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Prologue

“Ma’am, we need you to tell us everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. Everything.”

“Sorry, but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’ll kill me.”

I would have never imagined myself in this situation, never in my whole life. Cold, alone, and being threatened by a man I’ve met just today. Did I mention he was also a killer?

Yeah, I guess that’s a pretty important part of the story.

Let me start by introducing myself: My name is Valerie Alford, I’m a lawyer, and you have no idea how scared I am right now.

Everything started about an hour ago, when I was coming home from work. It was a Tuesday, damp and dark like it always was. I’ve left my car at an auto shop, so I had no choice but to walk home. Looking around my surroundings, I wrapped my coat around myself tighter. Street lights flickered above me, shining the smallest bit to help me find my way out of the shady neighborhood I was in. Passing alley through alley, nothing seemed out of the ordinary: They were pitch black and vandalized like they should be.

Everything seemed normal, up until I heard a scream. It almost broke glass – my ears, too. Fear passed through my body, but I ignored it, because at the moment, all I wanted to figure out was why I stared running to the source of the sound.

I could have ignored it and left, but for some strange reason, I felt unusually heroic that day. Almost heroic enough to save someone.

As I was running, I passed two dark figures – one big and muscular, another limp, lifeless, and scared. I backed up and hid behind a dumpster nearby. The whole situation had an eerie feel to it, matching the evident danger. The first figure was standing over second menacingly, as if he was about to strike. I noticed his eyes: They were moss-green, spiraling from dark to light. Hints of mud brown were scattered, and a tinge of blue can be found, reminding me of the Earth itself. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins, and fear could be found in my eyes.

“Please, Noah,” I heard a small, feminine voice plead. I decided to peek at the scene to see what was happening. “I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell! I’ll take it to my grave!”

The man smirked – he was going to kill her. “Sorry, Jody, but I don’t trust you. And Lord knows you don’t trust me.” Noah and Jody, I noted. Suddenly, I saw the man raise his hand, a knife inside it. “But I guess you are going to take it to your grave.”

This is it, I thought. I jumped back to my old position, my back facing the dumpster, quickly shutting my eyes. Only one shot at this. Grabbing my phone, I hastily dialed 911.

I heard the woman scream suddenly. It was high-pitched, terrified, and her very last. I was so enthralled by the scene going on behind me that I almost forgot about the phone in my hand.

I held it to my ear, trying to ignore what was happening behind me. “Hello, this is 911, what is your emergency?” a man asked though the phone. His voice was tired and rough, probably because it was almost midnight.

“There’s a-a murder going on…” I whispered quietly. “Please send help.”

“Please state your exact location.”

“Uh,” I looked around, unsure of what I should say, “I’m don’t really know, but I’m by a dumpster. The murder is happening behind–”

I didn’t get to finish my sentence. Why?

Because the killer was right in front of me.

Chapter One

I stayed there, unmoving for a very long time. I was staring death in the face, and its expression didn’t seem friendly.

In fact, its expression was terrifying.

My eyes were probably bulging out of their sockets, bright and blue and afraid.

A smile graces his face, only adding even more tension in the air. “Hey there, sweet cheeks. Mind if I borrow your phone?”

Look into those eyes,
See the danger, see the crazy.
Call your family; it’s time for goodbyes,
Tell them you’re going to cry and your vision’s hazy.

The quiet song played in my head teasingly. The stanza lingered in my mind, poisoning it enough to let me do something I know I should never do: I ran.

Were you ever loved enough to be strong?
Stop those tears, die with dignity.
It won’t be long, that knife’s going to strike.
Close those eyes – you’re about to die.

The darkness seemed to engulf me, but I was apparently visible enough to be seen by my killer. Cheap street lights guided me to a new neighborhood, one that was fortunately lighted and inhabited. People on the street raised their eyebrows as I dashed past them – suit wrinkled and stilettos in hand. I glanced at the reflection radiating from dirty puddles on the street, expecting to see a clean-cut square-ish looking woman, but only saw a lunatic in grey cotton.

But that couldn’t hold a light to what I saw next.

Almost right beside me was the killer – Noah, I think – a grin on his face that meant only one thing: I was his next victim.

I took a good look at his features. Dirty blond hair fell right above his brow, not concealing the moss-green eyes that will surely haunt me at night. He had light, barely-there freckles, pale skin that is almost pinkish, and a sturdy build. He was more attractive than most of my ex-boyfriends.

“A pretty face wasted,” I muttered.

His hands reached out for me, veins almost popping out in rage. His grey hoodie over a red V-neck tee shirt was filled with oil stains and dark jeans covered with splotches of blood.

In the midst of my running, a small rock seemed to get in my way, almost appearing out of nowhere. And, like in ever cliché murder book I’ve read, I tripped.

Tumbling to the ground, the whole Earth seemed to shake. I scraped my knee, drawing blood and ripping off skin. My head hit the concrete, a temporary concussion a blink away from forming. The pair of shoes I was carrying lay down beside me busted and wet.

I sat there for a second, looking at my bruises. Better to die with dignity than to die ashamed.

A shallow puddle was beside me, letting me see a Valerie I never saw before: She was letting herself get killed. She wasn’t not going to be the head of her firm like she wanted to; she was going to die.

So, refusing to go down in history as one of the names in Noah’s Killed List, I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the throbbing at the back of my head, and running like it was my last. And due to the circumstances, there’s a big chance it is.

Glancing behind me, I saw that Noah was a good ten feet away from me, and probably slowed down when he saw me fall. The look of pure shock on his face indicated he didn’t expect me to get up.

Leaving my stilettos on the ground, I managed to get away. But not by much, though – there’s still a guy wanting to kill me.

_____________________________________________________________________________

And here I am now, talking to some dim-wit cop an hour later, after someone called 911. They managed to let Noah get away, liberty in his grasp and homicidal thoughts in his brain. The only thing I have to remember him by were these words: “You try talking to the police, and you’ll be a goner by morning!” He shouted them to me as he was running away, multiple cops on his trail.

I’m sitting on a bench, a towel draped over me, being investigated. Police cars blared in the background, but I didn’t notice until now. I was at a park, cold and bruised, unable to form a coherent word whenever I was asked questions.

Officer Liam Handling sighed for the third time, probably exasperated and annoyed that I won’t say anything. “Ma’am, we can’t help you if you won’t talk.”

“And you think I don’t want to?!” I screeched at him. “Or do you want me to be chased by some lunatic murderer you can’t catch?!”

Rubbing a chubby hand over his bald head, Officer Handling looked at me dead in the eye and crouched down to my level. “Look, lady. He ain’t goin’a kill you if we track him down. Talk, act it out, sing show tunes, I don’t care! Just as long as you tell me what happened so he can leave you alone.”

I examined his eyes – he wasn’t lying.

“Fine.”

________________________________________________________________

After thirty minutes of explaining what happened to Officer Handling, I was finally free to go home. “Good. You talked. Now leave ‘cause I have’ta investigate, and I don’t want ya hangin’ around here, depressed and gloomy,” he said nonchalantly, waving me off to talk to a man in a dark suit.

I entered my apartment, a band-aid on my knee, disheveled and cautious. “It’s over,” I whispered to myself. “It’s over.”

But then a light turns on and a dark figure comes out of my kitchen. “No it’s not.”

_________________________________________________________________

Half a country away, twenty year old Morgan Valentine paced around her parents’ room, occasionally glancing at the pink feathered phone beside her step-father’s beloved TV. It was the night before her engagement party.

Almost twelve years ago, Leonard Alford and Vivien Valentine got married. Almost twelve years ago, Valerie Alford and Morgan Valentine started a feud.

“Mommy, Valerie dipped my hair in vinegar!”

“Daddy, Morgan told on me!”

“I don’t think she’s going to answer my call, Mom…” Morgan sighed, leaning on Vivien’s marble bookcase. It felt cold upon her skin, almost making her jump back in surprise.

Vivien, middle-aged (“No, no, dear, I’m thirty nine.”) and yellow-haired, looked at her daughter and snootily replied, “Barbara, darling, stop making a fuss. You and your step-sister were never close, so your wedding would mean literally nothing to her. You’ll only be getting crow’s feet with all that worrying you do.” She tossed her canary-colored hair to the side and huffed, rolling her creamy cocoa eyes.

As a response, Morgan glared at her.

Vivien shrugged, and then whipped out her nail file. She began polishing her two-inch nails, the ruby-colored beauties sparkling like glitter.

Oblivious that she was being ignored, Morgan exclaimed, aggravated, “Mom! This is serious!” She would usually be the first one to admit Valerie Alford was not her favorite person in the world, but it was her engagement party, for Heaven’s sake! She needs her sister there!
She threw herself onto her mother’s canopy bed, engulfed in silk. The soft fabric brushed against her skin, almost tickling her. She gave no notice, though – she was lost in her thoughts.

Too lost to hear someone come in.

It was her fiancé.

Standing at six feet and two inches, Gregory Hartman politely walked inside the feminine room, slightly uncomfortable. The soft pink that tainted the walls almost blinded him, its color nausea-inducing and hypnotic. Not to mention the cold stare Vivien was giving him.

His bright, turquoise eyes wandered around, looking for his bride-to-be before finally stopping at the blob of blond hair and lithe body being covered by satin pillows on Vivien’s crème canopy bed. He smiled his megawatt smile, the one that made girls fall at his feet willingly, and quieter than a cat, he sauntered over to the woman with emerald eyes and sat down next to her, his dark, formal clothes ‘ color clashing with the ivory sheets.

Feeling the bed slightly shift, Morgan’s head shot up, surprised by the presence of another person beside her.

Her eyes fell upon no one but Gregory.

She relaxed slightly. Seeing the dark-haired twenty-six year old always made her feel better. Not in a couple way, though, but in a seeing-your-guarding-the-front-door kind of way. She felt safe.

Her heart didn’t thump and her eyes didn’t sparkle, but she felt safe.

She didn’t have much time to think, though, because, placing a quick peck on her cheek, Gregory smiled his signature Hartman smile at her before softly asking, “Why are you up so late?” He started to smooth down her light-colored tresses, making her frown deeply and swat his hand away.

“Valerie’s not coming.”

“Who?”

“My sister!”

Gregory looked confused for a moment, trying to remember what ever memory he had of someone named Valerie.

Then it hit him.

“Who’s this?” Gregory asked, twenty-four at the time, holding up a slightly burnt picture of a brunette woman. He was helping Morgan re-arrange her closet, and came across an old photo album.

Almost suddenly, a tanned hand snatched it from his grasp. “Don’t!”

"What the-”

“Never talk about this! Never talk about Valerie!”

He, naturally, found it extremely weird. “Valerie…” he repeated in his mind. “Valerie…” Who was this girl, and why was she tampering with his bride’s mind? How come he’s never seen her before, never even heard from her? It doesn’t make sense, especially considering she and his fiancé were related.

His thoughts were interrupted by a small voice. “I think we should postpone the wedding.”

No Cellphones Allowed Until I Get One Myself

Long title, I know. But it speaks the truth, young buttsuckers. No cellphones allowed. Why? Because I don't have one yet and GOSH DAMMNIT IF I DON'T HAVE ONE, NEITHER CAN YOU!!!

But, um, ahem...

It's, uh, it's temporary.

My mom said she's going to buy me a cellphone like the one her co-worker has -- a Samsung Galaxy, apparently.

It's pretty cool, I guess. It would have been cooler if I were allowed to make a call and NOT have to pay ninety-fucking-pesos, or get the chance to text other networks. I mean, my parents have phones that are Globe, not Smart. What if I get raped? Or kidnapped? What if I get mauled by a bear, or maimed by a potato chip? Who the fuck's going to save me? What's gonna happen? DOES IT HAVE Wi-Fi?!

.....

.....

-five minutes later-

Okay, I'm done bawling now... I also took a wazz.

...don't judge me.

Anyways, onto my day: I went to church, got emotional, as per usual, and-

WHO THE FUCK KEEPS CALLING MY DAD'S NAME?! SERIOUSLY, THERE ARE PEOPLE OUTSIDE MY HOUSE! EXTREMELY LOUD ONES! SHUT UP BEFORE I GET CLIVE THE POTATO CHIP TO MAIM YOU!!

...Oh. They shut up..

Cool. :]

Wait, right. My day. Alright, well whilst listening to the pastor, Pastor Joby, I think I might've broke a few guys' hearts. No, seriously.

Here's one thing you should know about me: Unless you're a dude, the same age as me, and gorgeous, I won't give you any of my attention.

But apparently, some kids (11 or 12-year-olds) kept staring at me in this...creepy, obsessive, assasin-in-a-ninja-movie way. Of course, I didn't really look at them straight in the eye because...well, just because. When I left the hall, I saw that one had this desperate, lost-all-hope look in his eye. I'm not sure if I had anything to do with this, but I felt bad. A little freaked out, but still.

Why did I HAVE to be so irresistible?!

Kidding, kidding. I'm not Kanye West -- I can be humble.

No offense to Kanye fans, but honestly, he isn't very...nice. And not just because of the T. Swift thing, he freaks out backstage at awards shows whenever he doesn't win. I don't like that about him. He makes good music, though, so I guess he has a right to brag a little, but definitely walk around like he's God's gift to the human race. No offense.

HE DOESN'T LIKE ME

See the title up there? The "HE DOESN'T LIKE ME"? It's supposed to be in big letters. Why? Because it's true.

LANCE. DOES. NOT. LIKE. ME.

*sad face here*

Well, at least I THINK he doesn't. It's complicated.

He's complicated.

He's all "I like Aya" one day, then he's all looking at me the next! He talks to me, then ignores me altogether, and...and...

I HATE IT!

What Happened Today

Hey, buttsuckers.

Sorry, that was mean. I just had to put buttsuckers in a post. Why? Because I'm Gabby, and what I say goes.

Unless Jesus, the law, or my parents are involved. But nevertheless, I'm the big boss. Of this blog, at least.

But anyway, happy 2012! LET'S WATCH THE WORLD FREAK OUT ON DECEMBER 21!!

Imagine it:

"Oh my gosh, Marty! It's December 21! Get the garlic!"

"We're not being attacked by vampires, Jean. The world's just ending. At least according to a movie."

"GET THE FUCKING GARLIC MARTY! GO GET THE FUCKING GARLIC!"

Isn't humanity wonderful?

Anyways, how about we talk about my day?

And by we, I mean me and my sleeping brother.

So, today, I went to my school to pick up my 3rd quarter report card. I was feeling all cool and slick, until BAM!

"You're top seven of the class."

Yeah, okay, that's all handy-dandy with most people, but not me. Why? Because I used to be top 5. USED TO BE.

And effing heck, my teacher was still smiling! SMILING!

Okay, I was smiling, too, but that's not the point. The fake grin is my specialty, so it's normal.

But there ARE good news that came out of the parent-teacher conference: All my teachers think I'm an angel! Seriously!

Like, literally, my teacher said I had "an angel face and an angel personality." Oh, if they only knew...

After that, I went with my grandparents to see their new house. It was pink, and surprisingly not a disgusting shade. It was really pretty, actually. A little small compared to their old house, but still pretty, nevertheless. What I liked most was the balcony -- a good place to throw stuff at people. It was ultimately their ideal home.

Of course, it would have been better if they bought a pool, but whatever.

After that, we stopped by 7-Eleven. I bought a Mountain Dew Slurpee, candy, junk food, and a magazine. Usual teenager stuff.

But you wanna know the BEST part of my day? I found out that tomorrow - yes, TOMORROW - I, Gabby [last name here] am getting - wait for it...

A CELLPHONE!!

A REAL ONE! ONE THAT DOESN'T LOOK LIKE A CALCULATOR!

But, um, ahem...

Onto more...sad news...

My ex-crush looks like Freddie Benson.

Other people: *gasp* SAY IT AIN'T SO!!

It is. It's...it's...sad. Very sad. Because now every time I see a picture of him, I'll be reminded of what could have been, but my crush was too much of a wuss to accept.

Alright, alright. Nathan Kress - dude who plays Freddie - has bigger biceps, but still. They have the same eyes. It's freaky.

It's sad, really. Such a divine face - wasted. All because of a little wimp. One of the saddest moments today. It really is. Every girl deals with this, don't they?

And now, I am going to end this blog post on a teary note:

Santa Claus is not real. I found out a few days ago when neither Sterling Knight, a 900-pound, 12-foot tall pitbull, or a machete were in my Christmas sock.

Alone

My parents went to my hometown - not really hometown, more like homecity - to get "stuff." They never really told me anything specific, but since they're with my three-year-old brother, I'm guessing it's not drugs.

So, yeah, I'm all alone. Fine, not alone-alone, my grandparents and aunt are here, but activity-wise, I'm alone. I'm typing all of this in my grandpa's room (without his approval) because I just love his keyboard. It's all click-y, so when I type, I feel all business-like.

...Did that rhyme?

Eh. Whatever. Back to my day. I have to make a love poem for Filipino class. Since I have no love in my life (and I can't write a poem for a fake boyfriend), I decided to write about my Mom and Dad. It's pretty lame, but whatever. I'll go get my notebook right now!

[This isn't everything yet, BTW. You won't understand a word if you don't know how to speak in Tagalog.]

-Five minutes and a cup of coffee later-

Here it is:

Para Sa Aking Magulang

Itong tula ay para sa aking magulang,
Na minahal ako mula noong ako'y sinilang,
At binigay saakin lahat ng kailangan,
Kahit sila ay minsan kong nasasaktan.

Sana patawarin nila ako,
Sa lahat ng mga nagawang hindi maayos,
At sana magustuhan nila itong aking ginawa,
Dahil sinulat ko ito para sa pasasalamat sa kanila.

Yeah. There it is.

Oops, I have to go now! An Ugly Betty re-run is on! :)

Lately

So, lately, I've grown tired of my old desktop backround, cuz, really, it reminded me of all that outdoors-y stuff. Sure, they're extremely pretty, but those kind of stuff are meant to be seen from a distance. Like, on the other side of a TV screen. It also reminded me of last, last Saturday's exercise trip or whatever my parents call it.

But, seriously, you can't blame a girl born and raised in a city for not loving sweating and running, you know. Fine, fine, we were jogging at Baywalk, which is a part of Asia's biggest shopping mall, but there were just waaay too many people there. And I hate people.

I mean, if there weren't so much people, I would have been skipping and spreading love and throwing tulip petals, but, alas, people from every generation were there. Come on, can an insecure thirteen-year-old girl do that in front of a hundred-something crowd?

If you don't know the answer to that question, get out of my blog because retards are not welcome.

Back to my story. My parents promised me that were going to play Badminton afterwards.

Guess what broken promise ruined my day!

So, instead, we went to a mall. Almost a hundred miles away. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. More people.

But don't feel too bad for me, okay? There IS an upside to this! I got to buy new Tom's (loafers - floral, too) and red Ray Bans. I guess I deserved a prize, especially since the day before, I spent my afternoon making an anniversary banner for them and buying them 3 gifts, which was kind of my way of saying, "Sorry for not buying you any anniversary, Christmas, or birthdays gifts before!" 

Did I mention that it was their anniversary the day before our exercise trip? No? Well, it was.

So, anyways, I wanted to change my backround. I turned to Tumblr, the home of pictures that were considered beautiful by many girls my age. Even some boys. But only a few, because guys' taste is a little different from mine; I'm more Eiffel-Tower-at-Night and glitter in jars, while they're more beach-blonde hoes in leather bikinis.

Sorry to offend, but the guys I've met (a.k.a. some classmates) prefer women's bumps-and-humps over fairy lights.

Anyways, these are a few candidates:

Not Fucking Normal

Okay, so I turned thirteen a month ago, and since then, I notices some... uh, changes. And not just physically (Uh, hello, does my birthday makeover ring a bell? No? Oh, right, I forgot to write about it... Okay, long story short, I got a mani-pedi and a haircut), I noticed that I changed mentally.

Not sluttier or something like that, just - ugh - girlier. I actually started to like pink again, I just effing bought pink and white floral loafers, AND I made an account at GirlSense!

That's not normal for me!

My voice changed, I started to be more awkward around boys - if that's even possible - and I suddenly don't hate reality shows anymore.

The reason for my amazingly unusual acts of teenager-y-ness?

I'll give you a clue; it starts with a b, and ends with oys.

Boys.

Fucking stupid crushes made me into a frickin' DAFFODIL!

{Only iCarly fans will get that reference}

I'm all emotional now and pink and girlie and falling-hard-for-guys-y and... and... weird. Is that what being a teenager is all about? Finding out that you and this wretched stage of life is weird? If it is, then I'm done.