It's snowing.

That he can discern clearly. Tiny white patches are falling gently to the ground in swirls him dizzy if he focuses on them for too long. Everything around him is totally unclear. There is nothing; nothing but the snow and he. There isn't even the cold to reassure him he is alive.

So he drifts, thinking about nothing at all but the snow and his temporary sensation of feeling and worries. Then, as sharp as a blade, a pain slashes through his consciousness. He looks around, frantic, desperate to find the source of his pain and squash.

There is a girl. She walks – away from him, the snow entangling itself into her hair. She must be the one! She must stop. She must stop walking away, or he will die. He knows it. The pain very nearly consumes him. He tries to call out for her, but his voice cracks and croaks, like he hasn't spoken for hundreds of years.

Somewhere in the very depths of his being, he finds the strength to rise. He staggers, taking a few sloppy steps until he can bring himself to his full height. He looks at her, but she is still walking. Away and away and away. She seems a universe apart from him.

He runs after her, though run isn't the best term. He staggers after her, like a dying man.

"Stop," he croaks, "you…stop!"

She does not turn around. She walks. And walks. And walks. He follows her of course. He hopes, uselessly, the she will turn around. Eventually, after what could have years or hours or seconds, she does.

Slowly, her blonde her swishes over her blue leather jacket to reveal a sole blue eye. He looks, in morbid fascination. The blue eye sits on top of a metal eyestalk that protrudes from her head instead of a face. He recognizes this eyestalk. It is like the ones of the evil pepperpots. Somehow, he knows she isn't the villain, but victim.

The eyestalk looks ugly on her, a horrid metal rod grafted onto her head. They've stole her face and replaced it with such ugliness. Why? She used to be so beautiful, he does know why he knows this, but he is sure of it. He is even more certain that whoever did this to her must die. They will die by his very hand.

"Who did this to you?" he asks her.

She speaks clearly, though she has no mouth. "You did."

0000

John Smith jerks awake, and for not the first time he feels incredibly out of place in his little dormitory room at the Farringham School for Boys. He looks around wildly, and for no reason he can comprehend, the first thing his sees is a table not meters away from his bed, where a vase of roses sits quite forlornly.