The Actor

6

His sister walked carefully, carrying him bridal-style in her arms. He just tried not to look at the faces that crawled at the edges of his vision, mocking him, reaching out to pull him down. He buried his face into the crook of her neck. She held him even tighter.

Her room, that is, the one she normally took when she stayed here, was in a constant state of disarray. It seemed that as soon as she settled anywhere she brought a storm that destroyed the place.

She dropped him onto the bed. He hung on with shaking fingers, and she sat beside him, brushing the bald, bloody spots on his head.

"What's going on?" She asked, "Be honest with me. Someone is either using magic on you, or you've gone schizophrenic. What is happening to you, Fedushka?"

Alfred was silent for a while. It might have actually been a long time, or it might have been a short time that felt impossibly long because of what he was thinking about. Whatever it was, her movements never stopped once, continuing to run her fingers through his hair.

"Zalya," was all he said. She looked down at him, confused, and he fumbled over words that turned into gibberish, "it's... it's magic. Someone is using magic on me and it's making me relive... everything."

She was quiet, before she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly. He noticed that she looked just as tired as him, probably sleepless from worrying over him. Her grip around him almost crushed his ribcage, but he was glad for it. The ache made the real pain go away.

"I am so, so sorry," she whispered, her voice surprisingly gentle, like when he was a child who needed consoling. She pulled away from him, and forced him to release his grip on her. From her drawer she pulled melatonin, tossing it into his lap.

"You can stay in here," she said, "try to sleep some more. Pennsylvania is fixing your wall and cleaning your room, so don't worry about it."

"I can't sleep," he replied, looking down at the pills. She turned back to look at him, concerned, "that's when it happens. When I sleep. I- I don't want to see it."

"So, you just won't sleep?" she asked, tilting her head in a wolfish manner. His hold on the bottle briefly tightened, before he nodded, "Come on. We both know that you can't be doing that."

"I don't want to see-"

"You need to sleep," she said firmly, and left no room for argument, "I'll put up a ward around the room. Nobody will be able to do magic on you unless they are in it. Will that make you feel better?"

Alfred frowned, wrapping his arms around himself. Wards were incredibly draining, and the fact that she wanted to put it on the room instead of the whole house meant that she wasn't certain everyone in the house was to be trusted. He looked up at her, slightly confused, and trying not to look hurt, before frowning and nodding. He was tired. He felt it would never end. He read the miligram count for the pills.

Her singing made the room chill unnaturally, lines like chalk spreading through the walls and soaking into the paint, seeping into the building with a purple and yellow gleen. Wind ripped through the room, but there was no window open, and when he breathed he let out puffs of frosty air.

Zaltana's voice died, and she looked worse than she had before.

"Sleep well, little brother," she left the room, and he pulled three pills into his hand. He swallowed them without water, leaning back onto the headboard. It would take a while before they worked.

In the thirty minutes it took before he passed out, he thought. Well, more like he worried. By the time he finally fell into unconsciousness, tears had been steadily dripping from his eyes. The inky blackness originally was his greatest comfort, wrapping around him like a rich blanket. Then it began to tighten, and loom, and dig in like nails.

He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to stop the itching that spread throughout his skin. He couldn't handle it. He didn't want to handle it.

Pins and needles spread through his body.

"Eat something," she said, motioning to the fire going near the entrance to the cavern. There was a stew over it, a large wooden spoon hanging beside it. He looked at it, still shaking, his hands sitting in a bowl of warm water. His gloves had ripped while climbing, and now frostbite ate at his fingers.

She wanted to see if he could feel his fingers enough to pour his own bowl. He moved his burning fingers, causing them to ache.

He stood up, shaking. He winced when his fingers met the cold air, walking over to the fireplace. He grabbed a bowl gently, feeling the slight touch make his entire arm ache. He didn't let himself drop the bowl, gripping it harder before grabbing onto the spoon. Tears were starting to well in his eyes. He was starting to get a healthy hatred of the cold.

Some spilled out, but he was able to get most of it in. He crept back to the table. She was smiling like a loon.

"Good," she said, reaching out to rub his hair. He shook as she did it, his body still on edge from the cold, "now that your hands are a little better, you should get some blood back in them."

"Huh?" he didn't notice her grabbing a birch switch from beside the fireplace.

"Hold out your hands," she gave a small smile, and he did so, confused, "this might sting."

By the end he was crying like a baby on the floor, but his body didn't ache like it used to.

When he woke up, he was shaking. He looked around, trying to figure out where his attacker was, but there was nobody around him. He couldn't feel any part of his body. The sleep paralysis seeped into him. He closed his eyes before the hallucinations could begin, knowing that they would terrify him.

He heard footsteps around him, but there was no telling if it was real or fake. The same laughter he had heard before. The feeling of being poked and prodded like he was on an examination table. When he finally got his feeling back, he jumped up and ran out of the room.

He let out a deep breath. He could still feel the birch switch against his skin.

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