick—"

Then Stacy's hands were ripped off me and there was silence.

Pure, untainted silence.

I could taste tangy flavour of blood on my lips.

"Oh, get up, you pathetic little girl," I heard Lisa snap. I assumed she was talking to me. "You're fine. We've got a lot more we have to do before you can—"

Then, for the last time, Lisa's voice cut off. I heard a loud crack, and the distinctive sound of a body falling.

Hope—

I didn't know if this was salvation, ready for me. Or alternately, just an accelerated from of damnation. Which I was presently of a mind to view as the same thing.

Springs—

I blacked out.

Eternal—

ReeeeeeeeevIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEwwwwww . . . .

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