Malcolm saw red. Gushing from a girl whose eyes pleaded with him to make it stop. To save her from the two grown men standing beside him, even though rationally that would be an impossible feat. Helping her wasn't an option he had available to him, but that wasn't going to stop him from wishing that he could. He hadn't inflicted this wound himself, but he had no doubt that if he had, it would have been more merciful a death. Because that was what was happening. Right before his eyes. Her life's blood pouring from a gaping tear in her body.

He heard his father release a low dark laugh from his left side. He cringed; the sound so strangely foreign to him. He had heard his father's laugh so many times before, sometimes mischievous, sometimes lighthearted, and sometimes sarcastic, but never this. This was the sort of thing one would associate with a demon. A monster who derived joy from the suffering of another. Not the sort of thing he knew to come out from his father's lips. His father was a hero, someone who saved lives every day. A guiding hand who had taught him so many wonderful things and shown him such beautiful worlds. Not this, never this. Maybe he was dreaming, maybe this wasn't as real as he perceived it to be. A figment of his over-active imagination.

Malcolm shuddered from the cold, pulling his coat tighter around his small frame. He just wanted this to be over, real or not. He looked to his right, only to see the other man…John?...observing the deadly scene with mild interest, seemingly unaffected by the gory display before him. Didn't he care? Was he so cruel that he had no pity in his heart for his father's victim? It was becoming too much. Everything around him was screaming WRONG.

He looked back down at the girl. She was becoming weaker, her eyes fluttering in a futile attempt to remain conscious. He wanted to help her, to press his jacket down on the wound and call 9-1-1 as his mother had taught him to do in case of emergency, but he couldn't. They wouldn't let him. They wanted this to happen. They expected him to want it as well. And how was he even supposed to get to a phone? His father wasn't going to very well hand him the tool he needed to stop this. No, his father had handed him a knife.

Faintly, in the background of the growing panic that was stemming from his helplessness, he heard the muffled sound of a woman's voice calling his name. MALCOLM. No, that wasn't right. It didn't come from anyone around him. The girl had already left them. Whether she was dead or simply unconscious, he wasn't sure. He decided he really didn't want to find out.

His vision flashed and he found himself in the cabin again, curled up in the bathroom. How did he get there? Never mind, right now he needed to figure out what was wrong with his lungs. He kept trying to breathe, only to choke and cough some more. He couldn't see very well past the tears flooding his eyes and everything was too loud. He could hear his father and John arguing loudly in the other room, their voices like knives in his skull. His head was drumming so hard that he thought he heard his own heartbeat. It was like the world was too much and then not enough at the same time. He saw the bathroom of the cabin around him, small and cramped with no shower, and then he was catching glimpses of a bathroom that was spacious and somewhat familiar too, but he couldn't remember why.

Getting up off of the hard floor, he opened the door to his father storming outside and leaving him alone with John. It didn't feel safe. He wanted his father to come back, even if he was having trouble understanding what was going on. John turned and stared at Malcolm, a snarl on his face and what Malcolm recognized as evil intent in his eyes. John's eyes flashed and Malcolm gripped the knife he still held tightly in his hand. He knew without a doubt in that moment that the man was going to kill him too.

Once more the known and yet unknown woman's voice sounded in his ears. MALCOLM. He shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts. As John rushed towards him, he raised the weapon and stabbed him in the side with all his might. Again, he saw red. Pouring from John this time. Maybe he did "have it in him" after all. Before John had the chance to retaliate, he rushed outside the cabin, and into his father's arms.

"My boy, what are you doing out here?" His father held him at arm's length and looked him up and down. Spotting the blood, his face turned up in curiosity. "Whose blood is that, Malcolm?"

Malcolm looked up at his father to see nothing but fatherly love and concern, so wildly different than the look that had been in his eyes just moments earlier. And yet, there was also a fascination in them that scared him at the same time. "I don't want to be here!" he cried, the tears returning in full force. "I want to go home. I want mom and Ainsley. I don't want this!" He began sobbing harder and broke down in his father's arms. "Please, please, please, no," he barely whispered. "I can't."

MALCOLM COME BACK!

Malcolm jolted from the memories that had assaulted him. He was back in his apartment, curled up in the corner of the room, clutching a now crumpled up photo of the girl in the box. Sophie his brain reminded him. He looked up, this time to a very worried Eve, who had her hand on his shoulder, searching for a sign of recognition in his eyes.

"Eve?" he murmured.

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Are you alright? I didn't mean to hurt you; I knew we shouldn't have done this."

"No, it's fine, I'm fine, really." Malcolm let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and stood up, trying to steady himself. "But, Eve, it was her. The girl in the box. She…your sister is dead. I'm so sorry."

Eve crumpled and fell into his arms, finding some small comfort in his gentle hold. Through the tears she managed to say something. "Thank you, Malcolm, for trying to save her."

Malcolm leaned into her hug. "I'm sorry, and I'm here for you. I promise."