As a child, her nightmares were about vampires and knives and blood – too many horror films at too young an age, the flicker of the television screen on her tiny face.

And she never watched another, not wanting to be reminded of the dark places and those monsters hiding everywhere you forgot to look.

But she grew up and nightmares just became shades of life – a father never there, a mother never caring, babies that should have been and that never were – nightmares are made of those things you used to have and then lose… of those things you used to believe to be your own and then you find out they never ever were at all.

And always, she was the victim.

Fleeing feet stuck in heels that break, stumbling along a forest path at night and trying so hard to not look back… to not see all those scary shadows chasing her… running fast to survive…

And there is the stain of red on her dress.

And there are gunshots ringing in her ears.

And there is the biggest beast of all, lurking in her heart, clawing its way out and not paying any mind to who gets killed along the way…

…Oh, twisted love and terrible girls, mixed up emotions and forever seeking safety…

…You are the greatest danger of them all, aren't you?

And every street looks straight out of Fritz Lang's M and every patch of black wears her name.

And Europe conceals her like a mask, appearing porcelain and rich, yet hiding all that gruesome underneath, all that disfigured affection.

And when the phone rings and she doesn't answer, her finger keeps on pulling that trigger – bullets flying from here all the way to California.

There should be a chalk mark upon her shoulder, branding her as a murderer of love.

Somewhere, Ashley became the giver of terror instead of the receiver.