I've rewritten the story, adding more details to enhance the narrative and deepen the characters. I hope you enjoy the new version!

Iris Winters

Carlos Mendez

Third Person's POV

The sun was waging a valiant battle against the thick, oppressive clouds that had settled over Chicago. Despite its efforts, the sunlight only managed to pierce the gloom in feeble rays, casting a dim, grey light over the city. The month of August had arrived, bringing with it a chill in the breeze that seemed unusually harsh for the season. The crisp air cut through the morning like a blade, leaving those who ventured outside shivering in their coats and scarves.

In the heart of this bustling city, there was a house that, from the outside, appeared to embody the ideal American family. Neighbours admired the family's seemingly perfect life, often remarking on their apparent happiness and success. However, beneath this polished exterior, the truth was much more complex and far less idyllic.

Iris was deeply ensconced in sleep, her dreams a sanctuary from the tensions that marked her waking hours. The peaceful silence of her slumber was abruptly shattered by the sharp, insistent voices outside her room. Her eyes fluttered open, disoriented, as the persistent knocking on her door and her mother's harsh voice cut through the tranquillity of her rest.

With a start, Iris sat up in bed, her heart pounding as she tried to shake off the remnants of sleep. She stumbled out of bed, her legs still heavy with exhaustion, and hurried to the door. As she opened it, she was greeted by the sight of her mother's face, flushed with anger and frustration. Her mother's eyes were blazing, a clear indication of her displeasure.

"Good morning, Mom," Iris said softly, her voice trembling with a mixture of nervousness and embarrassment.

"I've been waiting for you for half an hour!" her mother's voice was sharp and unforgiving. "You're late again. Ariana needs to leave early today, and breakfast isn't ready. I need you to get downstairs and make breakfast right now."

Iris nodded quickly, her face burning with shame. She felt a pang of regret for sleeping in. Her late-night assignment had kept her up until around 3 a.m., and the exhaustion had claimed her in a deep, unbroken sleep. She had not meant to delay her morning routine.

With a sense of urgency, she hurried down the stairs, her mind still clouded with sleep. In the kitchen, she sprung into action. The rhythmic clinking of utensils and the sizzle of cooking food provided a backdrop to her frantic efforts. She whisked eggs for French toast and carefully poured muffin batter into moulds, trying to work as quickly as possible. Her movements were precise, born from a blend of necessity and habit.

Once the breakfast was prepared, she set the table with care, arranging the plates and utensils in their proper places. The smell of cooking food began to fill the kitchen, mingling with the crisp morning air. As she worked, she could hear her family making their way downstairs. With a quick glance, she saw them approaching the table. She offered them a fleeting, anxious smile before retreating up the stairs to get ready for school.

As she prepared for the day, Iris's thoughts were filled with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. This was her final year of high school, a milestone that she had been looking forward to with a sense of both anticipation and trepidation. Her relationship with Jon, her boyfriend, was a bright spot in her life. Their mutual affection brought her great joy, and while others admired her beauty, it was Jon's opinion that mattered most to her.

Her striking red hair, a rare and distinctive feature in their area, had been inherited from her biological mother. The freckles that adorned her face added to her unique appearance, making her stand out in any crowd. Her resemblance to her mother was so striking that had her mother been alive, their likeness would have been nearly indistinguishable.

After a hot, invigorating shower, Iris dressed in a red skirt paired with a black off-shoulder crop top. She took great care in styling her hair, ensuring that each strand was in place. With her preparations complete, she descended the stairs once more to join her family for breakfast.

At the breakfast table, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Iris could feel the weight of her stepmother and stepsister's disapproving glares. It was clear that they were judging her, and their silent scrutiny was almost palpable. Iris ate her breakfast quickly, her appetite diminished by the uncomfortable atmosphere. She was eager to leave and escape the oppressive environment of her home.

As she stepped outside, the cool morning air hit her like a refreshing splash of water. She was halfway down the sidewalk when she overheard a conversation between her stepmother and stepsister. Their words, laced with irritation and disdain, cut through the morning air.

"Mom, she's wearing a skirt again. Why didn't you say something?" Ariana's voice was filled with frustration and judgement.

Her stepmother responded with a weary sigh, "Let her be. When she faces the consequences of her choices, she'll learn."

The harshness of the comment struck Iris deeply. It wasn't just the words themselves but the underlying implication that her autonomy and personal choices were being disregarded. The comment felt like an attack on her very sense of self, and it stung with an emotional intensity that left her reeling.

The pain and anger surged within her, and with a resolute sense of defiance, she slammed the door behind her with a forceful thud. The sound reverberated through the quiet morning, a stark contrast to the turbulent emotions swirling inside her. She walked away, her steps heavy with a mixture of hurt and determination, ready to face whatever the day might bring.

She could hardly believe the cruel words that had escaped her stepmother's mouth. The harshness of the comment about her attire felt like a direct assault on her sense of self. It was her body, and she firmly believed that she had the right to wear whatever she chose without judgement or interference from others. The clothes she wore were purchased with her own hard-earned money, and she took pride in her ability to provide for herself in this small way.

As she walked the familiar path to school, a route she had travelled countless times, the chilly breeze nipped at her cheeks. The walk took about ten minutes, providing her with time to collect her thoughts and reflect on her feelings. The school was close enough that she could manage the short distance on foot, but the cold air seemed to mirror the chill she felt from her family's recent behaviour.

Her stepsister Ariana had been gifted a car for her 17th birthday, a gesture from their parents that highlighted the disparity between them. It stung even more because Iris, who was about to turn 18 the following month, had yet to receive any similar recognition or gift. The last gift she had received from her father was on her sixth birthday—a beautiful doll that she still kept on her dresser as a cherished memory.

Her father's behaviour towards her had always been strange and distant. Ever since her mother passed away during childbirth, leaving Iris a mere two months old, her father's focus had shifted entirely. He married her stepmother shortly after her mother's death, and within months, Ariana was born. The new family dynamics left Iris feeling increasingly isolated.

Whenever Iris attempted to connect with her father or share her thoughts, her stepmother would intervene, often pulling him away with the excuse that Ariana needed him. It seemed as though he had become a devoted father to Ariana, neglecting Iris in the process. Each time, Iris was left standing alone, her heart heavy with disappointment and loneliness.

Lost in these thoughts, Iris almost missed the familiar figure of her boyfriend, Jon, standing near the entrance of the school. As she saw him, her heart skipped a beat, and a wave of excitement washed over her. It was as though her body instinctively knew that she was about to be comforted by someone who cared deeply for her.

Jon turned at just the right moment, as if he could sense her presence. His eyes met hers, and a warm smile spread across his face. Iris quickened her pace, her excitement palpable. She reached him and enveloped him in a tight, affectionate hug. She heard him chuckle softly, a sound that instantly lifted her spirits.

After a brief but intense embrace, she pulled back slightly, biting her lip as she did so. Her excitement was not just about seeing him but also about the emotional warmth he provided, a stark contrast to the coldness she had experienced at home.

However, as she looked around, she noticed the somber expressions on the faces of the people around them. Their gloomy demeanor seemed out of place and unsettling. Iris frowned, momentarily distracted from her own feelings of joy and relief.

Jon's lips met hers in a quick, tender kiss, grounding her in the present moment. She pulled away, her eyes meeting his. "I miss you," she said softly, her voice filled with genuine affection.

Jon smiled and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You've seen me just yesterday," he replied with a teasing yet affectionate tone.

A blush crept across Iris's cheeks, warming her skin. The memory of their intimate evening together the night before still lingered, and the physical closeness they shared was a testament to their deep bond. Since she had turned 17, their relationship had grown more intimate, and although Jon had assured her that he was willing to wait, she had chosen to share this part of herself with him because of her profound love for him.

Hand in hand, they started walking towards the locker room, the noise of whispers and the curious glances of other students washing over them. Iris could feel the weight of their stares and heard snippets of conversation, but she chose to focus on Jon, hoping he might provide some insight into the unexpected mood.

She turned to him, her expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. "What's going on? Why does everyone look so down?"

Jon shrugged slightly, his face mirroring her concern. "I just got here a few minutes before you did. Let me find out," he said, squeezing her hand reassuringly before heading towards a group of students who seemed to be in the midst of an animated conversation.

Iris waited anxiously, her mind racing with possibilities. The warmth of Jon's presence provided a comforting distraction, but her curiosity about the unusual atmosphere at school was growing. She hoped that whatever was happening wouldn't overshadow the joy she felt from being with Jon.

As I walked through the bustling school hallway, my gaze fell upon a pair of girls huddled together, their faces a blend of shock and sorrow. The air around them seemed heavy with a sense of dread, and my curiosity prompted me to approach.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my efforts to sound composed.

One of the girls let out a deep sigh, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Cindy is dead."

The words hit me like a cold wave, leaving me momentarily breathless. Cindy was not just a classmate but a friend I enjoyed spending time with. We shared a special connection, not only because we both had red hair, a rare trait in our town, but also because of the bond we had developed over the years. The news of her death felt like a cruel blow to my sense of security.

I struggled to hold back the rising tide of panic as the other girl spoke up, her voice quivering. "Haven't you heard about the serial killer targeting girls with red hair?"

The mention of the serial killer sent a shiver down my spine. I had heard disturbing rumors and reports about him, and my father had frequently discussed the case with an unsettling intensity. The way he spoke about the killer, with a mixture of fear and fascination, had left me anxious and alert.

A comforting hand rested gently on my arm, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. Jon's touch was warm and reassuring, a stark contrast to the icy grip of fear that had taken hold of me. I leaned into him, placing my hand over his and squeezing it for support.

He pressed a tender kiss to the top of my head and whispered softly, "It's okay, Iris. I won't let anything happen to you."

Despite Jon's comforting words, a knot of fear tightened in my stomach. The killer had already claimed nearly all the redheads in town, and the thought that I might be the only one left was terrifying. The fear of being next on the killer's list was overwhelming, and I could hardly bear to think about it.

"I know," I whispered, my voice barely audible. The sense of vulnerability was suffocating.

The thought of my dreams being cut short—dreams that included a future with Jon—was almost too much to bear. The possibility of never seeing those dreams come true was deeply unsettling.

Suddenly, another girl's voice cut through my thoughts, her tone laced with concern. "Be careful, Iris. You're the only redhead left here."

Her warning carried a weight that was hard to ignore. Before I could respond, she added another chilling detail, her face contorted with fear. "Just like the others, he raped her first, then murdered her brutally by smashing her head against a concrete block."

The graphic description of Cindy's death made my stomach churn. The brutality of the killer's actions was horrifying, and the realization that I could be the next victim filled me with paralysing dread.

Jon, sensing my growing distress, took swift action. He gently but firmly guided me away from the crowd and led me to the nearest washroom. The sudden shift from the chaos of the hallway to the relative calm of the washroom provided a brief respite from the overwhelming fear.

Once inside, Jon enveloped me in a tight embrace. His arms were warm and protective, and the steady beat of his heart against my ear was a comforting reminder of his presence. I buried my face in his chest, taking solace in his familiar scent and the security of his hold.

"Trust me, love," Jon murmured, his voice steady and filled with reassurance. "You will be alright. I love you. I will protect you with my life."

His words were a balm to my anxious soul. I pulled back slightly, my lips curving into a faint, grateful smile. Standing on my tiptoes, I leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. It was a simple yet profound gesture, conveying all the love and gratitude I felt for him.

When I pulled away, I looked into Jon's eyes, my voice trembling with sincerity as I said, "I love you too, Jon, with my life."

In that moment, surrounded by the fear and uncertainty of the outside world, Jon and I found a brief sanctuary in each other. His love and protection offered a small but precious shield against the looming danger, reminding me of the strength of our bond and the comfort we found in one another amidst the chaos.

.

.

.

I walked towards the bakery where I had been working for a year, my breath visible in the crisp morning air. The shop, with its quaint charm and the scent of freshly baked goods, was a refuge from my cold home life. It was owned by a man in his late fifties, though I had never laid eyes on him; he had left the daily operations to his wife, a woman whose icy demeanour sent shivers down my spine. I tread carefully around her, acutely aware that even the smallest misstep could provoke her sharp tongue.

As I pushed the door open, the familiar jingle of the bell echoed, announcing the arrival of a customer. I glanced up, and my heart skipped a beat. A man stood in the doorway, probably in his late thirties. He was undeniably handsome, with striking features and a charismatic presence that seemed to draw everyone's attention. His dark hair fell just so, and there was an intensity in his gaze that made my pulse quicken.

I tucked a loose strand of my fiery red hair behind my ear, a nervous habit, and cleared my throat to draw his attention. When our gazes met, an unsettling thrill raced through me; his penetrating stare felt like he was appraising me like prey. There was a creepiness in his eyes, a lurking intensity that sent a wave of unease washing over me, despite the protective barrier of my mask. I had caught a cold the day before, the mask serving as both a shield against germs and an unwelcome reminder of my vulnerability.

Yet his gaze seemed fixated on my hair—the very thing I had always cherished, now feeling like a dangerous beacon. Swallowing hard, I steeled myself and decided to break the silence. "Hello, how can I help you?" I asked, striving for a professional tone.

A beautiful smile unfurled on his lips, casting a fleeting warmth over the chill that surrounded us. "Oh, I need a hazelnut cake," he replied, his voice smooth and inviting.

My heart raced at the mention of my favorite dessert. "Sure! Many people don't appreciate this flavor," I said, my enthusiasm bubbling over as I began to pack the cake, memories of my mother filling my mind. She had loved hazelnut cake, her laughter mingling with the aroma of baking, creating a warmth I missed dearly.

"Do you like it?" he asked, his eyes glinting with curiosity.

"It's my favorite. My mom adored it too," I confessed, a smile breaking through my nervousness as I handed him the bag. The thought of sharing that connection brought a brief moment of joy.

"Thank you, Iris," he said, and the world around me froze. He knew my name—a name I hadn't shared. It felt intimate, almost invasive, and I was suddenly acutely aware of the mask that separated us, the distance it couldn't bridge.

As another customer entered, I snapped out of my daze, shaking my head to clear the mounting dread. It's okay, Iris. You must have told him. I reassured myself, though a sliver of doubt and fear began to root itself in my gut, whispering warnings I couldn't ignore.

The atmosphere in the bakery shifted, the air thickening with an unspoken tension. I glanced at the man again, but he had turned slightly, his attention drawn to the display of pastries. Still, that unsettling feeling lingered, like a storm cloud ready to burst. With each passing second, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was standing on the precipice of something far more dangerous than a simple encounter at the bakery.

.

.

.

I was distracted throughout the day, my thoughts drifting to nothing but the comforting presence of Jon. The warmth of his smile and the easy laughter we shared felt like a distant memory, and I longed to escape the confines of the bakery. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows on the empty street, I stepped out of the shop and dialed his number. "When will you be here?" I asked, my voice hopeful.

"Just five minutes, Iris," he replied, his tone soothing. I hung up, anticipation mingling with a hint of unease. Looking around, I frowned at the gathering darkness; the streets were eerily quiet, the usual buzz of evening life absent.

I walked toward the end of the road, eager to meet Jon, but an unsettling sensation crept over me. A chill ran down my spine as I felt a presence behind me. I paused, spinning around to find no one there, just the whisper of the wind through the trees. Maybe I'm being paranoid, I thought, shaking my head to dismiss the worry.

Yet, as I resumed my stroll, I couldn't ignore the faint sound of mumbling behind me. I licked my dry lips, my heart racing, and turned again. This time, a figure loomed in the shadows, his face obscured by the dim light. Panic surged through me. Without thinking, I took off running, my feet pounding against the pavement as I sprinted toward the end of the street.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that he wasn't chasing me. Instead, he stood there, laughter echoing into the night, a sound that sent icy fingers of fear gripping my heart. Just then, I felt a pair of hands clasp around my waist, and I screamed, the sound tearing through the stillness of the evening.

"Shhhh, Iris. What happened? Why are you crying?" A familiar voice broke through my terror.

It was Jon. Relief flooded over me as I turned to meet his worried gaze. I hadn't even realized I was crying until he mentioned it, the tears spilling down my cheeks like a dam breaking. "I... Someone... Jon... I got scared," I stammered, my voice trembling.

He cupped my cheeks in his warm hands, wiping away my tears with gentle thumbs. "It's okay, Iris. I'm here. Let's get you home," he reassured me, his voice steady and calming.

I nodded, still shaken, but comforted by his presence. As I glanced back, my heart raced, searching for the figure in the shadows. He was gone, swallowed by the night. A sigh of relief escaped my lips as I turned back to Jon, grateful to be in his arms. Together, we walked away from the darkness, the laughter of the unknown fading behind us.

.

Iris had always found solace in the ordinary. Her days were painted with the laughter of her loving boyfriend, a stark contrast to the chilly silence that filled her home. While her family wrapped themselves in layers of cold indifference, Iris wrapped herself in dreams of a brighter future, choosing to ignore the emotional frost that lingered around her.

But peace is often a fragile illusion. As autumn leaves began to fall, a shadow crept into their small town—a serial killer with a sinister obsession. Whispers of the "Redhead Butcher" sent chills down spines, his ruthless hunt targeting those with fiery locks. It was a twisted game of fate, and Iris found herself caught in the crosshairs.

The first victim was discovered just days later, a haunting reminder of the fragile line between safety and terror. As fear gripped the community, Iris's vibrant auburn hair, once a source of pride, now felt like a neon sign marking her for death. With each sunrise, she could sense the tightening noose of danger, the thrill of life overshadowed by an impending doom.

As her boyfriend's comforting presence transformed into an uneasy shield, Iris was thrust into a frantic race against time. With the killer lurking in the shadows, she was forced to confront the family she had long ignored and uncover the truths they had hidden. In a world where love and fear intertwined, Iris realized that the fight for her life would reveal not just the darkness of a killer, but the hidden depths of her own resilience.

.

.

.

I walked toward the bakery where I had been working for a year, my breath visible in the crisp morning air. The shop, with its quaint charm and the scent of freshly baked goods, was a refuge from my cold home life. It was owned by a man in his late fifties, though I had never laid eyes on him; he had left the daily operations to his wife, a woman whose icy demeanor sent shivers down my spine. I tread carefully around her, acutely aware that even the smallest misstep could provoke her sharp tongue.

As I pushed the door open, the familiar jingle of the bell echoed, announcing the arrival of a customer. I glanced up, and my heart skipped a beat. A man stood in the doorway, probably in his late thirties. He was undeniably handsome, with striking features and a charismatic presence that seemed to draw everyone's attention. His dark hair fell just so, and there was an intensity in his gaze that made my pulse quicken.

I tucked a loose strand of my fiery red hair behind my ear, a nervous habit, and cleared my throat to draw his attention. When our gazes met, an unsettling thrill raced through me; his penetrating stare felt like he was appraising me like prey. There was a creepiness in his eyes, a lurking intensity that sent a wave of unease washing over me, despite the protective barrier of my mask. I had caught a cold the day before, the mask serving as both a shield against germs and an unwelcome reminder of my vulnerability.

Yet his gaze seemed fixated on my hair—the very thing I had always cherished, now feeling like a dangerous beacon. Swallowing hard, I steeled myself and decided to break the silence. "Hello, how can I help you?" I asked, striving for a professional tone.

A beautiful smile unfurled on his lips, casting a fleeting warmth over the chill that surrounded us. "Oh, I need a hazelnut cake," he replied, his voice smooth and inviting.

My heart raced at the mention of my favorite dessert. "Sure! Many people don't appreciate this flavor," I said, my enthusiasm bubbling over as I began to pack the cake, memories of my mother filling my mind. She had loved hazelnut cake, her laughter mingling with the aroma of baking, creating a warmth I missed dearly.

"Do you like it?" he asked, his eyes glinting with curiosity.

"It's my favorite. My mom adored it too," I confessed, a smile breaking through my nervousness as I handed him the bag. The thought of sharing that connection brought a brief moment of joy.

"Thank you, Iris," he said, and the world around me froze. He knew my name—a name I hadn't shared. It felt intimate, almost invasive, and I was suddenly acutely aware of the mask that separated us, the distance it couldn't bridge.

As another customer entered, I snapped out of my daze, shaking my head to clear the mounting dread. It's okay, Iris. You must have told him. I reassured myself, though a sliver of doubt and fear began to root itself in my gut, whispering warnings I couldn't ignore.

The atmosphere in the bakery shifted, the air thickening with an unspoken tension. I glanced at the man again, but he had turned slightly, his attention drawn to the display of pastries. Still, that unsettling feeling lingered, like a storm cloud ready to burst. With each passing second, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was standing on the precipice of something far more dangerous than a simple encounter at the bakery.

.

.

.

I was distracted throughout the day, my thoughts drifting to nothing but the comforting presence of Jon. The warmth of his smile and the easy laughter we shared felt like a distant memory, and I longed to escape the confines of the bakery. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows on the empty street, I stepped out of the shop and dialed his number. "When will you be here?" I asked, my voice hopeful.

"Just five minutes, Iris," he replied, his tone soothing. I hung up, anticipation mingling with a hint of unease. Looking around, I frowned at the gathering darkness; the streets were eerily quiet, the usual buzz of evening life absent.

I walked toward the end of the road, eager to meet Jon, but an unsettling sensation crept over me. A chill ran down my spine as I felt a presence behind me. I paused, spinning around to find no one there, just the whisper of the wind through the trees. Maybe I'm being paranoid, I thought, shaking my head to dismiss the worry.

Yet, as I resumed my stroll, I couldn't ignore the faint sound of mumbling behind me. I licked my dry lips, my heart racing, and turned again. This time, a figure loomed in the shadows, his face obscured by the dim light. Panic surged through me. Without thinking, I took off running, my feet pounding against the pavement as I sprinted toward the end of the street.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that he wasn't chasing me. Instead, he stood there, laughter echoing into the night, a sound that sent icy fingers of fear gripping my heart. Just then, I felt a pair of hands clasp around my waist, and I screamed, the sound tearing through the stillness of the evening.

"Shhhh, Iris. What happened? Why are you crying?" A familiar voice broke through my terror.

It was Jon. Relief flooded over me as I turned to meet his worried gaze. I hadn't even realized I was crying until he mentioned it, the tears spilling down my cheeks like a dam breaking. "I... Someone... Jon... I got scared," I stammered, my voice trembling.

He cupped my cheeks in his warm hands, wiping away my tears with gentle thumbs. "It's okay, Iris. I'm here. Let's get you home," he reassured me, his voice steady and calming.

I nodded, still shaken, but comforted by his presence. As I glanced back, my heart raced, searching for the figure in the shadows. He was gone, swallowed by the night. A sigh of relief escaped my lips as I turned back to Jon, grateful to be in his arms. Together, we walked away from the darkness, the laughter of the unknown fading behind us.

.

.

.

"Miss Winters, you are going to stay here after school."

The sharp voice of my math teacher cut through the fog of my anxious thoughts, pulling me back to reality with a jolt. I looked up, startled, to find her glaring at me with a mix of disappointment and irritation. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I caught whispers and snickers from my classmates, their eyes darting in my direction, fueling my anxiety further.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I'll be here," I mumbled, feeling the weight of my first-ever detention settle heavily on my shoulders. It seemed almost comical that I was being punished for daydreaming in class, yet nothing felt lighthearted about it. What was a mere detention compared to the gnawing fear that had taken root in my life?

The stalker had been following me since that day, the thought of him lurking in the shadows sent shivers down my spine. I desperately wanted to report him to the police, but the very idea of facing my father and stepmother made my stomach twist in knots. Each time I tried to talk to my dad, my stepmother would swoop in, dismissing my concerns as typical teenage paranoia. Even Jon, who usually listened and offered support, had brushed off my worries, insisting I was overreacting.

How could I convince anyone that I was living in a waking nightmare? I glanced at the clock, the bell signaling the end of the school day ringing out with a sharp chime. My heart sank at the realization that I was stuck here while everyone else rushed out, free to go home, to safety.

With a resigned sigh, I opened my notebook and began doodling aimlessly, hoping to distract myself from the chaos swirling in my mind. I sketched little flowers and hearts, trying to find solace in the simplicity of the designs. But my thoughts kept drifting back to that menacing figure who had invaded my sense of security. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, detention ended. I trudged out of the school, heading straight for the bakery, where I hoped the familiar routine would provide a much-needed distraction.

But even at work, anxiety loomed like a dark cloud overhead. I tried my best to focus on the customers who filed in, but my mind kept drifting back to the threat that seemed to shadow me. As I mixed batter and decorated pastries, I felt the weight of worry pressing down on my shoulders, making it hard to breathe. After finishing my shift, the kind lady at the counter sensed my unease. "It's okay not to feel okay," she said softly, her eyes warm with understanding. I appreciated her empathy but felt too fragile to share my fears.

As night fell, the cold breeze ruffled my hair, sending a chill down my spine. I pulled it into a tight bun and began the familiar walk home, hoping that the presence of others in the neighborhood would provide some comfort. But halfway there, my heart dropped. I heard those footsteps again—the ones I had been hearing for weeks, echoing behind me, chilling my spine.

My breath quickened, and this time, I refused to look back. I quickened my pace, my heart racing as the sound of footsteps mirrored my own movements, closing in with an unnerving urgency. Just before I reached my house, a feeling of dread washed over me as cold hands gripped my waist, pulling me back into a vice-like hold.

Instinct kicked in. I stomped on his foot with all my strength and broke free, adrenaline surging through me as I raced toward my door. I slammed it shut behind me, locking it with trembling hands. My heart thundered in my chest, sweat trickling down my forehead, mixing with the tears that had begun to fall.

Slumping against the door, I pulled my knees to my chest and sobbed, the weight of loneliness crashing over me like a tidal wave. I missed my mom, her warmth and reassurance. Where are you, Mom?

"What happened, Iris?" My father's voice cut through the haze of despair. I looked up, my teary eyes searching for comfort, desperate for a warm embrace that felt just out of reach.

Standing beside him were my stepmother and sister, their expressions blank and bored, a stark contrast to the turmoil swirling in my heart. I felt so small and helpless, like a child again, yearning for protection.

"Dad, he will kill me," I cried, my voice choked with fear and desperation.

"Who?" he frowned, confusion etched on his face, as if he couldn't comprehend the gravity of my situation.

"The serial killer. He's been stalking me, and today he touched me," I managed to explain, my voice trembling, the words barely making it past the lump in my throat.

"Where was he?" my stepmother demanded, her tone sharp and accusatory.

"A few houses away," I replied, my heart pounding as I faced their scrutiny.

Her expression morphed into one of rage as she shouted, "Have you lost your mind?"

I flinched, pressing my back against the door as if it could somehow shield me from her wrath. "What?"

"Do you want him to kill my daughter?" she screamed, her words piercing through the chaos of my thoughts like arrows.

I looked at her, bewildered. Why was she screaming at me? What had I done?

"You showed him my house! Now he'll come here whenever he wants! He'll kill my daughter because of you, you idiot!" Her words felt like daggers, cutting deep into my already fragile state.

"What are you talking about? What should I have done? He will kill me! If not my house, then where would I go?" I shouted back, desperation seeping into my voice, my body shaking with fear and anger.

"Watch your tone, Iris," my father warned, disappointment evident in his eyes, making me feel even smaller.

I wanted to cry harder, but anger began to bubble up inside me. He had always favored her, and now, in this moment of crisis, it felt like he was choosing her again.

"Dad, what is my mistake? I need your help. Please save me," I pleaded, my voice breaking as I looked into his eyes, hoping to see some sign of support.

"Rick, if she doesn't vacate the house within five minutes, I will divorce you," my stepmother threatened, her eyes cold and calculating, as if she were making a business deal.

I froze, the words landing like a heavy stone in my chest. I knew my father would never choose me over her. If it came to a decision between his wife and his daughter, I would lose.

"Please, Dad. Don't do this to me. I'm your daughter," I begged, desperation spilling from my lips like a flood, my heart racing with fear.

He took a deep breath, and in that moment, I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces.

"Iris, leave. Come back only when you've sorted out your mess," he declared, the finality of his words echoing painfully in the silence, leaving me feeling utterly abandoned.

"No! He will kill me! He won't leave me alive!" I cried, the realization of my impending abandonment crashing over me like a storm.

"Go, Iris. I can't ruin my happy life because of you. You've already done enough damage to my relationship," he said, his voice cold and unwavering, each word cutting deeper than the last.

Those words pierced through me, leaving me breathless and broken. I wiped my tears, determined not to show them my weakness, even as despair threatened to swallow me whole.

"I am not leaving. This was my mother's house! She bought this! You can't kick me out!" I declared, clenching my fists in defiance, my heart racing with the fire of determination.

But before I could move, I felt a sharp sting on my cheek. My stepmother had slapped me hard, her glare sending waves of shame and anger coursing through me, igniting a spark of rebellion I hadn't known I possessed.

"This is my house. I am the mistress of it, and you are never coming back here," she spat coldly, her voice dripping with contempt.

"I will call the cops. Just wait," I warned her, though fear tightened around my throat like a noose.

She scoffed, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "For that, you have to be alive. Rest in peace, Iris."

With that, she locked the door, the sound echoing in the emptiness of my heart. I stood there, helpless, banging on the door until my energy drained away, the reality of my situation settling in like a heavy fog.

I felt utterly alone, the walls of my world closing in around me, leaving me gasping for air in a space that should have felt like home.

I looked around and met nothing but darkness. The atmosphere was thick with a deadly silence, wrapping around me like a suffocating blanket. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing in the stillness. I made up my mind to spend the night with Jon; he lived alone, and I knew I could trust him with this. He would understand, and maybe he could help me feel safe again.

As I hurried down the empty street, my anxiety mounted. Then, I heard those footsteps again—slow, deliberate, as if they were stalking me through the shadows. I paused, frozen in place, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I could feel a presence behind me, a suffocating weight that made my skin crawl.

So this is the end, I thought, dread pooling in my stomach.

"You made me chase you so hard, Iris," a voice whispered in my ear, its tone dripping with malice as he bit my earlobe lightly, sending a wave of icy fear coursing through my veins.

I recognized that voice. It was him—the man who had come into the bakery to buy hazelnut cake. He had been stalking me. I stumbled back, my pulse racing as I took in the twisted smile that had replaced the charming facade.

But the smile faded, replaced by a chilling emptiness as he leaned closer. "Red," he murmured, the name slithering into my mind like a serpent.

Panic surged within me, and I blurted out, "Please, give me an easy death. Don't torture me, please." My heart sank, knowing that I was likely facing my end. I had always thought I'd fight, but now all I wanted was a quick escape from this nightmare.

His expression shifted as recognition flickered in his eyes, and suddenly his smile returned. "I missed you, Red," he said, his voice laced with an unsettling affection.

I froze, confusion swirling in my mind. Why is he calling me Red? I wondered. Was it because of my hair color? But he had known my name before—my real name. I could feel his hands exploring my back, as if he were trying to convince himself I was truly there.

Then he pulled back and stared into my eyes, his gaze intense and penetrating. A moment later, his demeanor shifted violently. "You are not Amelia!" he roared, the fury in his voice resonating through the stillness of the night. He shoved me hard, and I fell to the ground, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs.

Trembling, I gaped up at him, fear coursing through my veins as he loomed over me like a predator ready to pounce. "Please don't touch me," I pleaded, scrambling backward, desperate to create distance between us.

He knelt in front of me, seizing my jaw in a grip that felt like a vice. I was paralyzed, staring into his cold, dark eyes that seemed to hold a twisted mixture of longing and rage. "Where is my Red? Tell me!" he shouted, each word laced with desperation.

"Who?" I stammered, my voice barely a whisper.

"Amelia Anderson," he breathed, the name rolling off his tongue like a prayer.

My eyes widened as the pieces fell into place. "She was my mother," I finally managed to say, the words escaping my lips like a secret I never wanted to share.

His expression transformed, shifting from rage to an unsettling mix of sadness and joy. "You are her daughter," he said, his voice suddenly tender, almost affectionate.

I nodded, my heart racing. I hoped this admission might buy me some time, some respite from his madness. Perhaps if I played along, he would let me go.

But then his demeanor changed again. Tears streamed down his face, and he sobbed, his emotions crashing over me like a tidal wave. "My Red is dead. She left me for that stupid father of yours. I hate him, and I hated you too," he cried, his voice filled with anguish.

Suddenly, he stopped, cupping my cheeks with his icy hands, rubbing his thumb across my lips in a way that made my skin crawl. "But it's okay. You will be my Red. You are her daughter. I will marry you, and then we will stay together, Red. I love you so much," he confessed, his voice dripping with delusion.

Before I could process his words or react, he stood up, scooping me into his arms in a bridal carry. My body went rigid with terror; I was too afraid to struggle, fearing that any movement would provoke him to violence. So, I allowed him to carry me, my mind racing for any opportunity to escape. I would wait for the moment he let his guard down.

He placed me in the passenger seat of a car and drove off into the night, the world outside blurring into a dark haze. I remained silent, plotting my escape, wishing desperately for a way out of this nightmare. He glanced at me, that unsettling smile spreading across his face again.

"We're gonna be together, Red. This time, no one can separate us," he said, his voice filled with a twisted kind of joy that sent chills down my spine.

God, please save me from this psycho. I want out. I don't want to die at his hands.

The car rumbled on until midnight when he abruptly stopped, the tires screeching against the gravel. I looked around and saw nothing but trees and darkness, the only structure in sight a small, decrepit cabin nestled among the pines.

A shudder ran through me as I felt his hand slide onto my thigh, his fingers squeezing gently but possessively. "We are here, Red," he announced, his voice dripping with a manic excitement that made my skin crawl.

Fear gripped my heart as he opened the door and stepped out, leaving me alone in the dim light of the car's interior. I had to act quickly; this was my chance. As he reached for me, I took a deep breath, ready to fight for my life.

He stepped out of the car, the cold night air swirling around us, and gestured for me to join him. My heart raced as I weighed my options. If I ran, would he catch me? The cabin was surrounded by dense forest, offering no escape. Suddenly, a low growl echoed through the trees, sending a chill down my spine.

With a tremor in my legs, I approached him, his dark chuckle reverberating in the stillness. He clasped my hand, leading me toward the cabin's entrance. Panic clawed at my throat. I was stepping into unknown territory, trapped with a man who had shown me nothing but menace and terror.

The rhythm of my heartbeat thundered in my ears as we entered. He paused in the middle of a dimly lit living room, his intense gaze boring into me, making me squirm under his scrutiny.

"We are going to marry right now," he announced, his voice filled with an unsettling certainty.

In a swift motion, he snatched the ring off my finger—a cruel twist of fate—and pulled another ring from his pocket. The cold metal gleamed ominously, feeling less like a promise and more like a noose tightening around my neck. "Do you, Carlos Mendez, take Iris Winters as your legal wedded wife?" he asked, his voice heavy with expectation.

"I do," he declared, almost as if he were trying to convince himself rather than me.

Is he mad? My mind raced with disbelief. How could he think this was happening? I didn't want to marry him. But it didn't matter—he was the one in control.

He seized my hand, forcing the ring onto my finger while I struggled, panic rising within me. His grip was unyielding. When he finally released me, his glare felt like a searing brand on my skin, making me cower in fear.

"Do you, Iris Winters, take Carlos Mendez as your legal wedded husband?" he asked again, his voice laced with a menacing authority.

"No," I managed to gasp, desperation flooding my voice.

The moment the word escaped my lips, he lunged forward, his fingers wrapping around my neck in a vice-like grip, choking the air from my lungs. My heart raced as his hot breath washed over my face, tears spilling down my cheeks. His nails dug into my soft skin, drawing blood as he held me captive.

"You'll say yes, Red, when I ask you next time," he sneered, the promise laced with a terrifying certainty.

I coughed, fighting for breath, and reluctantly nodded. "Yes."

His smile twisted into something sinister yet satisfied. "Good girl," he said, the words dripping with condescension.

He asked me again, and this time, I said yes, fear overriding my will to resist. I couldn't dare look into his eyes as he commanded me to slip the ring onto his finger.

"Now you can kiss your bride," he announced, and before I could process his words, he slammed his lips against mine, the kiss rough and dominating.

He bit my lip hard, pulling me into a dark pleasure mixed with revulsion as he invaded my mouth with his tongue. I felt trapped, unable to escape as he toyed with me, relishing my helplessness.

With a swift movement, he lifted me effortlessly, wrapping my legs around his waist. I squirmed, trying to push him away, but he struck my backside sharply, the pain drawing a whimper from my lips.

He carried me into a room that I assumed was his bedroom, the air thick with an unsettling mixture of stale wood and something darker. He pushed me onto the bed, and I instinctively crawled away, wiping my tears as I scanned the room for anything—a weapon, anything to defend myself.

My eyes landed on a vase near the bed. Before I could make a move toward it, he yanked me back by my ankle, pulling me closer with terrifying ease.

"Don't. Don't do this," I pleaded, tears spilling down my cheeks as he ripped my cropped top apart, leaving me exposed in my white bra. Humiliation and fear twisted in my gut, a storm of dread threatening to consume me.

"Please," I whimpered, my voice barely a whisper over the pounding in my chest. I was trapped, the harsh reality of my situation pressing down on me like a vice, suffocating and relentless.

.

.

.

Third Person POV

"Shhhh. We are married now, and today is our wedding night," he said with a smile that was meant to convey joy, but it twisted into something darker as he began to tear away her remaining clothes. The air in the room was thick with tension, a mix of anticipation and dread that sent shivers down her spine.

He joined her on the bed, his heart racing with excitement, but when he heard the soft sobs escaping her lips, confusion washed over him. They had promised each other they would embrace this moment fully—so why was she crying?

His mind raced, battling the emotions swirling within him. He knelt between her legs, desperate for her to respond to him, to share in his joy. Instead, he was met with her fear, palpable and suffocating. He placed a hand on her neck, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to command her attention.

"Stop acting like you don't want this, Red. How could you forget our promise?" he seethed, his voice a mix of desperation and fury, an unsettling cocktail of emotions that made his heart pound harder.

She looked at him with tear-filled eyes, the vibrant red of her hair contrasting sharply against her pale skin. Her fear was a stark reminder of the power he held over her.

"I love you," he whispered, attempting to bridge the growing chasm between them, hoping to draw her back into the moment they had envisioned together.

As he eased himself inside her, he gave her a moment to adjust, but the cries of discomfort that escaped her were a stark reminder of the pain she felt. In his mind, he dismissed her cries, believing they were simply part of the experience—pain that would pass.

"So good, Red. I'm coming," he breathed, lost in the throes of his own pleasure, oblivious to the chaos unfolding within her.

After a moment, he pulled away, confusion flooding his senses as he saw no sign of blood on the sheets. The reality hit him like a slap—she wasn't a virgin. A wave of betrayal surged through him, mingling with his anger and disappointment.

"You've been with someone else, Red! We promised!" he shouted, grabbing her by the shoulders, his eyes blazing with fury.

She met his furious gaze, her own frustration boiling over. "I am not Red! You're a monster!" she yelled, her heart racing as she shoved him away with all her strength.

"You're a cheater!" he shot back, his voice rising with each word, echoing in the confined space of the cabin.

"I'm not Red, and it's a good thing my mother never married you! You're insane!" she spat defiantly, her spirit refusing to be broken, even in the face of his madness.

The slap came swiftly, pain flaring across her face, but the sting was nothing compared to the terror of realizing she was trapped with him. Her heart raced, each beat a reminder of the peril she faced.

"Get away from me!" she shouted, feeling her anger transform into a survival instinct.

He felt a red haze wash over him. No one had ever dared to insult him like that. Seething, he grabbed a vase from the table, the weight of it feeling strangely liberating in his hands.

The sound of shattering glass filled the room as he swung it toward her, but he didn't intend to truly hurt her. He just wanted her to understand the depth of his pain and betrayal.

For a moment, she lay there, silence enveloping them. The reality of what had just happened began to sink in, and when he finally realized what he had done, the world around him shattered too.

When he finally grasped the gravity of what he had done, the world around him blurred into a haze of horror and disbelief. His eyes fell upon her lifeless body, the stark contrast of her vibrant hair against the pale sheets a cruel reminder of what he had just lost. The cabin felt suffocating, a prison filled with his own guilt and madness.

He reached out hesitantly, his hand trembling as it hovered over her still form. "Red..." he croaked, his voice breaking under the weight of despair. The moment he rested his head against her shoulder, the floodgates opened, and he sobbed uncontrollably. His cries echoed through the silence of the cabin, a haunting symphony of pain that reverberated against the wooden walls.

"Why did you leave me again?" he wailed, each word laced with agony. The rawness of his emotion twisted like a knife in his gut. "Please come back. I love you, Red. I can't live without you. I beg you... come back." His pleas hung in the air, mingling with the shadows, as if hoping for a response from the void.

The emptiness inside him swelled, consuming every ounce of hope and sanity. "This time I won't live without you, Red. If you're gone, I'll die with you." His voice dropped to a whisper, filled with frantic desperation. He could feel the darkness closing in, wrapping around him like a suffocating shroud.

In a moment of utter despair, he picked up his phone and called the police. "I'm in the cabin near the forest. It was me who killed all the Redheads," he stated, his voice chillingly calm as he uttered the words that haunted him. "Catch me alive if you can." He hung up, laughter escaping his lips—a sound that was both chilling and heartbreaking, echoing in the stillness as it mingled with his sorrow.

"They won't be able to catch me alive, Red," he murmured, tears streaming down his face, soaking into the fabric of her dress. "Because I will kill myself." Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss against her cold lips, a final farewell filled with regret and unfulfilled promises. "But before I go, I want you to know that I love you so much."

Memories rushed back like a tidal wave, each one a bittersweet reminder of their shared past. "I started to love you the day I saw you in the park, fighting with that boy. You were my first friend, Red." His voice softened, filled with nostalgia as he remembered the carefree days of laughter and joy, the moments that now felt like distant echoes.

"Amelia, my Red," he continued, his voice trembling with emotion, "I was so happy when you told me you would marry me." But the joy faded, replaced by a seething anger. "But then you chose that monster," he spat, the fury bubbling to the surface. "He took you away from me and killed you. He defiled your body, planted his seed inside you. It was supposed to be mine."

The rage surged within him, a storm of conflicting emotions that threatened to consume him whole. "That baby killed you," he hissed, his breath quickening as he recalled the painful memories. "I was there when you took your last breath. You smiled at me and told me you loved me." The vision of her fading smile, her last moments, cut him to the core.

"I was so mad at that baby," he lamented, tears streaming down his face as he spoke. "She had your red hair. I was so angry that I started to kill all the Redheads." The confession hung heavily in the air, a dark testament to his spiraling madness, the weight of his actions crashing down upon him.

"No one deserved to live when you died," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "My Red... you looked so lost when you told me you wouldn't marry me. I knew your parents forced you." His heart ached with the burden of what could have been, each unfulfilled dream a dagger in his chest.

"I'm so sorry, Red, that I couldn't save you," he whispered, wiping his tears as they fell onto her still face. He looked at Iris, the resemblance to her mother striking him anew. "Now, we will stay together. You, me, and Iris." The thought of a future together, however twisted, provided him with a fleeting sense of comfort.

"I won't let you lose yourself now," he promised, his voice firm yet laced with desperation. "You won't be The Lost Red. I have found you again, and I will find you if you lose." He pressed his lips against hers once more, a bittersweet promise lingering in the air. "My Lost Red," he breathed, the words echoing in the silence, a vow that transcended the boundaries of life and death.

In that moment, he felt a strange sense of peace, believing he had reclaimed what had been taken from him. He cradled her close, enveloped in the silence that followed—a silence that felt eternal, yet so fragile, as if the world outside had ceased to exist. The cabin, once a place of fear, had transformed into a sanctuary of twisted love, a space where he believed they could be together forever.

But as he held her, the reality of his actions pressed down upon him, suffocating and relentless. He realized that the life they could have shared was forever altered, tainted by violence and despair. The darkness that had consumed him would not release its grip so easily, and the weight of his choices bore heavily on his soul.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't save you," he whispered, his voice breaking as he wiped away his tears, but the flow didn't stop. Each tear felt like a tiny dagger, piercing through the weight of his grief. The cabin, once a place filled with whispered dreams and plans, now felt like a tomb, heavy with silence and despair.

His hands trembled as he opened a drawer, revealing a gun nestled inside. It glinted ominously in the dim light, a cruel reminder of the choices he had made and the fate that awaited them both. "Now we can be together, forever," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, filled with a haunting mixture of love and despair that resonated deep within him.

He glanced at her serene face, the way her hair framed her features, a stark contrast to the chaos that surrounded them. In that moment, she looked peaceful, almost ethereal, as if she were merely sleeping. A flicker of hope ignited within him, the belief that perhaps they could escape the pain of this world together. "I'll find you again, Red," he vowed, his voice thick with emotion, each word laced with a fervent desperation.

As he raised the gun, time seemed to stretch and slow. Memories flooded his mind—days spent laughing together, stolen glances, whispered secrets beneath the stars. He could still hear her laughter, feel the warmth of her presence as if she were right there beside him, urging him to put the gun down. But the reality of his grief and loss clouded his judgment, drowning out her voice.

He took a deep breath, the weight of his decision crashing down on him. In those final moments, he felt the overwhelming pull of his love for her, mingled with the agony of her absence. The world around him faded away, and for a fleeting instant, he could almost convince himself that they would transcend the boundaries of life and death.

With a heavy heart and a final look into her eyes, he pulled the trigger. The sound echoed like a thunderclap, reverberating through the cabin and shattering the silence. As he collapsed beside her, the darkness began to close in, a suffocating embrace that enveloped him in its depths.

In that final breath, he felt a strange sense of peace wash over him, a comforting warmth that spread through his body like a soft glow. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the darkness, believing wholeheartedly that he would find her again in some ethereal realm beyond this world. In those last precious moments, he could almost imagine them together, lost in their own twisted love forever, where nothing could tear them apart again.

As consciousness slipped away, he whispered one last time, "I'll always love you, Red," the words barely escaping his lips before he was engulfed by the stillness, finally free from the torment of their fractured reality.

Author's Note

Hello Guys

Thank you for diving into this dark and emotional journey with me. "The Lost Red" explores the depths of obsession, love, and tragedy, weaving a tale that examines the fragile line between devotion and madness. Inspired by themes of identity and loss, the story delves into the psyche of a character grappling with unrelenting grief and the desperate need for connection.

At its core, this narrative is not just about a twisted romance; it's a reflection on how unresolved trauma and societal pressures can warp relationships. The character of Carlos embodies the dangers of unhinged love, highlighting how a deep-seated desire for belonging can lead one down a destructive path. His fixation on Iris, driven by a tragic past, underscores the emotional scars left by loss and abandonment.

I aimed to create a story that would evoke powerful emotions—fear, sorrow, and a sense of tragedy—while also encouraging readers to reflect on the darker aspects of human nature. While the themes can be intense and unsettling, they are meant to provoke thought and discussion about the complexities of love, the impacts of mental illness, and the consequences of obsession.

As you navigate through the harrowing events, I hope you find a deeper understanding of the characters' motivations and struggles. My intention is to create a space for empathy, even for those whose actions may be unfathomable.

Thank you for reading. I hope you found something resonant in "The Lost Red," and I welcome any thoughts or reflections you may have. Your engagement with this story means the world to me.

Till Then

❤