I could not be more sorry about how long it took me to update, but I had crippling writers block! Literally, every time I thought about the new chapter, I'd get a headache. Thank god I've finally got a new idea, so you have your update, loyal readers :)

Now, I adore this character, so I've decided to give them a horrible death. Yep. That's my logic. :D Well, I say horrible. My mother reads my fics. She's already grounded me because of the *semi-sex* scene in my Glee fic, Freefall, so I'm on wafer-thin ice. So, not too graphic.

Chapter 4: White

White. The colour of purity, of perfection. It shouldn't exist in my world. Perfection was destroyed on that winter's night so many years ago.

I dreamt of him last night. His leering smile, his dead eyes, so devoid of any colour or emotion. His disgusting, dirt-caked hands, and what he did with them. Sleep has never been the same with him around, haunting my nightmares. Sometimes I wish I were a vampire. (Author's note: NOT Edward Cullen. Edward Cullen is a FAIRY PRINCESS. OK, back to the story.)

The body I left behind yesterday was perfect, bled completely white, like a beautifully grotesque mannequin. Hmm. With my bloodlust, maybe I am a vampire. That's good. Emotions only bring you pain.

Still, I should probably lay off the garlic bread then.

"You did great tonight," my agent beamed. I managed a smile. Sure, it had been amazing up on that stage, but I hadn't slept in three days. I needed to get back home and ask my husband to make me a cup of tea, then sleep for the rest of my natural life, hopefully.

Unfortunately, that wasn't to be.

"Shit, life's not going my way today," I grumbled and checked my car tyres. One was punctured, and I'd forgotten my spare. Cursing my luck-I was still five miles away from home-I reached for my phone and was about to dial my husband's number when the phone inexplicably fell to the ground.

I looked up and frowned. In front of me was a figure with a gold-and-black mask. Great, so I'm going to get mugged in front of everything else. It's just like I'm back in high school, I thought darkly.

"What do you want?" My voice wasn't tremulous, it was frankly bored, I was so used to this sort of thing. "I only have ten dollars in my wallet."

From the partially obscured muscles in their face twisting, I thought the figure was smiling.

"You."

With remarkable speed, I'm suddenly in a vice-like headlock, then thrown into the bushes. The stinging nettles bring up noticeable red welts on my skin, but the mind-numbing fear makes the pain disappear. They push me down and hold a knife to my throat.

The eyes through the mask are an all-too-familiar green, but for the love of God I can't think where from. Their hair is black as the sky-my dye-radar is going off-and very short. Nothing gives an indication of their gender, which is irritating. But with that amount of strength, it must be a boy, right?

Focus. Knife to throat. Cold metal. Hurts. Windpipe restricted.

"Can't…breathe…" I stammer. They reluctantly half-release the knife, and I gulp in the air like a drowning man. "What do you want?" I ask again. The same obscured smile, behind that mask. I can't help but appreciate its beauty.

A searing pain down my left forearm makes me gasp in pain. The pain steadily builds up to a burning agony and I see the figure carving patterns into my skin. Crimson beads turn into rivers-the cuts are deep. I feel dizzy with pain and blood loss.

Everything's black.

When I wake up, thank god, I'm in a hospital on this soft green bed, there's a drip hooked up into my arm, I'm safe in a hospital…

Wait. Soft green bed?

My hopes plummet as I take in my surroundings. I haven't left, that figure has just hooked me up to a drip. My wounds are bright red and untreated. I stare into the figure's cold eyes. Suddenly, I recognise them.

"Brittany?" I gasp. No way. Kind, innocent Brittany? How…what…how did this happen?"

The figure laughs, a terrible noise that sends shivers up my spine, then takes off the mask, revealing a horrifically scarred face that marrs their features. But I can distinguish one thing in my haze.

That is definitely a girl. Something about the curve of the lips and parting of the hair that I've learnt to appreciate greatly in women even though they're not…exactly…my preference…but that is a girl behind all their scars. And it's about as much Brittany as chalk is cheese. I was mistaken about the eyes. I know them from a different place. A boy I once knew.

"What are you going to do with me?" I ask in a barely audible voice, wincing at the pain that jolts through my arm. She gives a slight smile then actually replies, in a surprisingly innocent, pleasant voice.

"Well, I was thinking I'd put that same pattern on your legs and other arm, because I think it's pretty. And each time I'll put you on this drip, which'll keep you alive. But then I'll carve it into your forehead, and by then the drip will have run out, so you'll die. Sorry about that!" she says chirpily. She could be a waitress quoting the specials in a restaurant, but she's explaining how I'm going to slowly and painfully die.

She proceeds to work. The next days before I die are blurred in my mind, a sea of blood and agony. The cruel knife tortures me in other ways too- cutting off 'unnecessary' parts. An ear. A little finger. Every day I beg to die. Every day she whispers in my one remaining ear that I'm staying alive for another week. Then another. And another. Days and nights become separate in my mind. The intricate pattern in tattooed into every place by that blood blade. I am now not a human, just a shell of agony.

Finally, exactly 41 days after she kidnaps me, the drip's run out, the food that she's posted through my missing lips all gone. She smiles and gets up to leave. I manage a twisted smile and she mouths her name. I have no way to hear it, only one eye to see it with, but it's enough to discover why this had to happen.

Sighing with relief as I feel the numbness of death come over me, the puddle of blood soaking the grass finally run out, I go to sleep.

And wake up in peace.

I'd been fairly gentle to my first three victims, getting a taste for killing, but that was my first true murder. But we're not done.

It's not over till the fat lady screams.