***Ben***

Part of me knows that only a seriously creepy girl would be hanging out in my back yard at night, but part of me is whining like a little kid outside of a candy store to know more about this girl and why she's skulking in the shadows. And then there's that part of me that wonders why a dish rag covered in blood is on my desk. Someone is bleeding and it might be her. Of course, it might have been placed in my room by a serial killer wearing a hockey mask who preys on hot high school dudes on the football team, in which case the girl is just a decoy and I'd be an idiot to go outside alone.

Self-preservation in the face of possible danger has never been a strong point of mine. I push the window open and climb onto the half roof below, my favorite mode of sneaking out of the house. I can't quite believe my parents have never caught me doing this, but so far, they are clueless that I meet up with my buddies after curfew.

Let's say tonight is not the night they catch me. Yeah, say it with me. Tonight is not the night.

I ease myself through the window, thinking if I kept eating three bowls of Cheerios for breakfast I might be too large to fit through here soon. Once I'm on the roof, I squat low to maneuver to the side post and trellis that I can climb down. The lawn seems abandoned.

Staying in the faint light shining from the patio, I put my hands in my pockets in order to look casual and non-menacing. I've got a big bet going with myself that there is no hockey masked serial killer. A minute goes by and I'm slowly beginning to feel stupid. Right before I can make myself go, she steps into the light.

"Why did you come out here?" she asks.

"I was pretty sure I saw you and I wanted to say hi. It would be more comfortable inside, do you want to come up?" I say. "I'm also pretty sure that you know the way."

"What makes you say that?"

"You left a message for me on my desk. Do you want to talk about it?" I hold out the torn up rag. It looks like someone's old dishcloth that had been chewed up by a dog who then gave birth on it.

"It wasn't meant as a message. If anything, it should scare you. Why did you really come out to find me?" she asks.

There is almost no moonlight and I can barely make out her expression. What I can see is rather unsettling. There are three nasty scratches on her cheek. Her chin is down and she studies me with piercing, black eyes. I've seen animals hunting and she resembles one a little too much. That urge to get the hell out of Dodge hits me again, same as in the parking lot, but it clashes with my need to figure out what is going on with her. "Because if you are bleeding, and you are alone, I can help you."

She shakes her head. "I doubt it."

"I'll have you know I'm an Eagle Scout and I took two full day classes on CPR and First Aid for emergencies. If I can't help, we'll get to the hospital. I was just there, the nurses all love me."

"You want to dress my wounds?"

"So you are hurt."

She reaches into a leather bag she's carrying and seems to be considering my offer. "You know nothing about me."

"That's true. Why don't you tell me your name?" I ask.

She breathes in deeply; I see it's painful for her. "Veronica."

"Hey, I love that name. Veronica! You know the first girl I ever had a crush on was named Veronica? I was six and she was eight. She came to my friend's birthday party wearing Heidi braids and a Harley-Davidson t-shirt. She was the coolest girl I had ever seen." She was staring at me. "That's a...that's just a little tidbit about me, I thought I'd share. In case you wanted to know more about me."

"I already know too much about you and I'm afraid you're too nice to be allowed to live."

I laugh for a second. She scares the hell out of me, but I can't make myself leave. "If you are cut somewhere, will you let me at least look?"

She leans forward and then sways back. It's like her body is showing me she can't decide. Abruptly, she turns.

And I see her back. In this cold, she should have been wearing a coat, but she only has a thin shirt on, and it's been cut to ribbons. That's not what makes my stomach heave, though. Her skin is cut to ribbons, too. She's been whipped or sliced with something.

"We have to get you to the hospital, Veronica. These need serious stitches and shit. I mean disinfectant and antibiotic ointment. I mean hell, did someone whip you?"

Now the only urge I felt was to bash someone's head in. She told me before she didn't go to school. Was she being held prisoner by some sick pervert?

"It's not the first time, but I am arranging things so that it doesn't happen again," she whispers.

"How about we arrange things with the police station to put the asshat who did this in jail? I'll go get my phone and my parents. We'll take care of this," I say. She grabs me fast as a snake striking.

"No, just you and me. No one else. Promise me, Benjamin," she says.

"Why?"

"Because I'm afraid of them, of what they can do."

"You're afraid of my parents?"

"No. The coven sisters." She steps away into the shadows.

I follow and touch her shoulder. "Let me at least clean those up. They're going to get infected."

She nods.

It only takes me a few minutes to sneak in, get my first aid kit from my bathroom and climb back down. I have a small flashlight that I hold between my teeth.

This is awkward. As a person who is trying to administer medical help, I shouldn't feel like a virgin, teenage boy, but no one's perfect. "Do you...can I...ah...I'm going to take your shirt off now."

She nods, keeping her back to me. I have no idea what to do, so I circle around to her front and start unbuttoning her shirt.

"Please don't look, Benjamin," she whispers. Her hands have a death grip on her leather bag, so I assume she won't do her own shirt. Which means I have to do it with my eyes closed.

"Okie-dokie," I say. Yeah, no sweat. "And since I'm undressing you, I want you to call me Ben."

I feel downwards for each button, pretending that I don't sense any of her body under the shirt. When I've got the buttons and I slide the shirt off her shoulders, I hear her shift and get something out of the bag. I almost look, but remember that she's naked in front of me.

I circle behind her. She is shaking and keeping her arms crossed in front.

"Sorry about all this," I mutter. The things I'll do to keep a half-dressed girl in my back yard. After I pick off another rag sticking to her cuts, I spray my disinfectant on the three jagged lashes. It's supposed to not sting, but she sucks in her breath and shakes even harder. It's not the best treatment, those cuts really need stitches, but I lay gauze over them and then use some skin tape to hold it in place. "You should disinfect once a day and change the gauze at the same time. I got you a shirt and a jacket."

She shrugs on the flannel I brought out for her, but before I can give her the jacket she is facing me.

A curved knife is in her hand and she raises the point to right under my chin.

"I'm sorry, Ben."