So, I decided to write a thing, and I hope everyone enjoys it.
Just want to point out that, yes, this fic will be written entirely in first person. I've never seen one written like this before, so I decided to accept the challenge and see what I could do. I also just naturally write better in first person too, so.
If there's any confusion, the narration bounces back and forth between Jack and Hiccup, and you can tell when it's changing narrators by the break in the text. Hope that's not too confusing!
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Everything's black.
I'm awake and conscious, capable of feeling the world around me silently moving and shifting, but my eyes… they won't open. I know I'm not supposed to be in the dark like this, unable to see anything, but my eyelids feel like they've been sewn shut. All I can see is darkness, pure and horrifying darkness. The longer I don't do anything to make it go away, the more it wraps around me, swallowing me whole, making me feel small and vulnerable and weak.
The calmness I had felt only moments ago is suddenly replaced by fear. I can feel comfort being clawed away by the darkness, hooked fingers wrapping around my throat trying to suffocate me. I want to fight back, make this feeling stop before it gets worse, but I can't move, can't defend myself.
I don't like the darkness.
What is this? What is it called, to be afraid with your eyes closed?
Oh, yes. I remember the word now.
A nightmare.
It takes all my strength, and I know my fear plays more than just a minor role in it, but I somehow manage to open my eyes. I'm instantly blinded by a white light, causing me to recoil, going briefly back into the darkness as to get rid of the glare. By doing this, I feel fear taking me over again, so I fight back, trying to wrench my eyes back open. I can't go back into the darkness, not after discovering that it isn't my only option.
My eyes eventually adjust to the light, and I'm able to see my surroundings. White walls, white ceiling, white floor. Even the door is white. There's no windows that I can see. A painting of an odd structure riding waves sits on the wall across the room from me, the wooden frame, of course, white. What is that structure called? I can't seem to- oh. A boat. It's a boat.
I notice two chairs, more of a beige color than a white, I suppose, sitting in the corner, empty. I feel a peculiar feeling begin to form inside my chest, causing something inside of me to feel kind of… not there? I don't know, but staring at those bare chairs makes me feel… feel… ugh, what's the word?! Why can't I remember these simple words?
Oh. That's it.
Lonely.
Something inside of me starts to quicken at the realization of this odd, new feeling. I suddenly feel vulnerable all over again, but I can't explain why. Those chairs are threatening. Why do I feel so… so…
I hear a sharp reparative beeping coming from my other side, causing me jolt. I look down to see - oh my God, what is that? I stare at the limp, white figure lying next to… me? Wait, is this thing buried under all these white sheets… me? And that thing - that strange-looking figure with five limbs protruding from it - is that… is that a part of me? I stare down at it, and with thinking one simple command - move - one of the smaller parts curl up. I don't know why, but this sends a warm sensation to pulse through me, causes me to forget that loneliness I had felt earlier.
I know what this is. It's my hand. Yeah, that's the word. My hand. And this. This mass under the blanket. It's my body.
I feel this sudden, odd awareness, not of my hand or my body, but rather of my… my… oh wow. My face. I completely forgot about my face! Without thinking, my hand moves up and touches it, and I feel everything. My nose. My eyelashes. My cheeks. My lips. I don't know where the words come from or how I could possibly know them before now, but as soon I feel each separate feature, they come pouring into me, like I had always known them.
My hand lands on my lips again, and I feel them move under my touch, startling me, but I resist the urge to remove my fingers. I recognize this feeling, the position that my lips are forming into. The corners are high, moving into my cheeks, causing them to bunch up. My eyes, like my cheeks, bunch up a bit too, mostly from underneath. Without even having to think, the word comes to me.
A smile.
The beeping that startled me from before registers in my ears again - oh my God, I nearly forgot my ears! - and I turn towards the sound. That's when I come face to face with dozens of bright screens, flashing unreadable words at me, and hundreds of unrecognizable tools and machines and pumps, and the more I stare at them, the more I feel that smile on my face begin to disappear. It isn't until I notice the cord - small and transparent - coming out from one of the machines, snaking its way through my sheets, and… wait. Is that… it's…
It's going inside of me.
The beeping from one of the machines starts to speed up, but I ignore it. All I can seem to register is the fact that a tube is actually sticking into my arm, and I hadn't realized it until just now. I can feel it inside me, and I hate it. I want to yank it out, but I can't. That familiar feeling from before washes over me again, and the beeping is going crazy, and I hear something from outside the door - soft but quick - getting closer and closer, and my breathing is quickening, and I don't know what to do.
I'm scared. My eyes are wide open and I'm surrounded by all this white, yet I feel that same fear and darkness from when I had my eyes closed.
A sound comes from the other side of the room, and I look up to see a middle-aged woman wearing a light pink uniform making her way hurriedly towards me. I jump in my seat, surprised by her unannounced presence, which causes a sharp feeling like needles to pierce into my forehead. She notices me discomfort, the fear I feel at the mere sight of her. She puts her hands up slightly, I think in attempt to calm me.
"It's alright, dear," she says in a near whisper. "I'm not here to hurt you. It's okay."
I want to trust her - I know I should trust her - but I can't completely. She looks sweet, like she does care for my well-being, but by the way she seems to know how to work the machines tells me she's the one that stuck this rotten cord into me.
"Does it hurt anywhere?" she asks after I start to calm down.
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. As she continues to stare at me, waiting for a reply, I start to panic. I know what I want to say - the words are on the tip of my tongue - but why won't they come out? She's squinting her eyes at me, as if she's trying to read my mind, but all I can do in response is gape like a fish.
What is this? Why can't I talk? I know I can talk. She was talking to me earlier, so that must mean I can do it too. Why is nothing happening when I open my mouth though? What… what is this? What is happening?
"Can you… not talk?" I hear her ask me.
My first instinct is to nod my head, so I do just that. She shows she understands this simple gesture by nodding back and writing something down on her clipboard. I want to ask her what she's writing, but then I remember I can't talk.
"Does it hurt?" she asks me again.
The pain in my forehead becomes obviously apparent to me again, so I nod.
"Where?"
I move my hand from my side and touch my forehead, hoping this will answer her question. She seems to understand by the way she nods and writes something down on her clipboard again.
"Here," she says, placing the clipboard down and grabbing one of the odd tools from the counter beside me. "This will make you feel better, sweetie. Just give it a few minutes and you'll be fine." She takes the tool - it's long and has a sharp needle sticking out of one end of it - and slides the point into a small bottle, pulling out the liquid from inside. I want so badly to speak, to ask her what that bottle and tool is, and what she's doing with them, but, more importantly, I want to ask her who she is, where am I, and… who even am I?
Before I can get her attention again, maybe to ask her these questions somehow through simple gestures, I notice the people standing in the doorway.
The tallest one - a man - stands with his arm around the shoulder of the smaller woman positioned at his side. She has her hands drawn up to her mouth and her eyes are staring at me, filled with shock and even… are those tears? They both have similar brown hair, only the woman's is darker and longer than the man's. And even the man. He's staring at me with such confusion, yet he seems maybe more happy to see me than the woman is. She looks more fearful than anything, and for some reason, this makes something in my chest ache. Why is she afraid to see me? Do I scare her?
My eyes move down, and that's when I notice the girl. She's tiny in comparison to the two adults, whom both stand behind her. She's probably around the age of eight or nine, but what do I know; I don't even know how old I am. She has the woman's same long, dark brown hair, falling over her shoulders and on top of the white dress she's wearing.
I look at her and I feel her eyes land on me. We're staring at each other - no - into each other. When I locked eyes with the man and woman, I felt nothing, just their stares, but as I looking into this little girl's big, brown eyes, I feel something, something I can't put a name to quite yet. And her eyes. Instead of having the look of confusion or fear in them, they hold something new, something different, something I've never seen in another person's eyes before now.
All of the sudden, my eyes begin to feel heavy and mind begins to blur, but not fast enough to notice the edges of the girl's lips beginning to move upward. The woman in pink beside me asks a question, but the words don't make it to my ears, because all I'm doing is staring at the little girl as she smiles at me.
And then I'm gone.
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I'm not awaken by my alarm going off or the sun peeking through my blinds, but rather the feeling of claws poking into my thigh. This method of being woken up doesn't really bother me, seeing as I've had a good five years to get used to it, but that doesn't stop me from pulling the covers over my head and letting out a groan of disapproval.
"Toothleeeeeeeess," I go, moving my legs around in an attempt to buck the cat off of my bed. "Stoooooooop. I wanna sleeeeeeeep."
In response, all I hear is a deep meow from the other end of the bed. There's a brief silence, in which I let out a sigh of relief, but then I hear him start to meow like crazy, going in full scales without stopping, reaching octaves I wasn't even aware he could reach.
I rip the sheets off myself, sit up, and make direct eye contact with the black cat. His bright green eyes stare back into mine as his ears fold back on to the top of his head; he's trying to pull the cute card on me, and I'm going to have to admit… it's working.
"WHY?" is all I say.
As if he understands what I'm asking him - which sometimes, I have to admit, it seems like he does - he walks across my lap and on to my cluttered nightstand. As I'm about to tell him to get down from there, since he's getting pretty close to knocking off the lamp, he perches right on top of the alarm clock, shining the lovely numbers of 6:45 at me.
I shoot him an irritated glare. "You woke me up fifteen minutes early, you know that?"
He lets out a small meow and paws at the clock, like he's reminding me of the time.
I let out a sigh and swing my legs over the side of the bed, running my hands over my face. "I could've really used an extra fifteen minutes of sleep, bud. Really."
He jumps back on to the bed, it creaking a little under his weight, and makes his way on to my lap, purring loudly and rubbing his black coat against my chest. There he goes again, trying to pull the cute card on me and, of course, succeeding.
"Yeah, yeah," I go, letting a laugh leak through my sleepy grin. "Good morning to you too, bud. Now let me go get ready. Don't wanna be late."
He quickly jumps off my lap, like he understands I mean business now. Standing up, I begin to wobble my way on my one leg to my conjoined bathroom, Toothless following me, like he's making sure I won't lose my balance and collapse on to the floor - like he could break my fall, the little furball. I'm not really afraid of my right foot slipping and having my body drop to the floor anymore; after having this one leg for most of my teen years, I've learned how to balance on it like I'm constantly walking on a trapeze wire. It took a lot of time and patience, but, hey, I didn't really have any other option.
I decide I can take a longer shower than I had originally planned, seeing as that stupid cat of mine decided to wake me up early, giving me extra time. That idea doesn't last very long though, since I almost completely nod off while the warm water soaks my body. Oh well. It was worth a shot.
After hobbling out of the shower and toweling off, I make my way back into my room to get ready for the busy day ahead of me. While I put on my prosthetic leg, Toothless does his usual pouncing and pawing at it until I playfully swat at him, causing him to retreat to sitting on my dresser, waiting for me to finish so I can pick out some clothes for the day. I follow him once all my parts are attached, and pull on a pair of boxers, some old khakis shorts I haven't worn since last summer, and a sleeveless shirt. Toothless has already put it upon himself to nudge his way into my sock drawer, now using his sharp, little teeth to make holes in the toes.
"I've had about enough of you today, cat," I threaten him, snatching the ruined socks from his grasp. He knows I'm just joking though; he places his front paws on the ledge of the drawer, folding his ears down, motioning me to stroke his head. I do so, mumbling something about an adoption center, which makes him try to nip at my fingers, but I'm too quick for him.
I make a point of being very quiet as I descend down the stairs and into the kitchen. My house's floor plan is really whacked up, having my room upstairs, and my dad's room right next to the kitchen that's located downstairs. I guess it made sense when it was being built, but now, it's more of just an inconvenience, especially for the mornings when I need to wake up early.
I stick to my usual breakfast: a bowl of Cheerios with a glass of milk, maybe a slab of toast with jam if I have the time before Fish is due to pick me up. Toothless stares me down from the kitchen counter until I remember to pour him his cat nibble, which he thanks me for by weaving through my legs, purring like a motor boat.
Fish arrives right at 7:30, but makes the grave mistake of knocking loudly on the door. I have to make a mad sprint to the front of the house, nearly slipping on the carpet lying in the foyer.
"Fish!" I hiss as I pull open the door.
"Oh, hey, Hic-!" he starts, but when he notices my strained expression, he stops. "What, why are you… oh!" His hands quickly go up to his mouth as his brown eyes grow wide. "Oh gods, I'm sorry! I completely forgot, Hiccup!"
I let out a sigh. "Nah, it's fine. Just… remember next time. I can't afford to wake Dad up. You know how he gets…" Fish nods quickly, his eyes still opened wide. He knows exactly what I mean, considering he's had his fair share of sleepovers at my place, and a few of them have gone horribly wrong by one of us accidentally waking up my dad before 8:00. Definitely not a pretty sight.
"You ready to go then?" he asks, still whispering, but excitement seeping through his words.
"Yeah, let me just get my shoes," I tell him, pointing back inside. Toothless meows at me from on top of the living room sofa as I open the closet under the stairs and pull out my sneakers. By the look on his face, I can tell he knows he's about to be abandoned.
"Don't worry, bud," I assure him, patting him on the head. "I'll just be gone for the morning. We can play later, alright?" He answers me by batting away my hand, jumping down from the sofa's ledge, and darting up the stairs, probably to find sanctuary under my bed.
"Must be rough sometimes, y'know. Being a cat whose only friend is his owner," I hear Fish say sympathetically from the front door.
I throw him a look. "Don't give him an excuse for being a nuisance."
I lock the door behind me and the two of us make our way into Fish's old Civic parked on the curb. It smells a little like nacho cheese, and I'm a little confused by this, until I notice the cardboard container sitting right next to my feet. It has the remains of our nacho snack from a couple of days ago still inside.
"I think I've already told you this, like, oh, I dunno, fifty thousand times," I say, "but you really gotta clean out this landfill of a car of yours, Fish." I pull the bandana I have wrapped around my neck over my nose, and kick the container further under my seat, in an attempt to rid of its awful smell.
"Yeah, I know, I know," he replies under his breath. "I'll do it sometime this break, I promise."
"That's what you said during spring break."
"Yeah, well, you're not the only one on my back about it now."
"Oh?"
"My mom's jumped on to the bandwagon recently too."
"Way to go, Mrs. Ingerman."
He shoots me a look as his car is brought to life, and I return it with a smile.
I don't know why either of us decided to do it, but Fish and I have pretty much sold our souls - at least for the summer - to my dad's old friend, Gobber, who runs a little lawn mowing/yard repair business during the summertime. What he does is hire out a batch of teen boys that want to make a few bucks, or just want something to do with all their newly found free time, and makes them wake up early to mow people's laws and trim people's hedges.
This is the first year Fish and I have decided to volunteer our time into this business. My dad had bugged me about it for the last couple of years, but he never really forced it, since he probably didn't believe I could even push a lawn mower to begin with, being as small and weak as I am. I had somewhat of a growth spurt during the school year though - if growing two inches and gaining ten pounds is considered a significant difference - so I guess I don't really have an excuse anymore. And besides. It was either pushing a piece of machinery around for a good four hours a day for four days out of the week, or babysitting my neighbor's five kids, the eldest being eight and the youngest two, every day of the week, being responsible for all the horrendous misfortunes those little devil-children chose to bestow upon me. You don't need to even know the kids personally to know why I decided to go with the lawn mowing job instead.
Since our town is kind of on the small-ish side, it only takes us a good twenty minutes to drive across town to Gobber's place. When we pull up to his driveway, which has a large white van occupying it with what looks like a couple of lawn mowers sitting in the back, I can see a group of other boys around our age all sitting on his porch, talking to one another and putting on their gear.
"Did you remember to put us as partners?" I ask Fish as we get out of his car. The last thing I need is to be partnered up with some guy that either a.) I don't know, or b.) hates me. This fear becomes even more real when I notice one of the boys - I think he's a year older than us - look our ways and roll his eyes.
"Yeah, don't worry about it," Fish tells me, slapping me on the back, making me almost fall on to my face. "I wouldn't leave you to fend for yourself."
I throw him a look. "Gee, thanks."
Right as we approach the porch, Gobber makes his way out to greet us and fill us in with instructions on what exactly we're going to be doing.
"We'll all be travelin' together in this here van, you lot," he explains in his thick Scottish accent as he guides us towards said van. "I'll be droppin' you 'n' yer partner off at yer designated house, 'n' there, you'll have a good couple of hours to mow 'n' trim 'n' do whatever yer supposed to do. At around, eigh, say 10:30, I'll make me rounds 'n' pick each of ye up, then drive ye lot to yer next house, where you'll repeat the process. Once noon hits, I'll pick ye all up again, drop ye off here, and you'll all be free to go. Any questions?"
Everyone's silent, and Gobber, being the man who sticks to the schedule he's given, doesn't wait one more second to get us all piled into the van and on our way's to our first house. The eight of us are all crammed awkwardly in the back with the four lawn mowers and hedge clippers we're to use. Luckily, I'm squeezed between Fish and the passenger's seat, so I don't have to deal with making contact with one of the other boys. That doesn't mean, however, that I wasn't noticed.
"What's he doin' here?" a boy with thick red hair sitting across from me asks his friend, who snickers. At seeing that he has my attention, he smirks and says, "You better be clippin' hedges, Haddock. I'm pretty sure Gobber here doesn't want to have to deal with you being too weak to push a lawn mower and bein' chopped to pieces or whatever by it."
A few of the other boys laugh, and Fish tells them to all be quiet. It's Gobber in the end that yells at all of us to shut up, which we all do, since you don't not listen to a man of his size. As the other guys are all hushing up, looking a little frightened by Gobber's outburst, I notice Gobber shoot me a little sympathetic look from the driver's seat, and I feel this pain grow in my stomach. If there's one thing I hate, it's getting special treatment just because I'm smaller than the rest of the guys, or because my dad's my dad, whom plays a pretty big role in our town when it comes to business.
I look away from Gobber and, as I move to look down at my feet, I accidentally lock eyes with the red head boy from before. He shoots me this glare, and I quickly divert my eyes downward.
Something's telling me this is going to be long summer.
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After a couple of days of being in the - what did they call it? Oh yeah. The hospital - I'm told that I'm well enough to be allowed to see and speak to any visitors that come to visit me. The only problem with this is that, one, I'm still unable to actually "communicate" with anyone besides using gestures, so there goes me being allowed to speak to my visitors, and two, no one but that little girl comes to visit me; but I don't mind this. I discover that she's all the company that I really need.
Her name is Emma, and she tells me she's my little sister, making me her big brother. She's nine, and she tells me that I'm seventeen, so I suppose that makes me her really big brother.
I want to ask her why I'm here, but she always seems so pleased to see me, running in when she arrives and wrapping her little arms around me, whispering that she missed me so much during the night she had to spend alone. Then she proceeds to tell me about what she did that day with her little friends from school, and I have no time or really any desire to interrupt her looking so full of life and excitement.
My parents, on the other hand, seem to have the opposite reaction to my presence. They stop by every day with Emma - only, when they're in the room, the little girl finds refuge in one of the beige chairs in the corner, not saying a word. It's very unlike her, but I never question her on it.
The man I've been told to call Dad usually does most of the talking, be it to me or the doctor accompany us at the time. We've never talked about anything particularly personal either; what's mostly murmured between the two men are large words I don't understand that Emma claims are medical terms I shouldn't worry about. However, even when a doctor isn't present, my father just tells me that they'll be letting me out of here anytime now, and not to worry about it. I'm honestly not that worried about it, since I wasn't even aware that there was anything to worry about, but I can't talk and he barely ever locks eyes with me, so I never have the chance to tell him this.
Then there's the woman I've been told to call Mom. For some reason, I get an abhorrent feeling in my chest when she's present, mostly when she's looking at me, which isn't very often. She stands beside my father, a grim look on her face as she looks anywhere but at the person speaking or, more normally, me. When she leaves, she usually whispers a soft goodbye, no eye contact made. She once kissed me on the forehead, during one of her earlier visits, but as she left that day, I heard her break into tears, collapsing in on my father only a couple of doors down. Ever since then, she's never attempted to make contact with me.
Somehow I'm able to ask Emma through gestures what their deal with me is, but she just shrugged and tells me not to mind them. All she would let me know was that I had been in an accident that resulted in me losing my memory, and that they were really worried and were afraid that I wasn't going to make it. I just learn to assume that they're shocked by the fact that I'm still here and don't know how to react to it. This reasoning is good enough for me.
Mostly though, it's Emma who visits. On one particular day, she brings with her a book she tells me she's borrowing from the library, which she also tells me is a place where they store many books for anyone to check out and read at any time, which I think is a funny, yet interesting concept. I make her promise to take me to one of these library places after I get out of here, and she crosses her heart that she will.
"But check out this book I got," she tells me, taking a seat on the side of my bed, pulling the thick book into her tiny lap. "It's all about this thing called 'folklore'."
I give her a confused look, and she explains.
"Folklore is, like, stories and legends that people say aren't real, when really, they are. Well, at least I think so." I chuckle at her determination at being right as she peers down at the book, flipping from page to page, appearing to be looking for something in specific. "Like this guy!" she suddenly announces, flipping the book around so I can see.
I lean forward in my bed to see a pencil drawing of a rather large looking fellow carrying a bunch of odd-looking toys in his wide arms. I look up at her with an expression that asks her to explain.
"You don't remember Santa Claus?" she asks, looking bewildered. I just shrug, feeling a little embarrassed by this, but she gives me one of her sweet smiles in return, the corners of her eyes crinkling up as she does it. "It's okay. I didn't really expect you to remember him anyways. He's this guy that comes during Christmas - do you remember what Christmas is?"
I shake my head.
"Oh… well… it's this day during the month of December that people celebrate for some reason. I think it has something to do with Jesus? I dunno, but what I do know is that all the kids get tons and tons of presents! And do you know who gives them those presents?"
I shake my head again.
She pulls the book up again for me to see and points at the man she earlier called Santa. "This guy right here! He spends every day of the whooooole year making thousands on top of thousands of toys to give to every kid in the world on Christmas!"
I feel my eyebrows rise up to my forehead, feeling impressed by this task that even I think sounds impossible. I want to ask her more about the man - how he does something like that in one simple night, and how he gets from house to house - but I can't get the words out. I suppose I'll just have to somehow ask her if I can borrow the book to read after she leaves.
Emma flips through some more pages, her eyes moving rapidly from left to right, like she can't even keep up with herself. She finally lands on something she likes, because she flips the book back to where I can see and points at what appears to be a drawing of a small rabbit surrounded by dozens of colorful eggs.
"This is the Easter Bunny!" she tells me. "He's kinda like Santa, only he comes on Easter. Do you remember Easter?"
I shake my head.
"That's okay. It's kinda like Christmas, only you have to search for the eggs the Easter Bunny leaves outside rather than being given presents. I think it also has something to do with Jesus, but I can't be sure. Anyways. He's pretty cool. He gives kids chocolate, which is yum yum yummy!"
Her visit with me that day goes on like this; her flipping through that book that's almost too large for her to carry in her arms, her round face lighting up instantly as she finds something that pleases her. She shows me each folklore's picture, explaining to me who they are, telling me stories to make them seem more real. She tells me about the Tooth Fairy, a little woman that comes during the night and takes children's lost teeth, replacing them with quarters - how strange. She tells me of the Sandman, a man who conjures up what she calls "dream-sand" that allows children to fall asleep and have sweet dreams - how even more strange. The list goes on, picture after picture of odd-looking men and women, animals and creatures I've never seen before. They're all pretty interesting, considering my state and not being able to remember any of them from my own childhood.
One in specific catches my attention though.
She almost skips him entirely, but when I catch a glimpse of his white hair, his bizarre looking wooden staff, I place my hand on his page, signaling for her to stop flipping.
Her eyes meet mine, and then she looks down at who I've stopped on.
"Jack Frost?"
I grab the book from her, moving the picture closer to me so I can observe the details of it. He's a young boy, maybe around my age, and his hair is white like the ice designs coming from his pale fingertips. His bare feet walk upon a frozen lake, and snowflakes surround him as he looks off into the empty, dark night.
"You know," I hear Emma say as I continue to take this boy in. "Jack Frost does kind of remind me of you…"
I look up at her quickly, giving her a confused look.
"Well, yeah," she goes on. "You both have the same white hair, and even your eyes are blue - I mean, I think his eyes are blue. It's kinda hard to see them in that picture. But he's pale and…"
I don't hear her go on with her reasoning on why this Jack Frost character and I are similar, because it's suddenly hits me that… well, that I don't even know what I look like. I've been sitting in this bed for nearly a week now, and not once have I even asked myself what I look like to other people. Is my hair really white like Emma claims? How could that be? My parents and even my little sister here all have brown hair. And blue eyes? They all have brown! How is that even possible?
I look down at my hands to see that, yes, they're what would probably be considered pale. Comparing them to Emma's peach colored shade, I look almost paper white in comparison. I grab a lock of my hair and pull it down to where I can see it crossing my eyes, and there it is. White. White as snow. White as…
White as frost.
Emma has stopped talking by now. Her gaze is fixed on me, a concerned, yet curious expression held on her features. I can tell she wants to know what I'm thinking, so I decide to try and tell her in words she can understand.
I point to the young boy in the book, tapping on specifically him several times. When she nods her head, telling me she understands, I points at myself and open my mouth and try to speak.
"J-J-"
Emma's eyes grow large as she sees what I'm trying to do. She sits up on the bed, leaning towards me like she's beckoning for me to finish my thought.
"What?" she asks. "J-J-. What are you trying to say?"
I take a deep breath and practically stab myself in the chest, my eyes squeezed shut in concentration.
"J-Ja-Jaaa-"
"What? Ja- what?"
"J- Ja-ack-k."
She takes a sharp breath inward, falling back on to her bottom next to my covered legs beside her. Her eyes remain wide as she stares at me, like she can't believe what she has just heard. I don't blame her; I can barely believe it either.
I lick my lips and point at myself again. "J-Jack."
That smile I've learned to love appears on her face again as she calms down. She points her tiny finger at me and simply says, "Jack?"
I nod my head. "Jack."
"You… you wanna be called… Jack?"
I nod again, this time letting a laugh escape my lips.
She laughs at the foreign sound, since that's the first time I've ever outright laughed while I've been here - I've chuckled, I've even giggled, I'll admit. Laughed though. Never. Well, not until now.
"Okay," she says, still shooting me her warm smile. "You can be Jack. But not Jack Frost. That'd be too weird."