A/N: I obviously don't own Blaine.

This is going to be a serial killer fic. It's going to be from Blaine's point of view, and it's going to follow his story. Kurt will come into it at some point, and Kurt will be a huge focus. I promise.

If you want, request what characters you /don't want dead/. I can't promise anything, but I know that some people might be upset with my choices thus far.

I have a smut surprise later. I think all of you will like it :D!

Review, please. I want to know what you guys want to see in future chapters.

Also, this will be confusing in the beginning.

I don't remember much else from that day. When I woke up, it was morning again, and I was lying at the bottom of the stairs. My head hurt, but it was the first morning in a long time where there was no screaming.

I never really had any friends. I would go to the playground each day in hopes that one of the boys would invite me into a game of monsters or swings. Every day I sat there, waiting. Every night I would return to my house, friendless and all alone.

Sometimes, I would wake up to screaming. I would sit up in bed with my eyes closed, praying that I was still in a dream. It was always reality.

I would descend the stairs slowly. If I was quiet enough, I could catch a few glimpses of shattering glass, as my dad threw the new China plates at Mommy. I never worried; the plates would be replaced by the next morning.

Then, they would see me. The screaming would stop, and I would be pulled into apologetic hugs. "We didn't want to wake you," they would whisper, pressing noisy kisses into my dark curls. Mon would bring me upstairs to help me shower and get dressed, and Dad would clean up the kitchen.

Then I would go to the park. Mommy never came with me. She said that she needed to deal with important things, at home. All the other boys had mommys. Maybe that's why they didn't ask me to swing, I thought. They knew I didn't have a mommy to push me as high as them.

On my fifth birthday, I had an epiphany. I was different. The boys didn't want me to play with then because my collared shirts would stand out too brilliantly against their plain, black t-shirts. They thought that I couldn't play monsters because my shoes were a little too shiny, and they thought that I would be afraid of getting them dirty.

But especially, they didn't want to play with me because I was an Anderson. I began to hear the whispers: "Don't talk to that boy, sweetheart."

"Why not?"

"Because he doesn't belong here. His parents aren't like me and dad. He's going to get you into trouble."

I decided that I didn't belong at the park anymore. Maybe I didn't even belong with people. If I was different, maybe I should find something the same. Stephen, next door, had a dog. Maybe I should ask Mommy for a dog, I thought.

I began to walk home from the park for the last time. My head was held low, and I was afraid to tell my parents that I had again failed at obtaining a friend.

But the house was eerily silent. Dinner wasn't cooking, and my daddy's whistle wasn't echoing down the long hallways.

"Mommy?" I said, frightened. They couldn't leave me too. They couldn't.

"Mom?" I yelled again, beginning to run from one room to the next. "Mommy?"

Finally, I arrived at the last door: my parents' bedroom. I was told never to go inside, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Gulping at my breath, I pushed the door open.

I began to sigh out my relief when I saw both Mom and Dad on the bed, but I quickly stopped. Something was wrong.

When I realized what I was seeing, all I could see was red. Mommy had been cut real bad. I tried to run to her, but Dad grabbed me by the shoulders.

"OUT!" he bellowed, when I had landed on my butt by the door.

"She needs a band-aid!" I said helplessly, my eyes beginning to well. She needed a band-aid and a kiss.

"I SAID OUT!" I crawled away from the angry voice as quickly as I could. I had gotten to my feet, and I was ready to run back to the park, but Dad seemed to have changed his mind. Catching up quickly to my little legs, he picked me up over his shoulder. "If you tell a soul," he spat into my ear, "you'll be the next I kill."

Who would I tell? I didn't have friends, I thought. I had no one to tell…