O Macbeth: (evil laughter)
"The funny thing about dreams, Erik," said Alice, striking a match under his nose, "You always wake up before you die." She blew out the match before striking another. "But in real life... you just burn." She placed the match next to his ear, searing his lobe. Erik flinched, but said nothing, meeting her gaze with his own. This wasn't the Alice he knew, nor an Alice he'd heard of. Something in her had snapped since the last time he'd seen her, something evil. Her eyes, once so lively, were sparking with something he'd only seen in Shaw's gaze before.
"And--and what do you know of that, Alice?" he managed to spit out; the match was almost done, but his ear hurt like hell now. She smiled, dropping the match before the flame reached her fingers.
"Come now Erik," she purred, touching his nose. "I watched my entire family burn before me. I know what it's like."
"Do you?" he rasped. "Did you kill them, Alice?" Her expression twisted, and she slapped him hard. Erik tasted blood.
"Don't. You. EVER say that again," she snarled, yanking his hair back. Erik gasped, the sharp pain mingling with the lingering burn on his ear.
I can't put her back together, Erik
Charles' words flitted back in his ear, soft, scared. Then nothing. Always nothing. Alice had gotten to him before Erik could, and he'd returned to the cottage to find Charles gutted on the floor and Alice laughing by the fireplace. Finding the poker had only been second nature, but he hadn't counted on her hurling the lamp at his head.
When he'd come to, everything tasted fuzzy and his hands were in pain. She'd tied him to the kitchen table, and there was something that felt suspiciously like fire heating his fingers. As he shook his head, trying to clear it, he became aware of one other thing: wherever she'd hit him, it must knocked more than just his senses loose. His touch on metal was compromised. He could sense it, barely move it, but like everything else, it was twisting and jumping beyond his reach.
Then Alice had knelt down beside him and started playing with the matches.
Which brought him back to his current position. He laughed, airy and weak. "But it's true, isn't it? You set your house on fire--AGH!" She'd pinched his burnt ear, twisting the lobe between her fingers.
"Stop," she hissed, "Or I'll bite your ear off." He had little doubt that she'd follow through. This wasn't his Alice, after all.
"F-fine, I'll stop," he wheezed, looking back in the eye. She smiled, sweet and deadly.
"Good boy." She pushes away from him, stepping towards where Charles' body is still cooling on the wood flooring. Her feet made sticky squelching noises as she padded through his blood, sitting down by his head. Erik bit the inside of his cheek to keep from throwing up.
You have to mourn him later, survive first. Survive first.
It had been his instinct for so many years, but he hadn't had to tell it to himself in years. He'd almost forgotten why.
What did he have? What was close, what--damn, what the hell had she done to his head? His touch was returning slowly, too slowly. All the metal was across the room or locked away--
The knife on his calf. The knife Charles said he was paranoid about carrying around.
Pity I actually wasn't, eh Charles? The thought hurt, but maybe now he had his answer. The knife purred against his skin, thinning and melting from the handle. It took all of his concentration, but it slowly ribboned up his leg, hip, chest.
"Poor, poor Charles..." sang Alice softly, petting Charles' head. "He just had to be home all alone, didn't he?"
"Y-yes, pity," grunted Erik, working the metal down his arm. Alice's words had almost caused him to lose his grip on the little streams of steel, but he was almost there... He almost passed out as the metal pooled and reformed back into a blade in his hand.
"His last words were about you, you know," she continued, combing Charles' hair into gentle waves. Waves he'd never touch again.
"What did he say?" Twisting the knife in his fingers, he began to cut through what he was fairly certain was yarn. Of course it would be yarn, Charles had only recently begun taking knitting--
The fibres parted easily under the knife, but Erik didn't move. He had to wait, wait until she was close again. Alice turned to look at him, and for a moment he caught a glimmer of the sweet girl who'd trade books with him.
"He said, "forgive me, Erik." Very sweet, don't you think?"
Yes, yes, goddammit, yes.
Alice stood back up, walking back to him. He noticed her knees were shaking; maybe his Alice, the real Alice was beginning to come back?
Erik barely had time to consider the thought before she dropped onto his lap, picking up the match box again. "I asked, Erik." She lit a match, holding it close to his eyes. It took all he had not to blink. "Don't think it was very sweet?"
He swallowed, twisting the knife to fit in his hand. "Yes. It was." What happened next he would never be able to remember clearly. Something changed in her eyes. The match dropped. The knife slid between her ribs. Or maybe it was in a different order.
All he did know was that when he pulled the knife back out, it was Alice looking back at him, dear, sweet Alice.
"Oh," she said, her voice light and airy. Erik dropped the blade, catching her shoulders, head, before she fell over. If only he'd waited, she'd have come back, she'd have become Alice again, oh god why did he have to do that--
"Alice--Alice, forgive me--" he said, his voice shaking. She smiled, tears clinging to her lashes.
"Already have. Thank you."
She was gone, just like Charles.
Erik didn't move for several minutes, hours, he wasn't sure. Eventually, he did get up, and phoned Raven, asking her to send Azazel. When she asked why, he didn't answer.
Then, he placed Charles in their bed, trying to ignore the blood speckling his lips, and Alice on the couch.
He bundled the kittens into their basket and set them outside, alongside Charles' favorite wool sweater, and returned inside just long enough to spill the rest of their stove kerosene around the cottage. With the last of Alice's matches, he lit the fire.
