Sometimes he has these fits. They burn straight through his soul, making him scream and writhe in pain. He shakes and cries and talks nonsense. And he plays. The piano keys jangle, making harsh sounds that even Chrona cringes at, and he lives with Ragnarok's screams.

Sometimes he doesn't know who I am, during these. I think that's the worst part. Not the shaking or the crying, not the screaming, the swearing, the angry words he spits at me. I know he doesn't mean the things he says, and I can hold him while he cries. I can handle those. It's when he looks at me and he doesn't know me that I fall apart. I can take the tears, the shrieks and harsh words, but I can't take the blank stares. I can't take the monotone that doesn't sound like him at all, asking me, "Who are you?"

There are other times he forgets, too. That's when I know a fit is coming. There are signs. He starts forgetting things, little things like where we keep the olive oil, or how to tie his shoes. How to use the remote. How to open that window in the back room that always sticks a little, just enough that you have to jiggle one of the latches a bit. His hands shake at random. He gets headaches, feels tired. He does strange things, like unplugging the phone and television and wi-fi because if he doesn't 'they'll watch us while we sleep.' He moves furniture, and hides things like lighters and spoons. Candles show up in strange places, cut in half or carved into with strokes that look like they came from a scythe. He leaves his laundry in the washer and forgets to switch it out. I find things put back in the wrong place, like putting the silverware in the oven or the cereal in the dishwasher.

He's closed off, right before. Exactly two days prior, if we didn't see the signs before, we get the message loud and clear that it's coming. He's quiet and distant, disconnected. Not troubled, but…off. Stein says he's almost catatonic, and I have to agree. It's like he's just…gone.

Sometimes he notices a fit is coming. He fights it, or he tries to, anyways. But he can't. It takes over, it always does. He never wins, in the end.

The fit comes in stages. There's that first preamble, the signs that it's coming. Then there's the strange changes in his personality, when he gets delicate and submissive, almost fearful of everyone. The times when he's fragile and obedient. We don't let Black*Star around him during these times. His manner of speaking comes on too strong. There's too much a chance Black*Star will manipulate him.

His sides come out, after that. They come in stages themselves. At first he's almost childlike, eager to please, innocent, really. He colors with Patti and watches cartoons with Blair. Then he's almost normal, and it seems like he's just distracted all the time. He settles into a deep, dark depression after that, one that can last for days at a time. He lies in bed, staring at the wall, his room shut and dark. Then he gets clingy, he can't let go of my arm. He's frightened, like a little child. If that personality sets in during the night, I wake up to find him in my bed when the night before his door had been barred and locked, all the lights off as he suffered silently.

I feel awful, but it's always embarrassing when he gets horny, after that. It's like he's Blair in heat. We usually lock him in his room, during this, and hearing him moan my name and promise to 'rock my world' if I'll just open the door sets my teeth on edge.

But then the next phase comes, the one I really can't take. If he was just desperate, or just needy, or just aroused, I could take it. I could even take two of them. But it's the combination of all three that's so deadly. It's when he's so desperate to please me, when he sees me not as his friend, but as his master, that I break. I'm not his friend, not his lover or even his sister. I'm his master. He goes to extreme lengths to show me this, begs on his hands and knees for me to treat him like a slave. It breaks my heart to hear his pleas. "Please, please, it hurts so much. Please, mistress, make it go away…" It doesn't seem to matter whether or not I give in, and he's told me when he's sane it doesn't affect him either way, he doesn't know the difference, but I hate to see the desolate look on his face when I reject his advances (if they can be called that.) So I pat his head and let him follow me around like an obedient puppy, and just make sure he keeps his hands off of me. It's not that I don't want them there, I just don't want them there when he's not sane. I want a lover, not a sex slave.

And after that comes the rage. His words are knives, he spits fire at everyone he sees, even his own family, his friends. I'm always his biggest target. I'm ugly, I'm stupid, a moron and an idiot. I'm useless and pathetic, and he hates everything about me. I bear it all in silence, because I know he doesn't mean it. He doesn't remember saying it, just like he doesn't remember anything else about his fits, but sometimes I think he gets the feeling he did something to upset me. When he gets that feeling, he showers me in praise and gifts and tells me what a wonderful partner I am, and makes sure I know he didn't mean it. He never apologizes, not outright, because that's not his way, but he tells me it was…uncool, if you will, to say those things, and reminds me that I'm beautiful, and everything he wants. Sometimes, I even believe him.

It's when the pain sets in that it really starts to hurt. Black*Star is the strongest of us, and he restrains him, holding him down and making sure to keep the towel in his mouth so that he doesn't bite off his tongue. Black*Star is brutal, true, but sometimes, sitting on his chest and pinning him is the only thing that works. The madness that overtakes him controls him completely. He's utterly defenseless, and it's our job, all of ours, to protect him.

Sometimes I wish I could be the one he sought comfort in after he forgets us, when the tears start to fall. But the hysterics aren't for me, they aren't my job, my duty to wipe away. I can't comfort him when he's like that, when he screams for his mother and begs her to stop hitting him. He speaks so highly of her when he's sane, rains praises on her like she's a goddess, but when the madness comes through, we all know the truth. It makes me hope she's dead out there, since he hasn't seen her in so long we don't know, but anyone who can rape and abuse their own son deserves to die in my book. When he screams, I want to be the one to comfort him, but I can't. That ability doesn't lie with me, I can't do it. That power lies in Soul. Why, I don't know. Maybe it's because they both lost their mothers. So did Black*Star, but he can't comfort him, only Soul can. Maybe it's because his mother is alive, and, of all things, disowned him. My mother's gone, too, but that doesn't seem to matter. In truth, I think it's the madness inside Soul that really makes him the one who can comfort him. It's how calm and collected he is. It's amazing, how he interacts with him, how he takes care of him like he's an infant.

His name isn't Kid, when this part of the fit comes. It's his birth name, the one his mother gave to him. Nick. That was how he introduced himself the first time Soul approached him during a fit. And Soul was so gentle with him, so at ease. He never lets on, but he's got a soft spot for the weak, especially for children. And I suppose, really, Kid's a child in this state. He reverts back to the scared little kid whose mother locked him in a closet, who held a pillow over his face until he was too weak to struggle and then took advantage of his small, frail body. It's amazing how they interact, like right now.

Soul approaches him slowly. His hair and clothes are rumpled, he doesn't care about symmetry when he's like this. "Hey," Soul says softly. "Nicholas, it's me, Soul. Do you remember me?"

"Big brother Soul," he whimpers softly.

Soul smiles gently at him. "Yeah, that's me, big brother Soul. Do you want to tell me why you're curled up right here, instead of on the bed?"

Kid, or rather, Nicholas, scoots his fetal-positioned body even closer to the wall. "Because the monster will get me if I'm near the bed. If I hide she can't see me. Then she won't find me, and won't make me do bad things again."

This is a new advance for us, but Soul doesn't show any sign of shock or interest. He doesn't want to frighten Kid-no, Nicholas away, or make him feel pushed. "Oh yeah?" he says, mildly interest in his voice. "What bad things will she make you do?"

"She…she makes me put my hands in places I don't want to, like on her. And she's all wet where she makes me put them, and it's icky. She feels all slimy and she makes scary noises. And she likes to make me do weird things, things that hurt."

"What things that hurt?" Soul asks, His voice is calm, but I can see that his shoulders are slightly tense, and I hope that Kid doesn't notice. If Nick thinks for a second that Soul is angry with him, we'll lose this opportunity, this new breakthrough we've just gotten.

"She makes me put my hand in lit candle flames, and then…then she draws patterns on me and makes me follow the pen lines with a knife. She makes me lick things…things like the stove, and the toilet, and…and her. And then she…she touches me, she touches me all over and even when I ask her to stop she doesn't. And then the slimy part, it-it-it starts leaking and her legs get all slimy too. And she grabs me and makes it cover my…my…" Kid sniffles and trembles. "And then she jumps up and down with her bottom and crushes me and it hurts, it hurts so bad!" Tears leak faster down his face. "Make her go away, Soul, make her go away!" He begins sobbing, his body shaking entirely with his cries, and he suddenly seems as small as he acts, he seems very young, and very, very scared.

Soul, sensing that it's time, pulls Kid's shuddering form to him. While his body is shaking, wracked with sobs, Soul holds him quietly. He says nothing, he never does. He just cradles the sobbing heap in his arms to his chest and waits it out. Like always. Eventually, Kid will wear himself out and fall silent. He'll fall asleep there on the floor with Soul, and Soul will pick him up and carry him to his bed. I'll comb his hair and dab the dried tears away with a washcloth, and he'll wake up remembering nothing, only knowing that days, even as much as two weeks, have passed without his knowledge, and he'll know. But he'll get up and keep going, pretending that nothing is wrong until a few months later, he puts the dishes in the freezer and we start all over.

Sometimes he has these fits. They make him scream, and cry, and rage at the world. They make him crazy. I've gotten stronger since we met, everyone agrees on that. But when the madness takes over his soul, I can't control it. My tears still fall for him.

Because sometimes, he has these fits. And I can't stop them.