Sleeping secrets

Walking down a corridor with Jason Stackhouse. It's the type you get on the way to a sports field - wide, dark, the only light source being the mouth of the tunnel. He's wearing a grey t-shirt, a thin dark patch of sweat down the middle of his back. The rest of the team are behind him, with a few in front, and as I'm thinking how much I want to ravage him, he tells his team mates that he'll be out on the field in a moment. He stops beside me, takes my hand and leads me back the way we came, past some confused-looking young men. He's hurried, perhaps he was thinking what I was thinking. We get to a dark brown wooden door, where he tells me to go inside and change, and that he'll be waiting for me. He sits on the floor opposite the door, and Nathan Scott, clad in a white American football jersey, shoulder pads and all, sits beside him. I enter the room and shut the door, lock it with the bolt.
It's a changing room. The walls are painted a sickly custard-yellow, but stained with scratches and marks. There are wooden benches - the same wood as the door - with pegs, clothes and bags strewn here and there. There are three girls in the room, pretty, blonde, the sort that should be cheerleaders. They probably are. Slowly, carefully, I pull out a hunting knife, and swiftly but silently kill each girl, beginning with a stab to the stomach. I don't quite understand why they aren't screaming or fighting me off. A terrible mess is created as I cut their heads from their bodies, slitting across their waists and pulling out their organs - not entirely, just so that everything is dangling out. I wipe my hands down my jeans, brush at specks of blood on my top, discard the knife on the floor. Continue as if nothing had happened. I start sorting through a bag that appears to be mine. I pull out my favourite sheer black top that I usually wear for parties. I take off the top I was wearing, and throw on the new one. I take some pale blue cut-off shorts, my favourites, from my bag, lay them on the bench in front of me. It occurrs to me that it might be cold, and so I put some black leggings on first, and then the shorts over the top. I look at myself, without a mirror, convinced that I'm thinner than I usually am - specifically my thighs, which are the perfect size. I spend a good two or three minutes admiring my figure, posing, walking up and down the benches like a catwalk model.
Feeling good about myself, I step down from the wooden bench and walk to the door. I peer through the peep-hole, seeing Jason and Nathan sitting outside, their hair wet with sweat. The moment I do so, it occurrs to me that they can probably see my shadow over the peep-hole, and the changing room is in the most awful bloody mess. Sure enough, Nathan immediately points out that there is someone looking through the peep-hole, and both boys stand up and move towards the door. I panic. Suddenly the door isn't locked anymore, and the boys come barging through the door as if a crime has been committed. A crime has been committed. Their jaws drop as they feast their eyes on the scene - three bloody heads lines up on a bench, the three corresponding dismembered corpses in a heap in the shower, fountains of red covering each and every wall. And then there's me, neat and dressed up, a few tell-tale smears of blood on my hands and the offending knife at my feet.

And then I woke up.