Thank you guys so much for the reviews! It really means the world to me! And so sorry for the long wait.

As I have said, I am about to start law school and just moved to a new city. So my life has been pretty crazy right now. But again, thank you all so much for reviewing and keeping this story in the forefront of my mind. Bare in mind, I have a new laptop and have not yet added word. So I wrote this on google docs and copied and pasted. I did my best proofreading, but I am not so good at that. Anything glaring I might have missed, please let me know in a PM. Thanks!

Thanks again for all your reviews!

Somewhere in the dim, quiet mansion tucked away in the beautiful English countryside, was a room hidden from view, embraced by walls of brick, offering a protective sanctuary to the lonely and confused man that claimed it as his home. He stood now before his unmade bed, the doll he had come to spend his lonely nights with naked and covered by the ratty blanket. Three outfits, his only outfits, were laid out before him. In his confused and muddled brain he struggled to decide which he should chose. Which outfit Greta would like best.

He examined them all very closely. Should he wear a tie? Or the vest? The suit jacket was probably more appropriate for dinner, but he had always hated wearing it. He trailed a finger along the coat. He moved over to the tub and turned on the hot water. His body itched with anticipation, but he really did not know what it was he was anticipating.

He walked back to the bed. He stared and thought carefully. He tilted his head and sighed. He wished he could have Greta come and pick his outfit out for him. The clothing daddy had come home with one day. Mummy had been very angry. They were far too big. Far too big. She had taken them and thrown them in the trash. Then she went to coo softly to the boy. Strokin his pretty porcelain cheek. His daddy had collected them later that night and left them on the floor in the hallway. He had creeped out as silently as possible.

The decision proved too much for him and he turned away once again. He moved to the bathtub and slowly peeled away the layers of sweaty clothing that clung to his body. He tossed them aside, angry with himself. For weeks he had imagined revealing himself to Greta. It would have been months still, but the bad man had come and ruined his plans.

Steam rose up from the water and he slipped in a foot. The water began to yellow. Mummy would have been furious if she had seen this. He remembered sitting in his chair after a bath. Mummy sat before him. A loving smile on her lips. A gentle touch. She combed his hair and told him how important it was to keep clean. He was a gentleman. Gentleman always kept clean, they wore nice clothing, they spoke politely, they never cursed.

He lowered himself more deeply into the hot water. His eyes fluttered closed. He relished the feel of the hot water. Phantom hands ghosted over his skin. Soft, gentle and cool. They ran over his shoulders, down his chest. Lower.

His body tingled. Muscles clenched. Blood flow increased. He shifted uncomfortably and lowered a hand. A guttural groan left him. Water splashed over the edges of the tub as his arm moved up and down.

Then there was silence. Heavy breathing filled the room. Low and raspy. But he was not yet satisfied. Blood still pulsed. His heart still pounded. He laid back against the tub. He closed his eyes and remembered the soft touch of her thighs. The way the exposed skin felt beneath his curiously prodding finger tips, body lying vulnerable on the attic floor, just a thin strip of fabric protecting her from the childish and predatory gaze of confused lust. He had been too frightened to pull the towel away then. The time had not been right. What if she had awoken? What if he could not get the towel back on her correctly? Tonight he planned to see what he had been too frightened to look upon last time. His knuckles turned white as he squeezed the sides of the tub.

His daddy had brought him pictures once. In a paper book. They had not awoken the frightening desire within him, but they had helped to focus it. He would watch the old movies his mummy would leave for him to find. He would watch the same one over and over again, staring at the pretty girl with the long brown hair and the straight white teeth, full red lips and pretty blue eyes. He would move up close to the screen, staring at her, the need to be close overwhelming. It was something he had not understood. This need to be close to her. His body would hum and turn tight. His blood would pump. His heart would pound. He would feel a strange and overpowering pull. When the movie ended and the screen turned black he would stay there, staring at the screen with a sense of extreme loss. A depression so deep it deadened him. A lonliness he would not quite comprehend.

Then his daddy snuck up the pictures. It was just after his fifteenth birthday. He'd watched the old tape so many times it would no longer play. He broke everything in sight. He smashed a window. Mummy and daddy thought locking all the windows would keep him out. They were fools to think he would not get out if he wanted. He broke all of his mummy's china. China that had belonged to their family for generations.

Bavarian! He remembered her screeching at the doll. How could you, Brahms, how could you!

But daddy came up to talk to him.

Why did you do it, Brahms? He asked, sitting in the corner of his room, where his desk now rested. It was where he would write his notes to mummy to and daddy. They pretended the boy did it. It used to got him angry. But he was the boy. It made it OK.

Brahms showed him the tape. Tried to play it but it wouldn't play. The pretty woman. Mary her name was. Pretty Mary was gone forever and he would never get her back. He wanted to weep. He went to his bed angrily, but the energy to destroy was gone. This was how he felt after he killed that stupid little girl. She was tried and wanted to go home. He bashed her brains in with a rock because he still wanted to play. Then he was tired. He didn't care anymore that she couldn't play.

His dad took the tape away and gave him another. THere were other pretty women in these movies. He cared little about the stories. He just liked looking at their pretty smiles and soft hair. They looked soft. Softer than he was. Fragile and gentle. Like she had been before he crushed her skull. Coconuts were harder than the skull beneath the force of a rock.

But then, after his birthday, he came back in from his wanderings through the house and found the pictures. What a woman looked like beneath her clothing. Soft, yes, very soft. He had run his fingertips over the pictures. He flipped through them rapidly. The feeling was overwhelming and disturbing. He wanted to cry but he could not look away. He wondered if that was what pretty Mary had looked like beneath her dressed. He had them ten years. It was two months before his twenty fifth birthday that his mummy discovered them. It was one of the rare occasions she remembered the truth. She allowed herself to return to reality. Her worry for her boy was too much, alone up there in the walls, no one to love or comfort him. She wanted to make sure his room was clean, that he had new movies, that his clothing was clean and free of tatters.

She raved at his father. Screamed at the boy. Brahms had cried. He closed his eyes and tried to remember from memory but it was not as good. He longed to have one in his arms. He wanted to press his hands to the soft skin of a breast. He wanted to put his mouth on them. Bite. Kiss. Suck. Now his memory was all he had and pictures could not please him. He went on a rampage. He killed the cat. He broke the mirrors.

After that, the search for a nanny started.

Brahms leaned back and rolled his stiff shoulders. After pretty Greta came to him, he thought nothing of Mary, lost in a sea of broken tapes. She was very, very real. Soft to the touch, gentle, caring. He had watched with envy when she finally began to obey the rules. Felt his rage boil. But then he remembered he was the boy. He closed his eyes and pretended her soft hands were on him as he tucked her into bed. Soon, soon they really would be.

He raised his hands to the mask but hesitated. The mask was dirty too. It needed to be cleaned. HIs breathing was hard and loud beneath the porcelain. It was like his skin. He liked the warmth it provided. He liked the dampness it would sometimes bring when he left it on too long and sweat would bead along the creases of his ruined flesh. Removing the mask, was like peeling away layers of skin.

He removed the mask with a yank. His hair fell about his face. His skin, the skin he could still feel, was now cold. He splashed water on his face. Water sloshed along the sides of the tub. He scrubbed hard. It didn't hurt anymore, but the left side was so badly burned, he did not feel anything. He would rather feel pain.

He let the mask sink into the brown water. He ducked underneath. He stayed there and held his breath, wetting his hair. He grabbed a bar of soap and lathered. He rinshed, and rescued the mask from the bottom of the tub.

Water hit the wooden floor with loud thuds as he stepped out of the water. He smacked the drain and found a comb. His actions slowed as he came to stand before the mirror. He combed slowly. Methodically. He did not stop until his hair looked like the boy's. His hair was a little curlier, but it would do.

He paused as he put the mask back on his face. He would never go near the mirror unless it was on. His eyes found the doll resting in the corner, face smashed into a million peices. Ruined.

He was angry of course. Furious and murderous. But he felt a sense of triumph. The doll his parents had loved so much, the doll that represented him, now suffered the very same fate as he. He moved away and dried himself with a towel. Barefoot he padded over to the bed. He gazed at the clothing.

He grabbed the white shirt and buttoned it carefully. He threw on the black pants. He attached the suspenders. The belts needed to be replaced as he grew. Suspenders were more easily adjustable. It was why mummy gave those to him instead. He chose a blue knit sweater. They were more comfortable than the coats. He put it on and buttoned it up.

Nerves were beginning to work on him. His stomach growled angrily. He suddenly panicked. What time was it? He scrambled over to his desk and checked his clock. He was late for dinner. He groaned in frustration. His clock suffered. He moved through the walls to the dining room. When he arrived there was no one inside, but the table was set.

Excitement budding in his chest. He could not really remember the last time he ate at the table. He scavenged, going through the old freezer his daddy put together with him. Leftover food that the boy did not eat. Sometimes cold, sometimes heated, but never fresh. His stomach growled again and he slipped from the vent in the ceiling. He slipped through easily, his sweater getting caught once but not tearing. He landed on the ground with a soft thud. Hardly noticeable.

The table was set for two. The head of the table and the spot to its right. He was pleased. He did not want her far away. He wanted her close. He wanted to reach out and be able to touch her softness. A dirty nail touched the silver. He stared at it angrily. He should have cleaned it better. He rolled the finger inward and looked to the doorway. He took a seat at the head of the table. Where daddy used to sit.

You are the man now, Brahmsy, his mummy had told him the night before they left, gently stroking the soft, straight hair of the boy. Greta will care for you. She's yours now. But you need to protect her too. You are the man of the house.

He looked at the food. His favorites. A roast. Carrots. Potatoes. Onions and cabbage. His mouth salivated. His stomach constricted. He reached out a fork.

"Brahms!"

He ripped his hand away in surprise. There was an equal measure of shock on her own face. He waited, fork still raised in his hand.

"Brahms," she breathed again. She smiled. "You scared me."

He blinked beneath his mask. His lips parted. He swallowed, adam's apple bobbing. His beard itched. He looked over the dress. He wanted to reach out and touch her. She was beautiful. Mary was a distant memory now. Brown hair pulled back, a strand spilling out. Pearls were around her neck. She had a bracelet on her delicate wrist. The dress fit her perfectly. It looked better on her than it did on the doll. It looked better on her now than it would have had she worn it for the food man.

"Don't you look handsome," she smiled. She came forward with two wine glasses and a bottle. He watched her put it down and pour them both a little bit. His eyes were soon drawn to her breasts. He could not see them, but he could see the swell. He stared still, eyes tracing her collarbone. "I hope you're hungry."

He still loved the way her voice sounded. When mummy told him a new nanny was coming he was not that excited. She would run out like the others. Or she would chose to stay… the one his mummy and daddy tried to force on him.

Give her a chance, Brahmsy, give her a chance.

But he did not like her. She was loud. She was ugly. She ended up with her throat slit in his parent's bathtub, staring up lifelessly at the ceiling for them to find the next morning. They listened to him after that.

This one is from America., Brahmsy! Do you remember what we taught you about America?

They were colonies, he thought to himself, tracing the edge of the vent as he listened. Then they rebelled. Allies now. Like Canada or Australia, but not Canadian or Australian.

And Brahmsy, they sound very pretty. You like accents. Oh, you will love it.

His mummy had been right. He still loved the way she sounded.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. Her hand touched his shoulder. His body tingled. He nodded shyly. She patted his shoulder and then ran a hand over his hair.

She stood beside him as she cut the food. He watched it with hungry eyes. Next, she moved over and made up her own plate. She smiled as she sat down, scooting in.

"I brought you some milk too. You like milk, right?"

He nodded again, shoulders hunched shyly.

"Do you want to try some wine?"

He looked at it a long moment. He nodded.

"Brahms. I know you can talk, alright. Can you use your words?"

A long pause.

"Yes."

She took a sip of wine and pinched her lips together.

"Brahms. Do you remember how you spoke to me… when I was leaving?" she asked. Her voice was soft. The image of her trying to run returned to his head. He looked over sharply. He was filled with a violent wave of anger. But her eyes were open and twinkling in the dim light of the room. Her eyebrows lifted and she gave a little smile. It soothed him. "Would you speak like that?"

He looked at the glass of wine. That always got mummy angry. He shook his head.

"You see… when you speak like that, you sound like a little boy." She took another sip of wine before lowering it to the table. "I can treat you like a little boy. It can be just like it was before."

She picked up her fork and knife and reached over. He watched as she cut up his food. His eyes, wide and glassy, rolled up to her face. He knew she was about to say something he did not like. His heart pounded.

"But what you want… what I can do for you," she paused, thinking. "The way you want me to take care of you. That's not how a woman treats a little boy. That's how a woman takes care of a man."

Brahms thought of the little boy, face shattered. It might be ruined, like his face, but it was still a part of him. He did not think he could part with him. Not now. His hand tightened around the fork, his knuckles began to turn white. Her hand reached out to soothe him. Her touch was soft and cool on the back of his neck.

"I want to take care of you like that," she smiled softly. Her hand moved downward, over his shoulder. It rested on his chest. He swallowed hard. His adam's apple rose, fell, rose. His body tightened again. His blood turned hot. His skin flushed. "And you see... " there was something in her voice that was not usually there. It elevated his breathing. "You are a man now."

She played with a button of his sweater.

"You want me, Brahms?"

He nodded.

"Yes."

His voice was low. Scratchy. She smiled.

"Good," she smiled. She leaned forward and placed her lips to the smooth porcelain skin of his cheek. She went back to cutting his food.

"After dinner, you can pick out what music you want to listen to. Then, I will read to you. Then...we can go up to my room. Is my room alright? Or would you prefer yours?"

He thought of the cold. The darkness. The mustiness.

"Yours," he answered. It felt odd, speaking this way. He would talk to himself sometimes. Always as the boy.

He wanted to go right to her room. He did not want music. He did not want books.

"I got everything cleaned up. Tomorrow, together, we will call another market. We need food delivered. I will make sure it is another girl," she smiled. He nodded slowly. Remembered.

"Yes."

"And I think, I know it is a rule, that you do not leave, but how about a walk outside? Even along the porch. Would you like that?"

He stared at the wine. "No." He reached for it. His hand froze as he brought it up. He looked over at her. She was chewing thoughtfully. She suddenly understood.

"You can take the mask off Brahmsy," she said kindly. "I want to see what you look like."

He frowned beneath the mask. What did she mean? This was what he looked like. Not the mess of scar tissue beneath. If he took his knife and peeled away her skin, would she think that was how she looked?

"Please? It's alright."

He shook his head. She said nothing.

"How will you eat?"

He began to grow frustrated. He wanted to stay. He could not take off his face. He looked around. He dropped his hands to the table with a thud. The glass clattered. Greta reached out to touch his arm.

"It is OK. I am going to eat, and then I will take these to the kitchen to clean them. I will be gone ten minutes. Then I will come back. Fair?"

He nodded.

"Yes."

She began to eat. His stomach growled. He stared at her instead. His eyes remained on her neck, her collarbone, her chest…

"Why do you not want to go outside?" she asked. He thought of moving the car. The anxiety he felt being outside his walls. The vulnerability. He had not stepped outside since the fire. He felt out of control when he was. At someone's mercy. He didn't like that. People did what he wanted. Otherwise… he got angry.

He shrugged. Greta nodded. He looked over at her. She took another sip of wine. He tilted his head backward. His eyes were on her lips as they closed around the glass. He licked his dry lips.

"While I am cleaning…" she picked up her wine again. He looked to his own curiously. "You will bring some to Malcolm?"

He looked at her. His head tilted up, forehead to the ceiling. He dug his fingertips into the table top. It was like when he was little. Not younger. Littler. A friend at school would want to play with someone else. He'd felt the rage then too. They should be happy enough with him. He felt that way now, only much, much worse.

"He needs to eat," she said gently. She reached out and touched his hand. Gently her fingertips stroked his hand. So soft. So gentle. He wanted her closer again. Like he had with Mary, but here she was, right in front of him. He lifted a hand. He reached for the stray hair falling from her loose bun. He breathed in deeply, trying to smell her. He would at night when she was asleep. He would creep into her room, kneel by her pillow, and breath in deeply. There was a force, pushing him toward her and holding him back. He was kept in a type of limbo, unable to move. His entire being longed for contact. "Brahms, do you understand that it will upset me if he dies?"

Her voice was soft.

"It would upset me if anyone died. I do not want to be responsible for it. Do you understand that?"

He did not answer and she reached up to touch his hand. A gush of air escaped his lungs. He hunched forward, leaning toward her. He nodded.

"He ate," he said. "Earlier."

It felt odd, stringing together so many words to someone else. He spoke to himself often. He often felt his brain vibrating in his skull when he spent too long in the silence. He would listen to his mummy and daddy talk to the boy. He would answer back softly from his hiding place. He would do this until they responded incorrectly. Then he would get angry and leave, muttering to himself darkly.

"And water?"

"Water too."

"You have such a handsome voice," she smiled. She jabbed at the last carrot with her fork. She took another big swig of wine and then poured herself a little more. She touched his sweater. "I like this."

He smiled proudly behind the mask. His cheeks turned red with a boyish blush.

She smiled at him. Her eyes lit up when she smiled. He was full to the brim with happiness. A contentedness he had never experienced before. He wanted to be closer.

"I am going to go bring these plates out now, alright? And I will be back in ten minutes. Can you tell time?"

He looked to the clock. He nodded.

"So, at six fifteen, I am going to come right back here."

"Yes," he responded. He watched her collect the plates. Delicate, so beautiful… the bad man had hurt her. It made him angry. His face curled into a snarl beneath the void covering the ruined flesh. He had listened to her conversations. He listened to her and the food man discuss it briefly. He watched the way he had forced her up against the pool table. It made killing him for hurting the boy that much easier.

She left the room and he took his plate. He turned his back to the door just in case. Lifting up the mask he ate quickly, relishing the warm food. Grease coated his lips. He was careful not to ruin his clothing. He took a sip of the wine once he was finished eating. It had to be good. Greta drank it so often.

The sour liquid touched his tongue and he grimaced. He let it spill out into the glass with a slosh and shuddered. How she could like such a drunk. He reached for the milk quickly. He tilted back his head and drank it all. He finished in under five minutes. The less time the mask was off his face the better.

He put it back on and waited. He stared anxiously at the clock. She arrived two minutes after five fifteen. She knocked on the doorframe before entering. She did not even step into view until she knocked twice.

"Do you want to pick out some music, Brahms? And a book while I clean? Then I will meet you there?"

She came forward but Brahms stood abruptly. She froze. Her smile froze. He walked toward her slowly, shoulders hunched and head lowered. He stopped before her. His body was humming with impatience. He didn't care about music. He didn't care about books. He wanted her.

He reached out and seized her arms tightly. Her eyes widened with fear. He yanked her closer. His breathing was heavy.

"Brahms?" she asked. He leaned in and breathed deeply. She smelled like vanilla. Vanilla and strawberries. He stepped closer. His fingertips turned bruising as he pressed his mask to her hair. He was almost panting now. His shoulders went up and down.

The pictures. The aching longing he felt staring at Mary on the TV screen. The feel of her thighs beneath in his fingertips.

He did not know what to do. He jerked her forward then back. His fingernails dug into her skin. He nearly shook her. He wanted to be close. He wanted to feel her pressed close to him. He wanted, needed, more. He just didn't know how.

A low, strangled groan left him and he pressed himself closer. His skin was pulled taut over his building muscles. Eyes were squeezed tightly. Breathing labored. He needed more. He squeezed harder and a cry left her.

"Brahms! Brahms!"

Her hands touched the sides of his neck. He jerked back in surprise. He didn't want her to take off his mask.

"You're hurting me, Brahmsy. Do you want to hurt me?"

He shook his head. Remembered. "No."

"We can go right up to my room," she smiled sweetly. "And then I will take good care of you."

He stared at her. His eyes were wide. He licked his lips to wet them. He swallowed hard.

"I know what you want," she told him. His lips parted. His heart thundered. "I know exactly what you want. I can give it to you."

His hands slowly released their violent hold. She smiled and took his head. Silently, with a painfully beating heart and a swell of emotion he could not quite comprehend, he followed his pretty Greta back to her bedroom, her leading him gently by the hand.

A/N: I was going to add the next part of the story in this chapter, but that could be another four thousand words and another week or two. So I thought, since you all waited so long, I would I put this portion of it up.