Pyro

Unum- (Intrusus)

Saturday, January 23; 1:49 A.M. (Six Years Ago)

"Just try to get some sleep, Alice." My voice croaks, hoarse from holding back my fury, anguish, and pain.

Her cries had subsided for the most part, and now she looks up to me in grief, the skin around her eyes inflamed red and puffy. A sob racks her tiny self, and she closes her eyes in anguish, traumatized beyond any point a six-year old could imaginably handle.

"Are we..." her voice cracks, her own mourning magnifying my pain tenfold, "are we going to be okay, Harry?"

I bite down on the inside of my cheek hard to keep myself from breaking down in front of my little sister — I needed to appear strong for her — I needed to be okay. A metallic taste fills my mouth — my own blood. As if there hadn't been enough blood spilt today.

"We're going to be fine," I nod in attempt to reassure her. "Everything's going to be okay. I'll make sure no one hurts you, okay? I'll keep you safe."

"Okay," she nods slowly at me, but her innocent eyes are still tainted with worry. "And you too. You need to stay safe. You can't—" her voice breaks again.

I interrupt her before she goes on any further. "I will stay safe. Both you and I. Nothing bad is going to happen to us again, okay? I'm going to make sure of it."

She blinks, and then nods, lying down onto her small bed, "pinky promise?"

I extend both of my pinky fingers towards her, "double pinky promise."

But as she wraps her pinkies around mine, I can't help but feel like a deceiving liar.

"Good night, Alice. I'll see you in the morning," I grab the thin blanket as she sets her head on the pillow, and toss the covers over her, tucking her in like I remember Mother doing to me. Flicking the lights off, I shut the door behind me, and make my way down the stairs, wondering how the hell I was going to clean the blood that was staining the floors and walls in the entryway.

As soon as I made it to the last step at the bottom of the stairs, bile rose in my throat at the sight of the congealing blood pooled on the floor and decorating the walls of the entryway and the door. Bringing a hand up to my mouth, I quickly rush to the kitchen, carefully avoiding stepping in the blood.

As I walk into the kitchen, the digital clock mounted on the wall tells me it's nearly two in the morning, but I barely register that information. I open the cabinet under the sink, pulling out the bottle of bleach, a pair of gloves, and a sponge. I grab a small bucket, fill it with water, and make my way back to the bloodied entryway of the house.

The sight of blood makes my stomach turn uncomfortably, and I feel like throwing up and screaming and combusting all at the same time. The air smelled sickeningly like blood as well — that horrid metallic, salty scent— and it only added to the nausea I felt.

I squat down to my knees, unscrewing the top of the bottle of bleach. The chemical stench hits my nostrils, and for once, I welcome it. Anything is better than the smell of this blood.