Alfred rose from his bed, gaping for air. The window curtains he failed to draw close the other day shed bright sunlight into his cold bedroom. It was already the afternoon. Not wanting to go back to sleep, Alfred strode over to the vanity mirror stand to pick up his glasses, only to realize that he had them on the whole time.

Was I really that tired that I slept with them on?

Seeing as though there was nothing more to do there, Alfred was about to leave the vanity mirror before catching a glimpse of himself. There on his neck was a red imprint where Ivan placed his hand around it. But the mark disappeared as soon as Alfred took a second look at himself.

Regardless, Alfred headed downstairs where a voice message was left on his phone from Matthew. He called to inform him that because of yesterday's incident, everyone has come to the conclusion that they needed more time to cope with the recent deaths as well as Natalia's disappearance. And so, there would be no meetings held for the next week. The message was left after Alfred barged into his own bedroom; which meant that he was unconscious for more than half a day. This didn't really strike Alfred as shocking, but instead he was glad to finally have a decent sleep.

There was, however, the issue of what to do for the rest of the day. He still felt like he couldn't face Arthur just yet…not after what happened in the conference room. He didn't want to socialize with the others…and he found himself not wanting to go back to sleep either, for fear of the dream he knows he'll have. He had to find a way to keep himself awake, which led to Alfred deciding to clean the house. Passing by the two toy soldiers that were no longer there, the American searched for a bucket and mop.

Alfred started work in the kitchen, where spots of maple syrup still stuck to the floor after he pushed Matthew out the door abruptly. The crow returned to its place on the windowsill, its beady eyes staring at Alfred intensely as the blonde begun mopping the wooden floor boards. The American was ignorant of his fowl guest until it cawed at him and flew off. Alfred was only able to see the black tail feathers of the crow before reverting his attention to the floor, allowing the handle to fall into the mess. He wasn't cleaning at all. He was smearing a pool of blood around with the head of the mop. The cleaning instrument now saturated in scarlet, Alfred left it there to tend to the walls.

It's not there…it's not there…

With a wet cloth, Alfred proceeded to wiping the back hallway of mildew and old stains. It was strange, how grime and dirt can grow on the walls when left unattended…in addition to handprints and crimson streaks running along the hallway…

"NO! Nothing's there!" Alfred bellowed, dropping the cloth with a moist thud. "Just my imagination!" he said, screwing his eyes shut. Yanking blonde hair with one hand, he repeated "Just my…imagination...ha…haha…HAHAHA! Do you think this is fucking funny Ivan? I know what you're up to…so stop fucking hiding!" he slammed a fist into the crumbling cement. He knew someone was messing with him…that it wasn't just all in his head.

There was no reply except for the raging voice echoing in the lonely hall. The cloth looked like a lump of bleeding meat from where Alfred was standing, pumping crimson onto the floor. He continued yelling curses and insults as he left the dimly lit path. All the while, his fingers dug into and ran across the cement, a wake of blood following the American.

Emerging from the hallway, Alfred decided that he has done enough for one day, and that watching some mindless television would calm his nerves as well as keep him awake. The pale moon buried in clouds struggled to light the sky outside. Settling himself down on the couch, he used the remote to turn the television on, prepared to watch whatever came on first. There was him on the screen. For a moment, Alfred thought it was the glare that gave off his reflection, but as the seconds passed, nothing else came on. Behind the Alfred on the screen he can see blinking shutters and cold walls – the manor in his dreams. Subconsciously, Alfred's hand reached for the remote once more to change the channel, never taking his eyes off the sapphire ones staring back at him. The moment he pressed a random button, the Alfred in the television smiled at him warmly. When he opened his eyes from his grin, it revealed blue orbs floating in black holes. In addition to the white part of his eyes darkening, his neck had a deep, burning imprint on it while his left wrist and right arm hemorrhaged. For a while, neither of them said anything, Alfred blanched in horror while his screen counterpart continued to smile. But then the Alfred in the television pulled out a pistol from literally nowhere – the same one Alfred used when he tried to commit suicide – and moved back from the screen to reveal Arthur tied to a chair. At this, Alfred left his place on the couch and scrambled toward the television, getting as close to it as he could. The Englishman looked to Alfred with pleading eyes, mouth moving but no sound coming out. Did he already forget the sound of Arthur's voice? Regardless, the counterpart smirked, pleased to get the other American's full attention. Eyes now depraved, he licked the barrel of the pistol before pointing it at Arthur.

"You bastard! You'd better not-" Alfred shouted at the screen, rapidly pushing the "off" button on the television in hopes that by doing so it'll stop the atrocity being shown from happening. But the screen did not go blank and fade to black.

Alfred shot Arthur right between the eyes without hesitation, the sound of the gunshot silencing the other American screaming in hysteria and resonating in both the manor and living room. At that moment Alfred wanted to tear his eyes away from the monitor, but at the same time he was compelled to watch his counterpart's every move. His mouth remained agape, tongue unable to fit around any words.

"Alfred," he heard his own voice through the speakers. "Stop dreaming…and face…the reality…" Alfred motioned toward the manor behind him as well as the bleeding corpse of Arthur.


"I have to get out of here!" Alfred desperately tried to pry the entrance door and windows open with his fingers. He didn't know how and when he got here, but he knew he just had to find an escape. When neither routes refused to give, Alfred bashed his head against the metal door.

A back door…there has to be another door!

He has stayed here long enough to deduct that if he was able to get out of the mansion, he would wake up from this dream…nightmare more like it. There was no longer any point in staying here. Arthur was evidently dead. Alfred has seen enough to know that what he saw on his television screen was real and has happened. Abandoning the front, Alfred dashed into the corridors and further into the manor than he had before. Passing the room he found Toris in, he rounded another corner and was again confronted by an intersection. Left or right, it didn't matter which way he turned because the same question would rise again after a few doors down the hallway. Alfred lost hope fast, and even resorted to ramming the wall on the side of him to make a hole big enough for him to squeeze through. But no matter how many times he threw himself against the wall, and how brittle the old walls appeared, the damage dealt would slowly disappear. The cracks and dents turned to seamless paint before his eyes.

"I knew it…"

Snapping his head to the side, Natalia was staring at him with void eyes on the other end of the corridor. But before he could run a few yards in the opposite direction, she extracted the knife held precariously by her heart and threw it with pin-point accuracy. The blade landed in Alfred's left calf, sending the American toppling to the ground. On his stomach, Alfred could hear the clomping of boots grow louder. He reached to remove the knife with a nasty squishing sound, tossing it to the side where it clattered against the wooden floor. The action didn't stop the bleeding, and only made it worse as blood gushed through the open wound.

"I knew…I knew I would see you again…" Natalia was hovering over him, her rotting hands traveling up and caressing his cheeks.

Alfred froze from the contact, feeling frostbite spreading wherever the Belarusian touched him. The stabbing pain he was feeling in his leg intensified, but he couldn't move with the weight straddling on top of him. Natalia leaned down so close that whenever her weak heart pumped, blood splurted from the gash and onto his shirt. Rotting flaps of skin dangled from her chest area and rested on Alfred.

"Natalia…I'm not…Toris…" he struggled to say, his jaws cramping from the cold.

With blood streaming down her eyes, rolling off the tip of her eyelashes and landing onto Alfred's pale cheeks, Natalia proclaimed "Not even death will separate us dear brother!" Reaching over to retrieve the blood-slicked knife, Natalia slide it gently down Alfred's neck. "Now we can finally get married…forever…"


Alfred woke up with a start and burning pain on his left leg – the wound left by Natalia's knife was still there; blood warm like dishwater running down and collecting onto the floor. He was lying right in front of the television, its screen showing nothing but static. The grandfather clock indicated that it was four o' clock in the morning. Despite the crimson liquid pooling around him, Alfred didn't care. He knew it would go away, only to return to torment him. The blonde laid back down on the cold planks, staring at the white ceiling with arms stretched on either side of him. He knew he was in a battle against something intangible and incomprehensible in his subconscious. And he was losing.