Ok I saw that one of the viewers wants to see a diary form type of story from Freddy when he was younger. I tried to do some background information of some parts, basically from nightmare 6; Freddy's Dead. I really don't know how to begin this really. I don't want it to be drawn out and seem rather boring. I've thought about this idea for about 2 weeks now and decided to give it a try. This isn't perfect since we know so little about Freddy when he was younger. So...what I'll do is just start it off with just a few journal/diary entries that Freddy may possibly would put in this. I'm going to start this off rather differently. We all know Freddy was a craze maniac and everything. We know that somehow dream demons were apart of his insanity. What if Freddy was never like what he became? What if these dream demons were with him this whole time, only it was voices in his head? BTW...thank you for your info on Tattoo. I'm really glad you enjoyed it. But this is going to be a long project so I hope to get more started soon. So..here ya go.

You think you know, but you still have no idea. This is the Diary of Frederick Charles Krueger.

Dear Diary, September 13, 1967

I got another shiner from fake-dad today. For some odd reason he thought I was drinking his Wild Turkey (which I was. It was the only way to numb the pain) and thought to give me a dose of my own medicine. He dragged me down the stairs into that dweary darkness that he calls my bedroom. He threw me onto the cold concrete. If only I had friends who knew and understood my feelings as I sat on that floor. With his leather belt he slashed across my back, my legs and my arms. He hit my face; felt like bricks hitting my bones. I winced at the pain and cried aloud. I asked him to stop but with that Turkey on his breath and his mind in a fog, he never heard my screams. I try to think of my mother, so that the pain is bearable at the least. I feel that this notebook, full of wonderless dreams and thoughts will not be able to console me any longer. I want to go home. I want to be with my mother. I want to know if she's ok wherever she is. I want to have her embrace me, tell me that there's no reason to stay with fake-dad. I want my mother. I want to smell her clothes, feel her soft hand grace my face and wipe my tears. I want to hear her say "I love you, Fred." The only thing I do hear is the voices in my head, aruging back and forth. I tell them to stop yelling. Leave me alone. But they never do. I want to escape. But these voices, like fake-dad, don't listen. They keep badgering, tell me things that I shouldn't do. It's evil I tell them I don't want to hurt anyone. They only laugh and snicker. "You are nothing Freddy. A piece-of-shit that your daddy puts down here. A mindless little thing. Your mommy was fucked by many men, heaving and gasping a-top of her. They found solice in raping her, tearing her inside as well out. She was ravaged with those dicks they played with so much in a corner, collecting cum to form a little mountain. When that door closed, they knew what they were doing. It was a sense of clairty. They were not crazy for what they done. What they did brought them to life." Why am I cursed with voices in my head, telling me dirty thoughts of ravaging someone, what it feels to rip skin with bare hands? I do not want to hear this. I must go to confession on Monday. I'm about to go out of my mind with this. Brother Carl must hear these thoughts so that I may be purged of these sins and see my mother again.

Dear Diary September 16,1967

I don't know how long I can take it. Fake-dad can't stand me anymore. Every time I see that bottle of booze by the couch, I dread the worse. Everyday I got to school, hear them calling me names, the Son of A Hundred Maniacs, the scum, the fool, the pussy. I thought that when that clock struck 3:00, I was safe, homeward bound. Only from the minds of other kids who come home to a warm house, loving parents and supper being made on the stove. Me? I come home and find my foster father, lounging on the couch, with one hand on Wild Turkey and the other down his pants. No supper on the stove, no warm home with smells of clove and lemon. When I come home, I smell the whiskey from my father's breath and smoke from his cigarettes. The smell burns my nostrils and makes my eyes water. Is this what home really is now? For being only 15, I guess that this is . A bastard son living with a broken man who's only solace is in a bottle. This isn't a home. This is torture, prison or whatever comes to mind where you don't want to be left alone. I went to confession today. Brother Carl wasn't in for he was on a mission in Belize. I wish I can leave Springwood and go do some good in the world. Like a blister, I fester in one spot and stay. Brother Jacob heard my confession. When I told him of these voices, what they tell me and want me to do he gasped. I told him everything, down to the last detail.

"God Above, you make the Devil righteous with your impure thoughts. Why must you think these things Frederick? God loves you and only wants you to be pure, to be self-righteous. You have to cast these thoughts away, child or it will bring Satan onto your soul. Say Three Hail Mary's, 4 Our Fathers, and 2 prayers for me and Brother Carl on mission. God protect you, Frederick, for His light shall shine."

As I crossed myself, I doubt if I'll ever see the light of God shine within me. I've given up, in a way. I want to keep the holy trinity of life in me and in my heart, but as I see it, there's nothing that God has on me. He forsakes his son for my freedom, I doubt. If so, why would he create in order to destroy? The facts of Life? HA! What seems to be more of story book fiction that of actual life. This man we call Jesus, God's son, died on that cross, bared the wounds and saw the blood trail from his hands and feet. He has nothing on me. He doesn't have to go through the same pain every day, feel the wounds heal and then rupture. No more cracked ribs, no torn muscles. He's dead and has to feel nothing. I wish I was dead sometimes. May I wouldn't feel this way. Maybe I wouldn't show up to confession to purge these voices.

They are back. I can't write no more.

Dear Diary, September 22, 1967.

I didn't realize how hard it is to breathe now. I almost passed out in Algebra today. I was sitting in class, not minding the spit wads hitting the side of my head from Bobby Fletcher and staring out at the playground. There were little tykes, maybe 7 or 8 and they were giggling, playing on the swing set, sliding down the slide. A couple of girls were playing jump rope and singing songs. They were laughing. I forgot how to. I haven't laughed for along time. I feel like crud on the bottom of a work boot, sticking in the crevice of the print. As I starred out beyond the playground and into the blue sky that shined, I reflected on my life at this point. Given, it's been only a few years since I began to write fluently in these notebooks, more in the past year. As the day wears on and I get older, I become less human. I don't ever talk much anymore. I have no friends. Ha, I forgot what friends are actually for. Where I almost got to the point where everything goes blank a singe of pain hit my left side. I stopped breathing. At the time I didn't feel any pain, it was more of a relief. That for once I didn't have to depend on inhaling oxygen, I didn't need to worry about being here. It...felt...amazing. I found myself in the nurses station though with ice on my side. They found me on the floor. I did stand up gasp and then just feel like a ton of bricks onto the linoleum. A doctor came and found I had 2 broken rips and 3 cracked ones. When he asked me what happened, I said that my fake-dad threw me down the stairs again and kicked me several times. My lips quiver with the thought of being able to say it but I just lied through my teeth and said I fell off of my bike onto the sidewalk. I told him I would take some aspirin when I get home. I just realize I'm a very good liar. What does that mean? I lie about everything to everyone. I tell them when I had a shiner, I told them I was kicked by a horse. When I had my broken arm, I told them I feel out of a tree. If I really told them that my fake-dad did this in his drunken rage, they wouldn't believe me.

Why would it matter, Fred. Even the priest thinks you're a fucking loony. You know that Brother Carl wasn't on a mission. You knew where he was. You saw it plain as day just as we did. We saw his car parked down by an abandoned building with neon lights still flashing "Girls. Girls. Girls." We all went to check it out and saw your priest in full grande with his pants down to his ankles, getting spanked by that whore. God, she has some big tits, I would have loved to lived in her head and feel my way down south.

Fucking stop it. I've had it with you guys. That's it, I'm finding another way to take care of this.

Dear Diary, October 12, 1967

I found another way. I'm sorry that it has been a while since I've last written. I've discovered something amazing. It help keep them quiet! At long last I found something to keep them quiet. Not a lot of people know this or even know it's a growing fad. The other day I was in the bathroom, trying to figure out if I wanted to stay home or go to school. I really didn't want to go to either places. Before I left I found my dad's razor on the floor. Looks like he dropped it when he was so blistering drunk, trying to shave. I picked it up and it cut me. I watched the blood balloon in the cut then rise to the surface. For some odd reason, it interest me. I grabbed the razor again and held out my forearm and lightly pressed. I saw the blade indent my skin and just sat there. I applied more pressure and felt the sting and surge of pain then then POP it cut into my skin. There was a lot of blood but I found it rather appealing to me. It fascinated me. I felt a sense of calm when I pulled the blade across. It hurt but it was more of a cool sensation. I stopped and tried to hear anything but for once. Nothing. At last, I found peace in doing this to myself. Letting me cut myself takes care of the stupid voices. The pain of being in that dreaded basement. I found my way out. It got a little messy in the bathroom so I found some old band-aids and put them on my skin. I can always use the excuse of cutting the hedges and the thorns from the weeds cut me. This is my absolution; the cure for my voices. If only I could do this everyday. Or could I?

Diary Oct. 24, 1967.

The feeling of that blade go across skin is amazing. I am more tolerable with my pain now. When ever that thing upstairs comes down with a boner protruding his pants and the empty whiskey bottle in his hand, I don't think about the pain. I don't feel the pain. Somehow it feels good. One night while the man was passed out drunk, I snuck upstairs and grabbed his leather belt. I hurriedly ran downstairs and sat on my bed. There were some Playboy magazines that I stole from the old man but they were nothing too new. Even some of the pages were sticky from us coming all over it while orgasm. I pulled the Playboy open and sat there and stared at the bare breast girls, showing their labias and inner workings with their fingers. Since I was feeling rather horny, I wanted to incorporate the idea of pain and pleasure. I tied the belt around my neck very tightly. I went to my closet door and shut the long piece of leather so when I went forward it would hold and I would begin to choke. I pulled my pants down and underwear and grabbed the magazine. I stood there leaning forward as the belt tightened around my neck, cutting circulation of blood to my head. My hand rubbing my dick up and down faster and faster, I stared at these girls, imagining I'm licking them down with my tongue, making them scream in ecstasy. I imagined myself fucking them watching my dick get wet with juices from within them. I focused harder on it. I tried to tell myself before that this was a sin to spill your seed but I didn't give a damn what I thought about it. I wanted to get off and the only way possible was to imagine. Rubbing myself up and down. I felt the fire beginning in my legs and travel to my lower stomach. The tightening urge made me go faster. I leaned further forward, not able to breathe. I still kept my eyes closed as I still fantasized these women on top of me, sucking me off, screaming for more; screaming my name. At long last I felt the cool chill elope me and I opened my eyes as I saw my cum stretch onto the steel floor. The sensation was remarkable as I stifled a grunt and moan. I never had that happen to me before. The sensation was so beautiful that I kept doing it, rubbing faster and licking my hand to create less friction. I kept coming and felt myself still engorged on the fact that I was choking myself. I didn't want it to stop. I gasped for air and felt my self give in under the lack of oxygen. I fell upon the hard door, feeling the blood rush to my head. I guess that's what it feels like when you take drugs.

After that unimaginable high, I felt the pain again. I started to feel horrible that I spilled myself over the floor. That I looked at dirty pictures of girls. I let Satan take over me. But I didn't feel the reason to go to confession. The more I thought about it, the less I cared of what I did. It didn't matter anymore. I felt good and jacking-off was the only way to do so. I didn't commit sin, I committed something more. Something that only a few could understand. This wasn't a sin; this was a lesson. A teacher, perhaps; to show me how to control my pain, stop feeling it and maybe use it. And Diary, I found, for the first time in a long while...I was smiling. I found my new way of pleasure and pain. And I couldn't get enough of it. I did it over and over again until my dick was raw and I couldn't come anymore. I walked back up to the kitchen and placed his belt back on the dinner table. I turned toward the living room and I could see his head. I walked over and peered down on him. The empty bottle was half out of his hand and he was snoring quietly. At that moment I came to a sense of clarity. I must have stayed there for several minutes, but the voice were talking to me, not yelling. Freddy. Do you realize what you could do now? You don't have to go through so much pain anymore. It just takes one time and only a minute to stop the pain. Your bruises would heal, your bones would mend. "How do I do it?" I asked them

Kill him. Feel that sensation when you were cutting yourself only amplified. You jerking off with a belt loop around your neck only begins what pleasure is in store with just doing this one thing. When you take a life, Freddy, feeling it escape within your hands, your come inside yourself. The oblivious feeling of unreasonable desire fills your veins and it gives you that high. It's a joyous feeling to experience. If you would like I could help-

"No," I whispered harshly at the voice, "It's not time. Soon though once I find the right moment."

"That's the Freddy we know".

Ok..that's just a first part...This is a one-shot thing but it will be broken into many parts. Let me know what you think. I will be continuing this soon.