Disclaimer: I still don't own Kingdom Hearts, and I definitely do not own Freddy Krueger.


She hasn't slept in days, not since he first crept out of the darkness of her dreams. Not since she saw the little girls in white dresses so much like her own, skipping rope and sing-songing a dark and cruel rhyme as they bled from empty eye sockets, blood flowing like tears down China-doll cheeks. Not since they fell apart and crumbled and burned up as he stepped out of the shadows, arms extended, mouth grinning, blue eyes ablaze and the smell of burnt flesh hanging thick in the air. The child-voices were still in the air, growing louder as he came closer; one, two, Freddy's coming for you.

Being something that didn't really exist, without a heart and feelings, she wasn't afraid. She merely stood there, in the middle of the street, blue eyes narrowed, pale hands clenched into delicate fists. He chuckled, a sickening sound that would have made a heart tremble. It only grew on her nerves. And the singing grew louder still; three, four; better lock your door.

He finally came to a halt in front of her, ruined lips pulled tight in a lecherous smirk, showing a glimpse of rotten teeth. When she made no effort to run or scream, he cocked his head to the side and hummed thoughtfully, the singing dulled to a whisper that would have made any other young girl's blood run cold; five, six, grab your crucifix.

"Not afraid?" he asked, voice raspy, curious.

"Should I be?" she retorted, defiant and bold, but beginning to tremble on the inside. Fear knew no place within her, but the part of her that strove to be human once more – to be somebody – remembers how fear felt, and begins to replicate it well enough.

He dragged his metallic claws over one bare arm, delighted to see that strange, hollow girl's skin rise in goosebumps. "Oh, yes," he told her. "You should be very afraid."

Seven, eight, gonna stay up late.

He gripped her tight then, blades cutting into her skin, blood-that-wasn't seeping out onto shined and polished metal. She winced, a pitiful sound that made his grin broaden, baring his foul teeth to her. "Pretty girl," he purred, breath hot on her lips as he leaned down, leveling eye-to-eye with her, "show me what you're scared of."

And he brought the hand with the metal fingers up, caressed the swell of her developing breasts, then drove a tip in, passed flesh and bone and muscle, right down to the hollow cavity where her heart should have been. His eyes widened curiously as the darkness throbbed against the blade, lapped at the not-blood of its host, welcoming his own wickedness inside. And, oh, what he wouldn't have given to really dig a little deeper, shred the insides of her thighs and take whatever innocence her body had. But he held back, focused, and finally took the dive within her consciousness, finding himself submersed in not-memories and not-feelings, voids of Nothingness everywhere he turned.

He withdrew the blade, laughing as she gripped her chest, though the wound had already healed. "Nothing," he said, shaking the red liquid from his claw. "You're afraid of Nothing."

She took a step back, swallowing hard, and the tough facade she had tried so hard to maintain came crashing down around her. His laugh turned into a cackle, and the street slowly gave way to darkness. In the blink of an eye, all that had been was swallowed up and replaced by nothing, by a blackness that went on forever.

A mirror of her soul.

Nine, ten, never sleep again.

"Pretty witch," his voice sounded around her as she spun this way and that, hoping to find a way out of the void, "I'll be seeing you again."

He could have killed her, but he had never come across such a strange child. She had no heart, no soul, and only a vague memory of what feelings were. For the most part, she didn't even exist, and it amused him – he hadn't had a toy like her in a long, long while. And she wasn't like that Nancy or Lori, or any of those other bitches that managed to get the better of him. This one, this girl with nothing inside, was very special indeed. It was only after she fell to her knees, did he allow the dream to end.

She woke panting and trembling, her white room a momentary relief. But the relief was short-lived once she looked down to her chest, finding red stains and an aching throb inside that wouldn't be going away any time soon.

In the days that followed, she kept to herself, drawing pictures of burnt men and dead girls in lily-white dresses and metal fingers and dark voids and wicked smiles that had so many dirty meanings. She sees him everywhere, hidden in shadows, before her eyes every time she blinks.

Welcome to my nightmare.


"You look horrible," Demyx says, a hand on her shoulder. She wants to jerk away, because she can feel her darkness eager for his, but she stays still in her chair and continues to color in the red and green sweater. "Haven't been sleeping well?"

She doesn't respond, she only begins to hum. He cants his head to one side, pulling his hand back and rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Namine?" he presses on. The Superior will not be pleased to see her like this.

"Never sleep again," she sing-songs.