Empty Hearts | Rosalie Hale

01 | AWAKEN

"It doesn't matter anymore: But it still hurts." - d.j

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THREE days.

It took Malcolm three days to wake up. When his eyelids unlatched swiftly — a pair of ruby eyes basking in the unknown room he lies in — Malcolm is petrified. Was this the afterlife? It was so quiet and eery to the point where his palms feel sweaty, but as he lifts one up to swipe at his legs, there's nothing. No sweat. No type of moisture there.

He raises his hand to his face, studying his skin. It was as if his melanin had lightened; his skin was paler and wasn't as rich and dark as it once was. In fact, it wasn't bloody either. From what he could recall in his anxiety-induced state, his arms should've been slashed. Where was the blood? The gore? The marks? It was as if his attempt never happened; a moment wiped out of existence.

Maybe, in the afterlife, he was cured. Maybe any damages done before Death took life away were fixed; his skin flawless and his mind clean. Then, why was he so scared? Anyone would be fearful of life after death, that was obvious, but something felt off. Life around him appeared too lively. Malcolm could see every speck floating around the room as if he were peering down a microscope. He could see every crack and pore on his skin and when he ran his thumb over his arm, he felt tough and stone-like.

What was going on?

Before he slept, he could remember Toby finding him in the bathtub before a horrific and gruesome pain took over. Was that a dream? He couldn't recall anything else after that. Maybe the attempt failed. Toby could've found him, cleaned him, and taken him back to his room where he would watch over him like a hawk. After all, the man hadn't slept in over forty years, so he had nothing better to do.

That didn't explain why he was in a strange and foreign room. He sits on a bed, flourished with thick blankets and bougie pillows that scream rich-rich. This wasn't his room nor did he recognize where he was. And when he looked out the window that spreads across the wall from ceiling to floor all he sees is snow. A long, flat layer of snow that's growing with tiny flakes skyrocketing downwards from dark, smoky clouds above. The last time he checked, it wasn't snowing, and as he looks more closely, he didn't live anywhere near mountains.

"Toby," he calls out and despite resting, his voice is fluid and soft. "Toby, man, where are you?"

There's noise above him — footsteps dancing across and voices so loud, Malcolm swears there were people screeching right in his ears. The issue is, no one else was in the room. Only him.

"Toby!" Frantically, Malcolm shouts and stumbles out of the bed. He dashes for the door with such quick movements, he's stunned that his head didn't go flying off his spine. He yanks the door open — so harshly and urgently that the door is completely ripped off its hinges and glides across the room, crashing and clanging against the floor. He gasps, staring with wide eyes at his hand then to the door and back at his hand. "Toby, please! I just ripped off...ripped off a literal door!"

"It's not an issue. We can easily replace it," a voice thick with a Russian accent says gently. Malcolm snaps his head down, staring at a petite woman with light blonde hair tied back, eyes wide and glittering gold. She was like a model one would find on the front of a Playboy magazine; she was gorgeous — beyond that, honestly — and dressed so finely and neatly that the boy questioned if she was even real. "I think it's best if you sit."

"B-but, your, um, door. I-I-"

"Malcolm-" how did she know his name, "-come on. Sit down."

Rather than following her orders, he stands up for himself. "No," he says, "I will not."