Crimson walked through the halls of her new high school. But something didn’t seem very new to her. The way the walls seemed to close in on her, and the way the doors were only sheets of glass, she had been here before. She looked around her, and found that everyone was looking at her. Her eyes fell to study the details of her black converse. The details that she already knew were there, the details she had studied several times before. The carpet she stood on was a light grey. She did not lift her head as she walked towards her locker 914. Suddenly the carpet surrounding her shoes became soaked in blood. Crimson jumped back, holding in a scream that could have shattered the glass doors. Her shaded eyelids closed and came up to reveal her blood red eyes. The blood was gone.
She looked up, and everyone was still staring at her as if she were insane. She hurried to her locker, she spun the lock to 19, then back to 8, then to 6. It clicked open. The locker was black, it had three hooks, and was empty and clean except for a single photo. The photo was on Polaroid film and it was taped to the back of the door. She took it off the door to examine it. There was a little girl in it, she looked terrified. She looked familiar to Crimson. It seemed as though the little girls pain was shared with Crimson. As if the cuts on her arms and face were on Crimson’s. On the little girls right was a man with a pistol in his hand. He looked strong, and his eyes were huge, and creepy. That wasn’t the only thing creepy about the picture, it was taken here, in this building, right by this locker. Crimson had only seconds to look at the picture before it turned white. Almost as though she had taken the film out of the camera to fast and it had exposed. Her eyelashes hit her cheek and came back up, her eyes were now grey. It seemed as though her eyes had soaked up the color from the black and white picture. She turned the photo over there was a date written on it, 9/14/1986, her locker number and combination. Crimson was scared, she slammed her locker shut and ran into her class.
The teacher was giving a lecture on the works of Edgar Allen Poe and Oscar Wilde, but Crimson didn’t hear anything he said. It was had been two hours from when she had found the picture and that was all she could think about. The picture, the little girl, and the man, none of them ever left her mind. The teacher was looking straight at her questionably. Had he called on her? Suddenly someone from behind her spoke up and answered him. He looked away and continued his lecture. Soon after, Crimson raised her hand and was excused to the bathroom. As she walked to the bathroom another vision flashed before her. The little girl from the picture. She was screaming, running, scared to death. Her long orange hair looked dead as it whipped back and forth in the wind. Her face was pale and stained red with blood. It seemed as if the life had been cut out of it by way of a knife. And just as the vision came, it left, it was nothing more then one of Crimson’s memories. Crimson’s eyes began to change color the orange leaked into the grey. The grey was overwhelmed with a wave of orange and in seconds the grey disappeared.
She ran to the bathroom hoping to sort the visions out there. But as soon as she opened the door to the bathroom she saw the blood smears. They were everywhere, on the mirror in the shape of hand prints, on the floor was foot prints, and there was a puddle by the wall. There were clusters of faded orange hair in the sink and on the floor, it looked as though someone had ripped it out of the little girls head. But, the most frightening blood mark was just above the puddle. There was a chip in the tile and surrounding it was a splash of blood. It dripped slowly down the wall. And again the vision was gone, as though nothing had happened.
Crimson went to the bathroom, then walked over to the sink. She watched her hands as they turned on the water, watched the water run over her hands. Her head lifted as she took her eyes away from her hands. She looked in the mirror and suddenly became very frightened. Her reflection wasn’t her, it was the girl. The little girl from the picture, the little girl who had ran away from her screaming. The little girl was Crimson’s reflection in the mirror. The reflection rippled and then it was just Crimson. Her legs buckled and she began to fall. Her knees hit the ground first, then hip, followed by her shoulder. Finally, her head hit the ground, her red-orange eyes rolled back into her head and her eyelids closed. She had fainted.
She awoke in the nurse’s office, as she sat up she became dizzy and had to catch the wall so as to not fall over. She looked around her to understand her surroundings. There were three beds, all covered in paper. There were two wheelchairs folded in the corner the curtain was drawn shut. There was a small rolling table that sat next to her bed. Crimson rubbed her eyes and yawned. Her eyes went down to the floor and found her converse. She slipped her feet into them and began tying the worn out laces. She stood but suddenly fell back on to the bed in fright. The curtains had knife slashes in them and their were bloody knifes and scissors on the rolling table. The paper on the beds were soaked in blood and their was blood on the floor and walls. Crimson jumped up and ran out of the nurses office, and kept running. When she finally stopped she was at the lockers. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath, she looked at the clock and realized that it was her lunchtime. Crimson walked downstairs and got lunch. She looked around for a place to sit, all the lunch tables were full. She walked to the hallway, as she stepped out of the door a boy ran past her and hit her lunch tray. Her food spilled all over her clothes.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
Crimson forced a smile onto her face, “It’s fine,” she said. She brought her tray back to the lunchroom and then went to the bathroom to wash the food off her shirt. It was the downstairs bathroom, she wouldn’t dare step foot in the upstairs one. She checked the stalls to make sure no one else was there. Once she was satisfied she locked the door and took her shirt off. Crimson put the dirty part of it in the sink and turned the water on. She scrubbed the potatoes and peas out of it. She was almost done when her shirt became a blood stained flannel, the water went from clear to red. Then it was her shirt. Her eyes turned into the color of the blood stained water. She turned the hand drier on and dried her shirt. It took awhile but it was finally dry enough to be unnoticeable. She put it on and ran out of the bathroom. She went upstairs and turned left. Crimson came to the end of a long hallway and entered the library. There were four rows of computers she went in two rows and sat down. She clicked on the Internet and went to Google. It seemed to take hours but finally, she found a news article on the little girl. She was killed 4 years ago in the upstairs bathroom. She was buried in the twentieth grave of the sixty-fourth row in the Rochester Graveyard. That was all the information the article gave. Crimson made a new tab and looked up the Rochester Graveyard. It was 4 miles away. She closed both tabs and ran out of the library. She toke turns and ran down hallways as if she had done it thousands of times before. Finally, She came to a door that led to the outside world, she burst through it and ran out onto the street. A car nearly hit her as she ran across the street and down the road. The directions Google had given her repeated in her head as she ran. Finally, she was standing outside the cemetery gates. She pushed them open, the iron hinges creaked as the door swung open. She ran down the rows she counted them as she went. The rows and rows of stones sticking two feet out of the ground haunted her memories as they haunted the present moment. On several of the graves were bouquets of flowers, most were dead or dying. Crimson finally reached the sixty fourth row, she slowed to a fast walk. She counted the tombstones on her left, there were fifteen. She turned to her right and walked down five tombstones and stopped.
Crimson sank to her knees, she could hardly breath. She had suddenly been overwhelmed with visions of the little girl. She was at a bus stop, then a man ran up behind her and grabbed her. There was a bright white flash. The little girl was on the nurses bed struggling to get up, bleeding from all her limbs. The man hovered over her with a knife and a syringe. Everything went black and there were screams of pain, then another flash. The little girl was standing in the bathroom, the man had a gun. She tried to punch him but he was faster, he grabbed her. Another flash and Crimson was still in the bathroom, except now she was looking at the man as if looking through the little girls eyes. He threw her across the room so her back was to the wall. He raised the gun in his hand. Crimson saw his fist clench around the trigger. Then everything went black. Crimson opened her eyes, she was back at the cemetery. She read the tombstone:

Crimson Erickson
1980-1986
Daughter and Friend
Rest in Peace

It was exactly what she thought it would say. Crimson understood everything now, she was that little girl. That man had kidnapped, tourchered, and murdered her. Crimson trembled and began to cry. The ground embraced her as she fell onto the grave. It did so as to comfort her. She was dead, and there was no way to change it. She sunk into the grave where her soul joined her body.