Oh god. It was everywhere. There was blood on the floor, splashed over the white couch, sliding down the white walls and dripping down from the celling. There was blood on the white table and of pool on the ground by a white lamp.

How many people had died here and where were the bodies?

Blood was splashed up the white door and saturating the white curtains. It was splattered all over the white celling fan.

Why was everything white? The only spot of color (besides all the blood) was a child's drawing of a house, this house, hanging crookedly on the far wall. What was happening? The rest of the house had been so normal!


The boy whipped around so quickly he almost slipped on the smear of blood by his feet.

"Who are you?"

The boy didn't answer, he was staring in shock at the must-be murderer. Why else would would the figure be holding an axe and be covered in blood. 'Everything except for those white clothes' a small part of the boy's brain whispers. He finally finds his voice and manages to croak out, "Why…"

"I had to go change my clothes." The boy fought back the insane desire to laugh. He had been asking about the murders and here was the killer taking about clothes. "They got all dirty." The killer continued while taking a step forward. "Aren't you going to tell me your name? It's polite since I asked."

The boy stands frozen before stumbling backwards until he collided painfully with the table. He tries to speak again, "Why is every..."

"Everything is white because it makes it look pretty!"

The boy feels faintly frustrated. That was the wrong question being answered again. What was supposed to be pretty? Why did his brain fell so disjointed. Shock and horror and blood. He seizes on the last thing the killer said. "Makes what look pretty?"

"The blood of course! I like the way the white makes the red look!"

The boy is almost more horrified by this than his discovery of the blood filled room.

"I have an idea!"

The boy stares in horrified fascination at the bright blond hair and innocent green eyes that were crinkled into a sick parody of a smile.

The eight year old psycho swings the axe back and forth while taking another step forward. "My other friends went away. Why don't you play with me?"