The Actor

10

"Please, please, please," he whispered, visions exploding behind his eyelids. He clawed for give, struggling against bonds that didn't exist. Mushrooms sprouted from his skin, and an owl made its home outside of his window.

Zaltana watched him sadly. How horrible for her dear brother to do this to himself.

Alfred struggled. Languages dripped from his tongue like blood, and were drawn from him in the same likeness. A beautiful Runa woman leaned on him for support, sobbing herself into death. The Triple Alliance shouted, exchanging trinkets and weapons galore until their cheeks shrunk into their faces and the blood drained from their bodies. She was dead, she was dead, he was dead.

He persevered, she persevered, he persevered. He might be dead, but she's alive. She might have been injured, but she is healing. He might have been maimed, but his distorted muscles and bones would fix themselves with time.

Still the voice taunted him, a wicked thing that he recognized in a far off sense. He wanted to scream, to run and hide, to get away from the things his kind conjured.

The Civil War- him, Confederacy, and the Five Tribes standing around a table discussing. Who to kill. Who was dangerous. What would cause white people to weaken their grasp on the country, what would make European presence wane- all in vain.

White Flight. Redlining. Mexican-American War. Cold War- manipulation for power in the name of peace. What was he supposed to do? So what if he wanted the Soviet Union to overrun Europe and beyond? What was his opinion? He was nothing compared to the devils with no horns, the demons smiling in front of American flags, saluting in a way that would make Hitler smile.

He felt sick with himself, clenching his arms like he was trying to break his own bones and struggling.

What was Zaltana to do? She loved her brother, dearly, but this was not for her to decide. For some reason he believed he needed to go through this, so she would let him. She didn't know why he struggled so harshly against something he brought upon himself. Maybe it was just that terrifying. It didn't matter. Her little political demon and familial angel would be back. He just needed to get through it. She was sure that her venom was giving him strange hallucinations by the garbage he was mumbling.

"No! England you can't-" he would hiss, and then his face would contort, "Japan actually did it, he really attacked Hawai'i. Yes sir, the Hawaiian Empire is no- is no more."

He sniffled and curled before shouting, "Whoever can break this stallion in a day gets to keep it!"

She knew it would be time before he got through it. She knew she shouldn't have used that much venom. Yet now she did know the extent of the magic he was using on himself. No wonder he looked so tired, his body was being strained constantly from the use. He needed more than sleep.

She pet his hair. He would wake up soon. And she would make sure he understood everything, and had the supply and comfort to go through it, because that is what she had done, and that is what she would always do.