Disclaimer – I don't own 'Supernatural'. Did you really think I did? Any similarity in content or dialogue originated with the show.

A huge thank you to anna3311234, shirleypositive72, Guest, BlueEyedSalvatore, angelangie07, UnitedHeartbeat, and THE WONDERFUL AND AMAZING JANUARY LILY WHO MADE MY POSTER AND IS EVERYTHING!

Okay, so this is going to be an eventual Dean/OC story starting in Season 4. I'm a UST writer, so it might take a while for them to get together, but when they do it will be awesome.

The prologue is to introduce the backstory of the main character. It might seem a bit confusing, but that's because Lizbeth doesn't know what the hell is going on either. Please, please, please review. I don't know how it turned out or if I should continue this story, so your responses will definitely help me decide the direction of the story.

Prologue - Paranoia

December 7, 2005

She was being paranoid. She was just being paranoid. It was an occupational hazard for someone in her position, wasn't it? Spend long enough in her line of work—grow up in her world—you get to learn everything can have a dark side, including sunflowers and puppies. So flitting shadows and the echo of cars backfiring weren't exactly things to be ignored. Hell, at some point paranoia becomes a symptom of self-preservation. An instigating factor to promote proper preparation. But it had been some time since paranoia had been a necessary ingredient in her day-to-day life, so that instinctive shiver running down her spine and the slight prickling of hairs rising on her neck left her confused as well as anxious.

Lizbeth Oswald walked briskly down the darkened street. Her long, red hair, collected into a ponytail, swished back and forth against her neck with each determined step. She reached into the collar of her coat, pulling the scarf up to cover most of her round face. On days like this one the icy, biting wind had a way of turning her usually pale skin to a bright, marbled pink. If hell was ever going to pick a night to freeze over, the odds for this one seemed particularly promising. She peered over the edge of the knit, blinking rapidly. Her eyeballs felt as if they were solidifying inside of her skull—first watering, followed by the thin tears turning to ice as they leaked down her face.

Everything around her painted the picture of a quaint winter village, worthy of one of those 1950s black and white sitcoms where they cook everything in butter. Actually the town looked like someone had photoshopped the interior of a Christmas Eve Macy's onto the landscape. Middlebury had a tendency to indulge in the holiday decorations alarmingly early, from the blinking lights to the inflatable reindeer sitting on snow-dusted lawns. All of it was so quintessentially suburban. Whether that was endearing or nauseating was up to interpretation, but something about frozen rivers and kids giggling on ice skates made Lizbeth feel a bit nostalgic. Snow crunched under her feet, if she inhaled forcefully she would undoubtably smell something nutmeg scented—so why did she feel so tense all of the sudden? Where the hell did you find the sinister in the midst of all this cheesy Hallmark Holiday Special bullshit? And yet there is was. Lurking. Like a lurker. A lurking lurker.

The trek she took was a familiar one, usually inspiring no excitement whatsoever. It started at the fitness studio where she helped teach Judo to middle schoolers on Wednesdays and Saturdays. From there it moved to the library where she spent a few hours cramming for whatever test was looming in the future. Finally it ended with a half mile hike to her off-campus apartment. She knew it well—she could walk it in her sleep.

Lizbeth pulled her puffy winter coat closer in around her, as if somehow that additional layer of clothing would afford her any extra degree of protection. Her gloves certainly weren't doing their job properly, the harsh wind cutting straight through to her fingertips, but it wasn't the weather that left her cold. For some reason she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. She couldn't speak to who or what was doing said watching or what their motivations might be, but a pit had settled in the base of her stomach a little over a week ago and hadn't shifted since. It left her twitchy and squirming, an ant under a magnifying glass some chubby kid with cotton candy colored cheeks was trying to light on fire. Direct threats she was fine with. If some asshole came charging her with a knife, it wouldn't bother her in the slightest. Or at least not to any unreasonable degree. Those were the problems she knew how to deal with. It was the problems that hid that bothered her—the ones that could sneak up on her.

Just then a shadowed figure darted underneath one of the nearby street lamps, all of which had been done up to look like candy canes. Lizbeth's heart skipped a beat and her breath caught in her chest, searing her throat and lungs with the cold. Reflexively, her gloved hand plunged into her purse and closed around a small, silver switchblade that always lay at the bottom. Her eyes fixed on the shadow as she continued casually, not changing her pace. The figure came to a halt, and what she saw made her freeze.

Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. Her lurking lurker was a goddamn cat. A cute one too, worthy of multiple successful youtube videos. It stood in the spotlight of a street lamp, tiny little footprints in the snow leading up to it like it was in one of those Family Circus cartoons. She was definitely off her game if Mr. Fuzzles from down the block was giving her the heebie-jeebies. "Get your shit together, Oswald," she muttered bitterly.

Shaking her head at herself, Lizbeth continued on her way but left her hand in her purse. Her fingers released the knife, instead finding their way around her cell phone. She pulled it out and bit the fingertips of her glove, pulling it off her hand so she could get at the buttons. Flipping the phone open, she punched in a familiar number before pressing it to her ear.

"Agent Tom Willis speaking," a gruff, gravelly voice crackled out from the other side of the connection. Lizbeth's lips quirked upwards and she snorted into the receiver, a sound which was immediately met with a frustrated sigh. "Goddammit Lizzie, is that you again?"

"Hey, Bobby!" she chirped, probably with more enthusiasm than she felt.

"Why the hell can't you just call the fuckin' home phone, ya idjit," he growled in frustration, making her smile widen a bit more. "It's there for a reason."

"Because I find the idea of you as an F.B.I. agent endlessly hilarious," she drawled out. "You know, with a suit and some wing-tipped lace-ups. Trimmed beard. Maybe some pomade." She blew a breath between her teeth, letting out a hiss. "Wait…I think I described more of 1950s vacuum salesman."

"I'm currently otherwise employed," he grumbled. "As you well know."

"How're you doing, old man," Lizbeth said, kicking at a clump of snow. "You eating your wheaties and all that good stuff."

"You watch yourself, girlie," he mumbled back. "Just because you're about to graduate and get yourself a fancy college degree doesn't mean ya get to suddenly tell me what to do."

"Please," she scoffed, rolling her eyes heavily. "I've been telling you what to do since I was sixteen."

"Then isn't it about time ya shut the hell up?" he shot back. "Why are ya callin' me anyways? Seein' as finals are startin' next week I don't think the contents of my refrigerator should be all that high on your list of priorities."

"That's always gonna be on my list of priorities. You remember my saying, right?"

"Lizzie," he growled, his tone warning.

"In case you need a reminder, it's 'more fiber, less bourbon'."

"Lizzie, I ain't in the mood."

"Fine." Lizbeth exhaled sharply and bit down on her lip, picking up her pace slightly. "I was wondering if you've heard about anything hinky going on in my neck of the woods. Lightening storms, crop failures, crime reports that seem a bit off—anything like that."

"Aw, shit, Lizzie," he groaned out in frustration. "You're not out lookin' for a hunt are ya? You've got enough goin' on as it is an' ya can't divide your attention like that. You'll end up gettin' yourself killed. No hunts durin' the semester, we agreed on that before—"

"I'm not looking for a hunt, Bobby," she muttered, cutting him off abruptly. She swore under her breath and stopped for a moment, glancing to see is anyone was in earshot. Paranoia. It was running rampant. "Look, I've been having a bad feeling—call it intuition or a vibe or whatever the hell you want to call it—but…..my spooky radar is beeping like a pissed off fire alarm. I'm not looking for anything, but I'm beginning to get the impression that something's looking for me."

The line went silent, leaving Lizbeth with only far-off traffic, her own footsteps, and some metaphorical crickets to listen to. And then there was the odd Santa Claus leering at her from snow-dusted front lawns. The more she looked at them, the more unnerving they became. "Bobby?" she prompted.

"Give me a second, I'm checkin'."

After a few minutes of rustling papers and quiet mumbling, the phone picked up again. "Garth's huntin' down a shape-shifter near Richmond, but other than that I'm not seein' a damn thing anywhere near Middlebury," his disembodied voice replied.

"Nothing?" Lizbeth demanded. "Nothing at all?"

"You're probably just stressin' out again," Bobby informed her, his voice trying to put her at ease. "Remember at the end of your first year? You thought the girls' bathroom on the third floor of the Anthropology buildin' was haunted."

"Hey, there were indicators!" she protested, pulling at the end of her ponytail in frustration. "Flickering lights and a cold spot. And they keep mummies in that building, Bobby. I shit you not, they have actual mummies. Let that stew a second."

"There was shitty electrical work and you were standin' under a vent," he replied evenly.

"Oh, give me a break!" she whined. "I had just pulled two all-nighters in a row. I was running on 48 hours with no sleep. I slept like a full day after that. And I had to eat like three cheeseburgers to recover."

"My point exactly," he replied in a self-satisfied tone. "How much sleep have you been gettin'?"

Lizbeth sighed and pinched at the bridge of her nose. "Enough," she replied evasively.

"Yeah, that's what I though," he muttered. "You been havin' the dreams again?"

Lizbeth's teeth clamped shut like the jaws of an animal trap—she was lucky she didn't lose her tongue. She had been having the dream again—that recurring one that used to have her sweating through her sheets when she was a kid. Back pressed against the ceiling, pinned, unable to move. Loose hair dangling in her eyes, clouding her vision of the small white crib below. At first it was quiet, the mobile above the crib spinning hypnotically. Soon the soft plinking of a music box would begin, more threatening than sweet, building in volume until that fatal moment. Fire burst from her chest and spread outwards, eating her up until she was entirely engulfed in flames. It had returned a little over a week ago, around the same time that sick, paranoid feeling began eating its way into her bones.

Only this time the dream had shifted. This time she wasn't alone on that ceiling. Next there her she saw a familiar face—a woman with light brown hair, pale skin, and wide, hazel eyes to match her own. She recognized her mother's face from the baby photos and home movies, but instead of the brilliant smile and crinkled laugh lines, Lizbeth saw lips contorted with pain and eyes wide with fear. When she closed her eyes that night, that face was seared onto the inside of her eyelids.

Taking her silence as a 'yes', Bobby swore loudly into the receiver, abruptly yanking Lizbeth out of her morbid reverie. "Listen up, girlie," he growled over the phone. "Why don't you give yourself a break? Take a load off, get drunk, paint your toenails and play truth or dare with those friends of yours—"

"I really don't think you understand how college students spend their leisure time."

"—and more than anythin' else, get some sleep."

Scratching absently at her forehead, Lizbeth nodded in agreement despite the fact that the person she was talking to was hundreds of miles away and most certainly could not see her. He was right. She was fucking exhausted. Between two jobs and classes, she was getting in less than four hours a night. Her eyes were itching something horrible. "Okay, Bobby," she replied in a resigned tone. "You're probably right. Let's mark down the date and time for future reference."

"Yeah, I'll write it down at the top of the long list of other times I've been right," he replied gruffly. Lizbeth opened her mouth to retort, but before the words had a chance to form on her lips her ears were met with a loud click as Bobby hung up. He was never the sort to dabble in the warm and fuzzies, but she loved that curmudgeon-y old bastard. As father figures went, he was a hell of a lot better than the one that shared half her DNA.

By the time she arrived in front of her apartment building, Lizbeth's feet felt as if they were encased in lead. Her footsteps hand morphed from crisp, clean imprints in the snow to sloppy drag marks. They came to a halt on the curb in front of the building as she surveyed the sight before her. It took a few heavy-lidded blinks before her brain accepted what her eyes were telling her as reality.

Somehow, in the sixteen hours she had been away, her lawn had been converted into a winter wonderland. Icicle lights, normal colored lights, wreaths, a literal family of snowmen—parents and offspring included—had cropped up. Her roommate, Amy, apparently dove headfirst into the Christmas spirit. The girl was worse than the neighborhood Walgreens—Christmas tunes had been leaking out from under her bedroom door since the day after Thanksgiving. Was it annoying as hell? Yes, yes it was. But she was usually inclined to give cute blondes the benefit of the doubt. Especially when that blonde happened to be the sweetest person on the face of the planet.

Trudging forwards, Lizbeth snatched the carrot noses from the snowmen's faces before yanking open the front door. Salad for dinner, the fates had decided. It took a ridiculous amount of effort to haul herself up the stairs to the fourth floor. The second her toes touched the new Christmas-themed welcome mat that lay in front of their door, she let out an internal scream of victory and slid her key into the lock.

"Amy, Meg, I'm home!" she called out, alerting her roommates to her presence. "There had better be more of that sangria in the fridge, because after the day I had I'm going to fucking need it!"

Tucking the carrots under her arm, she tossed her keys in the bowl near her door and unwound the scarf from around her neck. Her face stung as the warm, dry air hit her cold skin, and she let out a sigh of relief. The apartment appeared to be in a state of transition. Red and green throw pillows had made their way to the couch and small ornaments littered most, if not all, horizontal surfaces. Lizbeth would have called the transformation complete had it not been for the cardboard boxes near the TV spilling tinsel and garlands onto the floor. "Jesus, Amy, it looks like somebody's filming and ABC Family holiday movie in here!"

Letting out a fond snort, she shrugged out of her jacket and peeled off her gloves, tossing them and her bag onto the living room armchair. The television was on, set to one of those ridiculous soaps Amy loved so very much—'Doctor Sexy, M.D.' or something else with an equally on point name. Usually Amy would be curled up on one end of the couch, a bowl of in hand, eyes glued to the screen. Meg would sit on the other, feet propped up on the ottoman and alternating between exasperated sighs and commentary on plot inconsistencies.

But now the couch sat empty. And other than the melodramatic swells of music coming from the television, the apartment was quiet. "Hello?" Lizbeth called out again, this time with hesitation.

"In the kitchen!" Meg's lilting voice sang. The sound of it gave Lizbeth the shivers. Meg was typically of the warm and comforting, if reserved, disposition. Lately, though, a certain aggressiveness had edged its way into her tone. And the way she called out had a sickly sweetness to it that veered more towards hostile than considerate. Another rude shake to her already on-edge nerves.

The sensation of anxiety in her rose as Lizbeth moved into the kitchen. When she turned the corner, what she saw as like a knife to the gut. Her arms dropped to her sides lamely, the carrots she had tucked aside clattering to the floor. "Jesus Christ!"

"Nope, try again."

Meg sat at the kitchen table, feet propped up on the surface in front of her and casually eating a piece of chocolate cake. Next to her lay a bloodied knife and Amy's ashen corpse. The other girl was positioned at the table as well, her head resting against the surface. She could have been asleep if it wasn't for the pool of deep red blood, mixing with and congealing in her blonde hair. Lizbeth stayed rooted in the doorframe, unable to move. Meg smirked up at her, letting those wide, brown, milkmaid eyes of hers flick black.

"Hey, Beth! Sorry about the mess, but I had to make a call," Meg—or the demon inside Meg—said through a mouthful of food, gesturing at an ornate chalice that rested near Amy's head. Blood dribbled down its side, working its way into the twisting designs, iron meeting iron. "You know how it is," Meg continued. "They get all panicked, heart rate and blood pressure skyrocket, and by the time you—" she made a slicing movement agains her own throat "—by the time you get to slit the carotid it's gushing like the Titanic after it shook hands with the friendly, neighborhood iceberg. It totally stained my clothes, and you know how hard blood is to get out of wool."

Lizbeth's eyes, wide and watering, shifted from Amy back to Meg. All those small differences she had noticed over the past week came to a point. The demon had abandoned all pretext. The hair that had once been a dirty blonde, parted down the middle and hanging at shoulder length had been hacked off and dyed, now all hard, jagged layers, parted at the side, and gleaming like gold. The soft facial features were colored over by dark, dramatic eye makeup and a disdainful sneer. Only the clothes were familiar, but they still didn't belong to Meg. The demon glanced down at its ensemble, almost as if it was reading her mind. "Oh, yeah," she said, popping the collar of the red leather jacket she was wearing. "I took the liberty of borrowing some of your threads. Well, I say 'borrowing'….."

It was as if someone had shoved a needle into her artery and plunged a shot of adrenaline straight into her bloodstream. Electricity shot through her nerves, lighting her insides aflame. Fight or flight. Her fingers twitched violently, a raging urge filled her up, telling her body to rip that bitch's head off and end her. But her head told her to stop. A cage match with a demon was not something she was prepared for. Alone, unarmed—this wasn't a situation her wits could help her out of.

Lizbeth made a dash for the door, but before she could clear the doorframe of the kitchen it slammed shut. A primal growl erupted from her lips as she threw her weight against the wood, trying to force her way through, but it might as well have been made of steel.

A wicked little laugh burbled out of the demon's throat as she watched with amusement. Her smile was wide and sinister, a smudge of chocolate frosting decorating her upper lip. Her thumb swiped across it, cleaning off her face before licking it away. "Please stop," she said, looking at Lizbeth with an expression of pity. "You're embarrassing yourself. You may or may not lose your life, but at least keep your dignity. Otherwise this is just sad." Reaching a foot under the table, the demon slowly pushed out the chair opposite her, gesturing for Lizbeth to take it. "Please," she said sweetly. "I'm not going to kill you—not yet anyway. I just want to chat. A little bit of girl talk. Without Amy. If we're all being honest, it was about time somebody cut her throat, don't you think? All that whining about boys was seriously getting on my nerves. I mean, how co-dependent can you get?"

Lizbeth paused for a moment, eyes roving around the kitchen and searching for some form of escape. There was none to be found. So, begrudgingly, she moved towards the chair and sat down. "How the fuck did you get in this house?" she growled through her teeth.

The demon shook her head condescendingly, like she was scolding a small child. "Is that how you treat a guest? You're not even going to ask my name?"

"Would you give it too me if I asked?" Lizbeth bit out.

"Probably not," the demon responded, a wide smile painting her face. "But you can just go ahead and call me Meg."

"I'm not going to call you that," Lizbeth spat.

The demon made a face and shrugged. Lizbeth had seen that face every day for the last year, but now it was totally foreign to her. A stranger wearing a mask made of her friend. "Suit yourself. But I think the name suits me. And so does this body." She held up a hand, inspecting it against the light—a society girl picking out her new dress. "Of course I'm going to have to dress it up a bit more—give it some style. You have no idea what it's been like the last week, having to put on that drab wardrobe. What's the point of having a smokin' body if you wrap it in a burlap sack. The chick literally has nothing but earth tones."

The demon allowed her hand to drop, casually swiping her finger through Amy's blood and pressing it to her tongue like she she was sampling brownie mix. "Anyways, as for your question…." she continued, "a devil's trap under the carpet is pretty unoriginal. That's basic 101 level stuff—like I had to try hard to figure out that one. I do have to say, though, the one you drew on the ceiling of your bedroom in blacklight paint—that was clever. You almost got me with that one. And the water guns filled with holy water? Cute. Not that any of that is doing you much good now."

Ignoring the stream of never-ending gloating, Lizbeth stole a free more glances at Amy's crumpled form. A knot took up residence in her chest as she held onto the ridiculous hope that the girl might still show some small sign of vitality. But there was none to be seen. Her head was turned to the side, cheek pressed against the table. Her big, blue, innocent eyes were open and unblinking. They had already begun to cloud over.

"Oh, she's dead as a doornail," 'Meg' said, flicking some cake into Amy's hair. Lizbeth dragged her eyes from Amy till they reached the demon. 'Meg' smiled coyly in the face of her mounting rage and licked her plate clean of frosting. "I'm being rude," she said suddenly, snatching up the bloodied knife. I haven't offered you any cake." Using the knife she carved off a piece of the cake and slopped it onto her plate, tossing it across the table so it clattered in front of Lizbeth. "There you go," she said, tossing over her fork as well. "Help yourself. Amy baked it, so you know it's gonna be good."

Lizbeth stared down at the plate in front of her, chocolate mixing with the dark, sticky blood. Her hands balled up into tight fists, the nails biting into the palms. The pain helped her focus—it kept her present. Metal glinted in the corner of her eye, and she sucked in a breath. After a few moments she shifted in her seat, gripping the edge of the table. "Why the fuck are you here?" she spat, bringing her eyes up to fix 'Meg' with an icy glare. "What do you want from me? Or is the endgame of the entire operation to sit there and make a gloating speech like a mediocre Bond villain?"

'Meg' rolled her eyes heavily and swung her feet off the table, scooting forwards and leaning towards Lizbeth. "So what if I like to play with my food before I eat it?"

"Until it comes back to bite you in your ass."

'Meg' giggled again, making Lizbeth seethe. "Oh, you are adorable. This back and forth is downright cute. But you're right—I've got a job to do and it's getting late."

"Finally," Lizbeth growled, her right hand sliding a few inches down the table. "I was beginning to think you just liked the sound of your own voice."

Wincing theatrically, 'Meg' placed a hand over her heart. "That hurts," she drawled, "but I'll let it go just this once." She scooted in even closer, placing her elbows on the table and perching her chin on her folded hands to peer at Lizbeth through narrowed eyes. "I am here to find out why you are so goddamn boring."

Lizbeth froze for a moment, her brow furrowing in confusion. What the hell was that supposed to mean? She cleared her throat and straightened in her seat, her right hand sliding a few more inches down the edge of the table. "Well honestly, that's a bit rude," she drawled. "I think I lead a pretty full life. Friends, hobbies, a little ghost-hunting on weekends and holidays. I have a lot of facets."

"Cute," 'Meg' said, arching a single eyebrow, "but that's also not what I meant. Twenty-two years ago you were given an incredible gift. You were chosen—one of a select few, one of his children—and nothing? Absolutely nothing. Not a single premonition, not a soupçon of telekinesis. All the others are coming along swimmingly, but you? Not a damn thing. Why is that?"

The crease between Lizbeth's eyebrows deepened as she narrowed her eyes at the lunatic opposite her. She tried to analyze the words as they were presented—parse them apart and rearrange them in a way that made some semblance of sense—but she came up short. "Am I supposed to have any idea what the hell you're talking about?"

"You are a complication," Meg murmured, the words close to a whisper.

"Okay?" Lizbeth replied, shrugging her shoulders. "Are you expecting an apology?"

"I would appreciate one," 'Meg' replied casually, nudging Lizbeth in the shin with the toe of her boot. "I really haven't enjoyed the trip to suburbia. And playing your friend here has been one giant snoozefest."

Whether it was more theatrics or genuine exhaustion that inspired the figure across from Lizbeth to yawn, she would never know. But regardless, when those eyes shut ever so slightly, she took her chance. The chair crashed to the floor as she threw herself to her feet. Her hand darted out to grasp the fork 'Meg' had carelessly tossed in her direction. In one swift motion, she lunged across the table and buried the blunted prongs deep into her jugular. Blood spurted violently, hitting Amy's soft hair like the first pass on a Jackson Pollack painting. Lizbeth snatched up a nearby Britta pitcher, sending it sailing towards the demon before sprinting away without a second thought.

LIzbeth's shoulder hit the kitchen door, this time managing to force her way through. Stumbling over her own feet, she careened through the apartment. Her head swam with the Christmas decorations surrounding her as she desperately tried to make it to the front door. She fiddled with the deadbolt, trying to unlatch the damned thing, but it just kept sticking. Great. She was going to die because her super was a lazy jackass. After what felt like an eternity, the lock finally clicked open. But no sooner did the door open half an inch, Lizbeth's body hurtled across the room, colliding hard with the wall. An invisible force held her there, unseen hands circling her hands and feet, the tightest one of all around her neck.

"The Britta pitcher?" a scornful voice demanded. "Really?"

'Meg' slowly ambled towards her, drenched and still steaming from the holy water, looking simultaneously pissed and amused. "That hurts my feelings, Beth," she pouted. "And here I was thinking we were getting along so well."

"What can I say," Lizbeth gasped out. "When guests overstay their welcome, I have a tendency to act out. You should have seen the way our last game night ended."

Taking a few more steps forward, 'Meg' lifted a hand to Lizbeth's face and smoothed back a few of her hairs in a way that was almost maternal. "I was so looking forward to getting to know you the fun way," she murmured, caressing Lizbeth's cheek with her thumb. "A knick here, a paper cut there, over and over again, and before we know it you're singing the pledge of allegiance. But I'm on a deadline. So I'm going to fill you up, take a little stroll through your memories, and empty you out again. How does that sound?"

Leaving her pinned to the wall, 'Meg' left the room only to return a moment later. The kitchen knife glinted in her hand, the blade itself still covered with blood and frosting. Using her thumb, she wiped it clean before licking her fingers. "So where's that anti-possession tattoo thing all you hunters have?" she asked through another yawn, gesturing up and down Lizbeth's body with the knife. "You're way too much of a prude for a tramp stamp, so it's either the wrist or the shoulder blade."

Lizbeth flinched violently as 'Meg' advanced on her. Using the knife, she sliced easily through the sleeve of Lizbeth's sweater to reveal to the tattoo underneath. "Look at that," she sighed in satisfaction. "Right in one. I should get a prize."

No screaming, no crying. That was the deal Lizbeth had made with herself a long time ago. No matter how bad it gets, no screaming and no crying. There is much that they can take, but you can still deny them satisfaction. Teeth clenched and lips twisted into a grimace, she ignored the pain of the knife slicing her skin. Blood ran down her forearm, warm and sticky, dripping onto the carpet beneath.

'Meg' grabbed hold of Lizbeth's throat and edged forwards till the two of them were nose to nose. Her lips curved upwards, that wolfish smile overtaking her face once again, leaving Lizbeth to glare back with as much venom as she could summon. After giving Lizbeth one last pat in the cheek, 'Meg' grabbed hold of her face and forced her mouth open.

"Say ah!"

A thick, billowing column of black smoke poured out of 'Meg's mouth and her empty body collapsed to the floor like a puppet with severed strings. The blackness swarmed around her face in a cloud. Lizbeth waited to choke on it, to feel something else inside her, taking her body and forcing her consciousness into a small corner to watch all the terrible things she would be forced to do. It flooded her nose and mouth, searing the inside of her throat and filling her lungs with ash. Her body convulsed violently as she waited to hear that sinister voice inside her own skull.

But the voice never came. Her chest heaved and shuddered until she forced out a hacking cough. The smoke spilled out of her lips and pooled at her feet. Even though her lungs were clear, Lizbeth forgot to breathe.

The smoke rested there a few moments, squirming and writhing, and in that moment Lizbeth could swear it was a shaken as she was. Suddenly it shot towards Meg's parted lips, disappearing into her body. The girl spasmed wildly and stilled, sitting bolt upright with a sharp gasp. Her eyes darted towards Lizbeth, glowering at her with something like accusation. 'Meg' climbed to her feet, brushing off her jacket and squaring her shoulders in Lizbeth's direction.

"You know they say it happens to one in every eight," Lizbeth managed to cough out, feeling a bitterly victorious smile form on her face.

The laugh 'Meg' let out was lighthearted, but didn't fully hide her disconcertion. But then that disconcertion morphed into something entirely different. Rage.

"You are just one giant complication."

All of the sudden, Lizbeth felt herself sliding up the wall. Up, up, and up until each vertebrae of her spine felt as if it was fused to the ceiling. Her hair had come loose and was hanging around her face. An invisible hand closed around her throat, but this time it had nothing to do with 'Meg'. It was panic. Panic at the sudden certainty that today was the day she would die.

'Meg' sashayed over until she stood directly under Lizbeth, her face framed by loose strands of limp red hair. "It's nothing personal, Betty," she said brightly, "but you know what happens to the merchandise that comes off the assembly line damaged. It's useless. Straight into the incinerator. It's actually kind of poetic, you and mommy dearest going out the same way. Any last words?"

Lizbeth glowered down at the demon, her lips moving to form two crisp, clear words. "Fuck. You."

"Well that was just beautiful," 'Meg' replied. "I'm going to go stitch that on a pillow."

With a final wave of her hand, 'Meg' strolled out, leaving Lizbeth there waiting for the fire to come. She shut her mind down, forcing all the bad out. And as the flames licked her body, she convinced herself they tickled.

So, what do you think? Please review! It's about 3am right now, so this might be absolute crap and I will probably go back and edit the hell out of it, but I'd still like some input! Love you guys, and thanks for reading.