Runny Cole woke up.
Surrounded by pulsating silver machines that beep and whirl, Runny Cole peeled open her sapphire eyes. The room was a blinding white that seemed to glow. It was the type of white that was so polished and pure that it burned your eyes when you looked directly at it. The LED lights flickered and buzzed above her head. There was the thick scent of sterilizers and latex in the air; the smell of a hospital.
Her mind was blank for a moment as she stared at the pearly ceiling. She felt nothing. There was no emotion, no memory, no physical feeling at all; there was simply nothing. Slowly, Runny put her hand above her face to block the artificial light from rendering her sightless. When she saw her hand, the first thing that Runny felt was surprise.
She was as pale as a ghost. Her skin was milky white and smooth, not a single freckle or mole to flaw it. It was not the smooth purity of her flesh that surprised her, though. No, Runny was surprised to see no blood on her fingers. The feeling of empty emotionlessness flushed from her system immediately. Panic rushed through her veins in rivers.
You see, Runny Cole had been dead for the past thirty-one years. She had been stuck in a never-ending void of darkness for years, but it had felt like seconds, like a dreamless sleep. There was nothing in the void. There was no feelings there and no thoughts. It was peaceful, but it was empty. Waking up to blinding whiteness was not supposed to happen.
When you die, you don’t wake up. Runny Cole was dead. She was not supposed to be awake. She was dead. The dead do not live; they do not come back.
“You’re awake.”
Runny struggled to turn her head. She felt like a helpless infant, just learning how to use the body she had been given. She knew from the lanky arms and the boney fingers that the body was her own. Years out of practice, though, Runny found herself wondering how a task as simple as turning your head to the side could have been done so long ago.
A boy stood in the corner of the room, his dark eyes wide in surprise. The shadows seemed to engulf him in his tiny crook, which looked so misplaced in the whiteness of the room. His hair was the color of charcoal and was windswept so that bits and pieces of it stood up against gravity. His eyes were heavy-set, dark shadows around them as if he had not slept for months. His skin, too, was as pale as the moon, but the long shadows that seemed permanently cast into his face created a tone that was like none other that Runny had ever seen before.
The two stood there for a moment, each locked in their own thought as they took in the others features. Runny supposed that the boy was not much older than she was; seventeen at most, but he was well-built, like one of the football players who had roamed her high school like high and mighty kings. He wore a white shirt and black pants, his black jacket swung over his shoulder. He was frozen in time, his hand glued to the counter as his fingers stretched for one of the many vials that littered the table.
The boy spoke again, his voice dark and smooth, reminding Runny of a babbling brook. “Y-you’re awake,” he repeated, nervousness creeping into his tone.
Slowly, Runny nodded her head. As impossible as it was, she was awake. She had awoken from her eternal sleep- which, she supposed, had not be so eternal after all- and in the process had come back from the dead. She opened her mouth to speak to the boy, but he shook his head violently, darting over to her and putting his hand over her mouth so that she would be muted.
“Listen to me,” he growled in her ear, his tone so low that Runny could hardly hear him, “you need to do what they tell you to do. Whatever they say, agree to. If they tell you that the sky is orange, agree with them. If they demand you jump off a bridge, do it. Disagreement will get you punished; disobeying will get you killed. Do you understand me?”
Runny shakily nodded again, her heart pounding at the close contact of the boy. He was mere inches away from her face, close enough for her to kiss if she wanted to. All it would take would be to lift her head a single inch and their lips would lock.
The boy pulled his hand away from her, nodding once. He returned to the counter and stuffed the vial he had been eyeing into the pocket of his trousers. He did not acknowledge Runny’s presence as he shuffled past her in dead silence.
“W-wait,” moaned Runny, reaching her hand out to grab onto the boy’s coat. It nearly slipped from his shoulder, making him turn sharply to the girl. “Who are you?” she demanded. “H-how do I know… that I can t-trust you?”
The boy looked down at Runny, his eyes the color of steel. They glinted harshly as he wrenched his wrist away from her, turning toward the door.
“I can only tell you what I know, sweetheart. Trusting me…” He chuckled, shaking his head as he pushed open the door. “I’d be lying to you if I said I’d trust a guy like me at all.”
