The lights were blinding from where she stood on the stage, just as they always were. Her eyes had long since adjusted to the brightness; it was like a part of her, how natural it now seemed. But no matter how much she had adjusted to it, she could never see past it to the audience. Sometimes she forgot anyone was there.
Her body seemed to move on its own, her hands gesturing about, her fingers dancing through the air. Figures appeared in the air, elegant as they danced over the wooden floor to silent music; beasts prowled about the stage, stalking the flighty silhouettes of their prey; a pirate defended his treasure from his enemies.
She was an illusionist of her time. Any story she could imagine in her mind could become real, yet not a reality. A story on the stage. She used no lights, no smoke, no shadows; the only instruments she needed was her own mind and an audience.
The stories told themselves; the ball ended as the king chose his queen, the beasts ruled over their realms, and the pirate became glorious for the deeds he committed. Soon the stage cleared, and only she stood upon it, her illusions now ghosts of the past, no trace of the stories told left behind.
She bowed for her audience, a hand behind her back, another held out in a frozen gesture of welcome.
There was no applause.
She stood slowly, unsure if she had done something incorrectly, if her stories were insufficient. Had she performed improperly? No, there was no improper way to perform. Had she told the wrong stories? No, there was no such thing as the wrong story.
What had she done wrong?
The light dimmed. For the first time ever, she could see the audience.
But there was no audience to see.
Not only had she been the only one on the stage, but she had been the only one there at all. Turning her head to the side, she could even see that there weren't even any stage hands behind the curtains. Not even any other performers watched her performance.
The realization hurt, more than anything she had ever experienced before. Why wouldn't they watch her? Why weren't they there? Hadn't they always been together? Always there for one another?
Why would they leave her?
What had she done wrong...?
Her knees buckled and she fell atop then, the impact sending a sharp jolt up her thighs. She clutched at herself, choking back sobs that threatened to tear from her throat. Why? Why? Why?
Why?
Footsteps sounded before her, echoing through the theater, cutting into her agony. Slowly, she glanced up as the footsteps ceased in front of her, the dim stage lights glinting off the silver buckles on a pair of black belted boots. Her eyes followed them upwards, up a pair of long legs donning inky black dress pants, a firm torso clothed in a pristine white dress shirt and a black vest, seeming too tight where breasts were hidden beneath. A necklace in the shape of a small axe glinted from where it was hidden in the open collar.
Locks of chocolate and vanilla hung over set shoulders, framing a face with sharp cheekbones under perfectly soft skin, neither pale nor tanned. A pair of lips were set in a line, arched eyebrows betraying no emotion.
Eyes that were normally a soft caramel color now seemed a cold sort of gold. Eyes that were normally caring and understanding now held disappointment and pity.
The expression did not suit that person; anyone but that one. To see such a look cast in her direction from none other than her closest friend sent a shiver down the spine of the illusionist.
"It's your fault, you know," the newly arrived person said in a voice so cold that it seemed that at any given second the theater would be encased in ice.
The illusionist could not grasp the meaning. "W-What is? Where is everyone?"
A moment of silence as a chilling gaze observed her confusion. And then came the answer.
"Dead. Everyone is dead." A pause. "And it's your fault."
It was silent, then. Not a comforting silence, not a stunned silence, not even a mourning silence.
It was the silence that came when there was nothing left.
It wasn't interrupted until the tears began flowing once again and harsh sobs wracked at the illusionist's seemingly small figure. The stage she had felt so at home now seemed too big, too cold, too lonely. The theater no longer welcomed her.
"Even me..."
Her head jerked up, fear in her eyes as she looked at her old friend. Caramel eyes widened with shock; that cold expression turned to fear. Perfect skin tore and reddened, chocolate and vanilla matted. Pristine white stained with red, inky black ripped, glinting silver rusted.
And, seeming as though in slow motion, the lifeless body fell in a puddle of blood that had not been there before.
And she could only stare in shock as her best friend died before her.
She bolted upright in her bed, a sharp gasp ripping its way through her throat. She choked on it and curled in on herself as a fit of coughing overcame her. A hand clamped over her mouth to muffle the sound and she was pushed back down onto the cold pillow dampened with sweat.
Fearfully, she tugged at the hand that trapped her voice, that muffled her cries. Another hand grabbed her by the wrists and pinned them above her head where they would cause no harm to her attacker. She had begun to start kicking and squirming when a voice spoke to her.
"Shh.... it's alright. Calm down."
Almost immediately she ceased in her struggles, her breath coming in deep inhales and heavy exhales. A moment later, the hand over her mouth released her, and her wrists were eased from the grasp that held them. She rubbed at her eyes and blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark room, the only light coming through a sliver of a crack on the doorway. Even as dim as it was, it was enough for her to make out the caramel glow of the eyes of none of than her best friend, Switch.
"Are you okay, Clear?" that smooth and calming voice asked her, an edge of worry in the tone.
Slowly, she nodded as she assessed her surroundings. She was in the female sleeping quarters in the theater. A row of beds lined the wall opposite her, the same on either side of her own bed. She could see the mounds of the other occupants, each rising and falling in a timely fashion. They were all asleep. The only unoccupied bed was to her right, the covers thrown off the the side, its occupant leaning over her in only a nightshirt and a pair of shorts, her legs bare despite the chill in the air.
"That looked like some nightmare you were having," Switch's voice came easy as she pulled away from Clear, seating herself on the edge of the bed and brushing her messy dual colored hair back with her hand.
Again, Clear nodded, sitting up from where she lay, the sheets pooling at her waist, cold and wet from her feverish nightmare. She shivered against the sudden cold, kicking the sheets off as they did little to warm her.
Silently, Switch rose from where she sat and stumbled over to her own bed, pulling up the sheets and going back under them. After some shifting, she lifted up the sheet to show that there was room for one more occupant on the bed.
Wordlessly, Clear accepted the invitation, rising from were she was seated to huddle against the warmth that always seemed to radiate off of Switch, closing her eyes as an arm came to rest over her and the sheets cascaded gently, hiding her from the cold air.
That was the sort of person Switch was, always watching over her and doing what she could to bring comfort. As she felt the protective body beside her, she shoved the nightmare into the back of her mind. Switch would never accuse her of the deaths of others, would never look at her with those eyes. That wasn't the Switch she knew, and that wasn't the one that existed, the one that was here, now.
And that Switch would never exist, she thought to herself as she was lulled to sleep by the steady heartbeat that sounded from within Switch's chest.
The heart that continued beating.