A/N: This chapter is inspired by the song "love, Lust and Pixie Dust- Amy can Flyy"
Once upon a time, a little girl was born. She was small, and soft, fair skinned and dainty. She was the epitome of Snow White, in every aspect except the hair. Perched upon her tiny skull was an overflowing bouquet of red curls. Her striking grey eyes and pale pink lips were perfectly proportioned to her button nose. Her parents, Ruth and James Fitz, were of high social class, and those in the society looked upon her as the most beautiful child known to mankind. At least- that's what they said to their faces. Yes, they thought, the child was a doll, gorgeous and sweet. But they looked down upon at her parents. Ruth was a Marilyn wannabe, with her fake blonde curls, flashy outfits and frequent dinner parties. James was a ho-hum husband, at first glance... but behind the fuzzy moustache and kind eyes lay a man much darker than set out. He was mad, and each and every husband on the block knew it. He was always sexually involved with the wives, affair after affair, social climb, after climb. But somehow, they maintained their class. Go Figures, they thought, that the most undeserving couple on the ladder would have the most fetching offspring. Someone had to do something about that, they thought. And someone did, eventually. Oh so secretly. On the night of one of the Fitz's anticipated dinner parties, one member of the social ladder wandered their way into the billiard room, equipped with a large flask filled with gasoline rather than whiskey. He emptied his flask into the cigar but pan, knowing that a lit cigar would ignite the flame. He then, walked out. The party continued without a flaw, and Ruth and James Fitz stood at the front door saying goodbye to their guests. James retreated to the billiard room and made drinks for himself and his wife while Ruth checked on their little girl, who was sound asleep in her bassinette. Then, she met up in the billiard room with her husband, and they had a few drinks. After a martini or two, James Fitz lit up a cigar and he and Ruth did as most married couples do. Between kisses, James tossed his cigar butt into the canister, lighting the flame. The couple were too absorbed in the passion to take notice. It was the perfect murder. The flames engulfed the couple and devoured both them and their house. The firefighters passed it off as careless smoking, and the criminal got off scotch free. Indeed, the plan was flawless. The absolute perfect murder- except for one minor detail overlooked. Sitting unharmed in her bassinette was the little girl, not a scrape on her. Somehow, she had escaped the licking flames, and survived what could have been a fatal fire. The sunshine in the tragedy. The girl was left alone, no living relatives. Both Ruth and James Fitz had been only children, with their parents long gone. So the perfect child was hauled off to an orphanage. Alone. As she grew, she said little. She could have even have been passed off as mute. Despite her looks, no one wanted her. Too quiet, they said, too boring. She didn't mind, she just sat, and read. She was bright, so bright in fact, that she skipped several grades. She wanted to be a doctor, and so she studied dutifully and earned a scholarship. And off to school she went. By her nineteenth year, she was readying to graduate with honours from her university. She never partied, she never drank. By October of that year, boys started to take notice of the girl, one of which invited her to a Halloween party. At first, she refused. Parties were for people who weren't serious and ready for a career. But she gave in. One party would make no difference in her life. Or so she thought. She went, she drank, she laughed. She partied. She had the best night of her life. On her walk home, she was confronted by a strange man, who was undeniably attractive. He enticed her, drawing her in with his scent, his smile, and she let him. He was dangerous, and she liked it. A little too much. He kissed her on the cheek, the lips, the neck. And then, he bared his teeth and bit down. And to the pavement she fell.
How do I know this, you ask. Well that little girl was me.