:NIGHT TERROR ONE:

The cold was a thing of paralyzing molecules, circulating in the spaces of Blossom's bones. It gripped her skin and made pricks in the indents of her frozen thoughts. And in the midst of her dazed ideas and chattering teeth, her footsteps echoed under the street lamps, and her body walked parallel to an old, rotting record shop that always had an empty parking lot.

However, that statement must be excused for tonight.

A young man with sharp cheeks and thin lips, with dark eyes and strong shoulders, leaned against the decaying wood, beer bottle stationed between his thumb and middle finger. The glass swung lightly between the soft flesh of his skin and Blossom could feel narrow eyes fixating on the profile of her face. His eyes charted her face like a map, slipping over the curve of her nose, how her lips slightly jutted out from above her chin. Though her mentality was shrouded in an intensifying recognition of peril, Blossom could not rid her sentiment of flattery coming from his obvious peering at her.

In her disoriented clutter of thinking, she paused, the wind biting wildly into her hair maneuvering the strands behind her back in a disarray of red. Blossom's head remained straight, but the pinks of her iris's had begun to shift to the left, her fingers gripping the fabric of the coat wrapped tightly around her even harder as their eyes dilated under the dimming moon at each other. Had she had not known to know better, Blossom would've suspected that the air had dropped a degree in temperature, but his eyes were like fire and there was no way that the air had cooled in their gaze.

The bottle still swung slowly between his fingers and she moved her eyes to his mouth, which had pulled one side up. A smirk taking the place of a line. Decades were passing in the form of seconds and the bottle swinging delicately shattered callously against the dirty concrete. Blossom wasn't aware which actions occurred first, but she was certain how her eyes had widened and how her mouth was slightly ajar and how her body arched around in his direction. Shards of glass glistened in stained lighting and his eyes were murky under the polluted moon. His hair was a darker shade of her own, tied behind him as his legs bent to meet her.

He halted three feet away. Silence. Then:

"You're even more beautiful than I remember."

"Excuse me?"

"Blossom."

Registering his voice was harder than registering his ability to know her, "Do I know you?"

"Very, better than anyone, actually. You got deep under my skin, so deep I was afraid that I'd snap that pretty neck in two." His breath moved along the bones of her face.

Blossom's feet took her backward, "I don't recall knowing you."

"Brick Jojo," he tried. She shook her head and the smirk fell.

"That's a shame, because 'Blossom' is inscribed in my brain and to be frank with you, Blossom, I would kill to get your name out of my fucking mind."

Kill.

How was it Blossom was beginning to see where this was leading.

"I have to go." Blossom shouldn't have stopped to stare at the pretty stranger across the street.

"But I don't." My God, she could feel stomach churn.

"I have to go." She repeated brushing past him, her skin tensed when she caught a faint touch to her forearm. Blossom had been expecting Brick to hold her, force her stay, but he had surprisingly let her go. The distance between his body wouldn't authorize a breath of relief, she could still feel him behind her.

"I hope you realize," his breath seemed to whisper in a direction she couldn't place, "your escape isn't to be so simple."

Blossom was quick to run.

Her feet slapped against the pavement, her coat billowing behind her legs. The wind was swirling around the trees mixing in with air passing through her teeth. Her calves, she decided, could only run so fast, she could feel herself slowing- the fatigue was setting in. The street was quiet and dead as her labored breathing was the only thing filling in for sound. That and her erratic heartbeat. It thumped roughly under the thin layer of skin covering her ribs and swelled in her ears, and she could feel it pound underneath her shoulders.

She pushed in spite of her growing tiredness shoving through a cluster of branches. Their ends grabbed at her arms, gripped onto the fabric of her coat, and tore through her skin. The blood was scarlet and dark and drizzled from below her sleeve like rain. Her feet crunched dry, stiff winter leaves, dead underneath the naked limbs of trees. And, she couldn't breathe. The breathing was the most difficult part, it severed her lungs and slashed at her throat, the dehydrated air broke through her mouth and sucked moisture through particles.

Her legs were collapsing and her arms drained to her sides. Where was he? He was here, she was sure. His long features, his dark eyes, his tall structure. And, she knew him, she knew him. She couldn't- not at first, but his name and his voice. They were rupturing through her brain like bombs over and over and over again, each new bomb provoked a new recognition into her memory. The way his breath moved across her cheeks at the right proximity or the slight touch across her forearm, the way his fingers traveled over her skin was familiar to her. Blossom couldn't stand it. Her skin crawled and her breath shrieked, not for help, but for a

If Blossom could relive those last moments, she was more than positive she would relive them differently. She was careless and stupid, that she knew fully. Blossom hadn't been paying attention, she didn't see the tree root, her foot caught hold and the muscle twisted to touch. Her body spiraled for the earthly ground and she was done for.

Absolutely done for.

Her face in a pile of dying leaves, thinner than paper, concealing her screams of a sprained ankle. But the pain can only ever extend. Never hinder. Her forearm, where those lovely fingers had grazed her, was gushing scarlet all over again. Pouring like hail and burning like ice. She clawed at a generous shard of glass embedded in her ashy skin. She extracted the sharp remnant from her arm, it was green but painted the color of deep roses.

And on that bottle was a wet label printed in big letters 'Guinness'. Blossom wanted to vomit. It was a beer bottle eerily similar to the one Brick had maliciously dropped in the record store parking lot. The tears were coming in relentless waves, quiet rigorous streams picking at her dusty face.

Brick's footsteps were even quieter than her silent sobs, the parched leaves unaffected by his boots. His body was shadow above Blossom's withering one, and the polluted moon bouncing off glinting objects with sharp intentions.

"Oh, Blossom," his voice trickled with sympathy, "I had such a right to be worried. Look at you, you're so broken." Brick crept next to her and leaned down beside her. "Beautiful night, right? I hate for you to see it under these circumstances. The stars are absolutely stunning, just like those pink eyes." Brick stared at her scrunched up face, "You would look so enchanting dead." Blossom shook her head. This can't possibly be happening. God was pulling some sick fucking prank. This wasn't real. Brick wasn't real. This couldn't be happening.

"Oh yes, darling. Don't you worry that gorgeous head of yours. I have something that can help."

Brick played a bit. He took immense pleasure in watching her struggle to breathe. He touched her back, drew lines over her clothing, paying close attention to the prominent marks of her bra straps, but he focused on her lower back drawing misshapen circles. His knife was big and would surely fit in his disfigured circles.

And that was it.

Her scream echoed.

The slit was thin and cut through Blossom's entire body. Her cry's became wails of anguish as Brick yanked his knife roughly to the right watching the skin, nerves, and muscle move with the blade. Her pain was slow and her pain was monstrous. Her blood was warm and thick and sticky as Brick yanked the knife from her back. Her blood stained his fingers and his hands and his arms and his neck. "Your pain is the most alluring sound, the wheezes and the screams. Marvelous. But my love, my dazzling, delicate butterfly. This won't be our last meeting. The end is so very far from the beginning, it's agonizing and precious, we don't have the time to gamble behind the starting line. And I love to tell you this, it will never get better," his voice transitioned from harmonic to harsh, "I would, no I will, kill you over and over and every time the satisfaction of seeing this helpless look of absolute terror on your tender face. I live to see those pink eyes wide and that mouth wide in mid-scream. You don't understand how appealing it looks, especially on you."

Brick grabbed a fistful of Auburn hair and jerked upwards. His breath was fanning against her ear, lips against the lobe. She could feel his smile on her. She was going to die and she was going to die in the dirt below a disgusting man. She hated herself for letting this happen. She's dying a pathetic death and she can't do anything to reverse it.

"Don't worry about your death, Blossom. You'll be able to relive it many, many times. I'll get you warmed up for the real thing. You can perfect the way you die, make every detail your own, so when I really come for you, you'll know what to do." He let go of her hair. Blossom fell back and she could by some means feel the dirt and the rubble and the ground mix in with her wound. Feel the dust and blood infuse together, the feeling was grimy, the feeling was real. Her teeth scraped together and her eyes would not shut.

Everything was dim. Everything was quiet. Everything blurred out of sight. Brick leaned above her, his manic smile shattered her last view of the night sky. His harsh fingertips were the last thing she was able to feel. "Little angel, you fucked around the wrong person."

4:57 a.m.

"Oh, Blossom."

Blossom's body shot forward, her dark bedroom tainted by a small sliver of silver wavering through her window. Her eyes darted quickly through the corners of the small room. The fan swayed in slow lazy circles above her, the comforter was a pile on the floor and the sheets were in messy tangles around her legs. Fuckin' hell, she thought bitterly.

Blossom rubbed the skin around her eyes, fingers occasionally smoothing over her eyelids, "Brick," her voice shot out in soft whispers, "it's been seven years," her voice choked, "what could you possibly want?" Blossom's arms landed beside her on the mattress , brutal fingers curling around the thin sheet turning her knuckles the same shade of off-white. Her breath was ragged at the intake, "What do you want?" Blossom seethed.

His voice seemed to echo in her head, I just want to feel your blood between the spaces of my fingers, princess.

His voice was deep and heavenly and she could feel her hand wrap around the sweating glass cup on her nightstand. The cup was hurdled across the room, splintering against the door, a large water stain erupting on the dark wood. Her body had come half way off the bed, one foot resting on the floor, her arm outstretched from the throw. Blossom's chest heaved up and down, her ponytail loose and slightly undone. Shards were laid on the ground, small ones propelling to rest beside her vulnerable, bare feet.

She looked at the scene.

The beer bottle.

It's four in the fucking morning and I couldn't stop.