It's always cold in Ivan's house. Which is strange, because the windows are never open but yet there always seems to be a cold breeze blowing from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Maybe the cold comes from Ivan himself.

In this house time, in a way, seems to have stopped, because nothing ever changes and although I can see the days turning into night turning into day again and outside my window the seasons cycle by, inside everything is absolutely still as if it was frozen in place a long time ago. Even the others who are here with me don't change, on the outside anyway. I haven't noticed much change in myself either, except that as time stretches on without bearing anything away or bringing new things in its wake I find it easier and easier to sink into a state of being in which I am only half aware of what is going on around me while I move through my tasks mechanically, lost inside my own head. Numb with cold and with solitude, for even when the others are there there is a barrier between us of that same numbness which affects us all.

Except…

Except for her.

Natalya.

To tell the truth, it wasn't so much her lovely face that first caught my attention. It was the energy in her movements and the purposefulness in her stride as she marched past me, the first time I ever laid eyes on her. She didn't so much as spare me a glance, but I could see there was something different about her. She had something the rest of us did not have-a focus. And that focus gave her strength. I didn't know who she was, or if I would ever see her again, but I found that I couldn't get that image out of my mind for the rest of the day. That evening Ivan introduced her to us as his younger sister Natalya. He appeared to be somewhat nervous of her, which was startling, but understandable once we found out what her focus was.

She isn't always here. She comes and goes at will and seemingly at random. When she's here, Ivan spends a lot more time avoiding her than he does playing with us, but that isn't the reason I feel as I do towards her. It's not because she likes me either; in fact, she bears me some animosity, presumably out of jealousy since I'm her brother's favorite toy and she wants his attention for herself. She doesn't seem to be aware that it's not an honor I especially wish to cling to. Not that I would wish on her the kind of life I lead.

I'm perfectly aware of her violent tendencies-how could I not be, when they've been directed at me? She's broken my fingers, hit me, shoved me against the wall hard enough to bruise. Maybe it hints at some unhealthy trace of masochism in me that I don't care. I do care that Ivan hurts me, I hate that. But I don't mind at all the pain that Natalya inflicts. Maybe it's because Ivan does it without a seeming of malice-even when he's angry, it drains away while he's hitting me, replaced by a strange sort of calm, in which state he continues dispassionately to beat me until I can't stand up anymore, at which point he quietly leaves and doesn't behave, when next I see him, as if he remembers the incident at all. Sometimes he pets my head for a minute before he goes, as if he's already forgotten why I'm on the floor, if he ever knew. I don't always know myself why he beats me.

But Natalya isn't like that. All her attacks on me come out of impulse and are delivered in a passion. She's very well aware of what she's doing, and we both know why she's doing it. I can forgive and get past that a lot easier. Besides, she's the only one in this house whom I have ever seen do anything in a fit of emotion. No one else has the energy or the direction.

I can only remember one time when she was kind to me, if indeed it really happened. It was when Ivan had gotten upset at something I had done, or not done-it was one of those instances when I was never really sure of the reason-and had beaten me unusually hard for it. I must have actually fainted, because I passed from awareness of what he was doing to suddenly realizing that he was gone and I was lying on the floor alone; some time had clearly passed, because it was darker than it had been. I could tell I was bleeding, but I couldn't summon up the strength to move, so I just lay there and began to cry softly because of the pain and because I felt so miserable-it had been a bad week for me and this was the lowest point.

After a little while, the door opened quietly and Natalya came in. I don't know why-I doubt she could have heard me from the hall. But she came in and stood over me for a minute, looking down. I put my hand over my eyes because I hated that she was seeing me like this. Then I heard a rustle of cloth and a small hand wrapped itself around mine and pulled it away from my face. Natalya was kneeling beside me with an unreadable expression on her face. She stared into my eyes for what seemed like a very long time, although it was probably only a few seconds. Then she let go of my hand, took the corner of her apron and dried my tears with it. After that, she rose and left without a word, closing the door behind her. I'm still not sure that I didn't hallucinate all of that, since the next time we met she acted exactly the same as she always does.

All of us here move on a cold, dark plane of existence, or maybe it's that we all have our own little planes which only meet tangentially. Natalya is heat and light and congruence, forcing us together if only to stare in surprise. She moves through our claustrophobic world like a comet, leaving a brief illumination in her wake, just enough to let us know she has been here.

The only truly living thing in this house.