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I ended up crying myself to sleep last night, so when I woke up I was still on the floor. I spent the first few hours of the morning thoroughly examining the room. I went through all the drawers, hoping to find some kind of weapon that I could use against Jack. I mean, sure, he's immortal, but maybe I could just knock him out long enough to escape.

But where would I escape? Though I'll never admit it to him, I really do have nowhere to go. Any sane human wouldn't accept me, and I don't even know how I'd get back to Earth in the first place.

After I couldn't find a weapon or any undergarments, I started scratching at my newly coloured skin, seeing if it would come off. Unfortunately, all that did was give me small cuts that bled purple and would heal themselves after about two seconds. That led me to two conclusions: One, my newly coloured hair was the colour of blood here. And two, since my wounds heal themselves so fast, I'm probably immortal, too.

I threw myself at the door a few times, seeing if it would budge. It didn't.

Now I'm lying on the floor again, wondering what time it is and if I'll starve forever.

I start thumb wrestling with myself, and when lefty is just about to win, I hear the lock on the door go click, open.

I try to think of a plan to hide from Jack, but come up with nothing. So, I pretend to be asleep.

I hear the door creak open and Jack mumbling to himself about how he has to oil it. Then it's weird, because I don't hear any walking, but I don't think he's still standing in the doorway.

"Boo." is whispered in my ear, causing me to scream and flip onto my back. I see that Jack has planted his feet on either side of me and is grinning down at me with satisfaction. "Good morning." he annoyingly coos.

I slowly get up from the floor, careful not to touch him. Once I'm standing at eye-level with him, or really, his eyes being two inches above mine, I say, "Good morning." through gritted teeth. We continue to stand there awkwardly for a moment until curiosity gets the best of me. "How did you get right over me without walking?"

Amusement plays in his eyes, and I can tell that freaking me out is going to be one of his new favorite pastimes. "I flew." he says simply. He flew. Of course he flew. That just makes so much sense. "I really did," he says, and I wonder if he can read my mind. "And no, I can't read your mind." That only makes me believe that he can more.

I get angry with him and walk out the door, relieved to hear his footsteps behind me. I go down the same hallway that he took me through yesterday, and after a while I reach the living room recovered from the Ice Age. I stop abruptly, causing Jack to ram into me. I nearly lose my balance, but quickly regain it.

Then I realize that this is ridiculous. I'm so mad at him, but all he did was listen to some stupid curse that was put on him thousands of years ago. I need to try to get along with him, because what other choice do I have? This was obviously meant to happen, being that it was set millennia before I was borne.

Besides, how bad could it be? It's not like he's harmed me in anyway. He's trying to be nice. I should try too.

I start smiling, because I realize that's what my mother used to tell me.

"What?" he asks, smiling too.

I clear my throat. "Nothing." It gets really awkward then, and I wonder if I'm blushing since my cheeks are getting extra cold. "Oh, and by the way, my name is Ana."

A spark of hopefulness dances in his eyes and he laughs. "Yeah, I was gonna ask."

We stand there for a couple moments until I say, "Uh, do you have any food? 'Cause I'm starving." He tells me that I should've told him I was hungry earlier, and takes me to the kitchen. All the cabinets and pantries and cooking devices look like they've been frozen for the past thirty years. I open up a cabinet, and am surprised to find a bottle of brandy. "Um, Jack," I wait for him to come to where I'm standing until I continue. "Why do you have brandy? You're fourteen."

He snorts in indifference. "Please, I'm 6,752 years old." he states. I stare open-mouthed at him for about a minute until he realizes how freaked out I am. "But it's not like–I mean–I'm not–Ugh!" He glares at the floor.

I start laughing at his inability to form a sentence when he's seemingly embarrassed and angry at the same time. He looks up at me with the expression of a four-year-old that has his cousins picking on him. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." I lie, trying to keep a straight face.

"Anyway," He closes the cabinet. "You can't have alcohol, so I suggest you find something to eat. Imma go take a shower. Bye." I notice how low his voice is, and how he totally doesn't look like he's only fourteen. He probably developed early, which is good. I know that if I had to spend all eternity as an undeveloped kid, I would not be pleased.

"M'kay. Bye."

He exits through the swinging door from which we came, and I begin to look for food while reflecting on what was one of the most sweet and awkward moments of my young life.

I hear, "Boo!" while I'm debating with myself on how to prepare a bowl of pasta I found, causing me to flinch.

I turn around slowly and glare at Jack. "You have got to stop doing that."

He ambles his way over to me with a relaxed smile playing on his lips. "I've only done it twice."

"And that was enough." He snorts at my apprehension. Then he notices the bowl of pasta. He opens up what I thought was a cabinet over what I think is a stove, but is actually some sort of microwave with two giant holes on the sides and icicles hanging from its ceiling, and puts the bowl of pasta in it. He puts his hand under the frozen microwave and for a second I hear the sound of wind blowing. He takes out the pasta after that and sets it on the counter.

"There." he says looking quite pleased with himself.

I point at the not-a-cabinet like an idiot. "Uh . . ."

"It's like an anti-microwave. It's powered by my magical I-can-freeze-anything skills." I notice that he talks about his powers like he's not all too pleased with them. I wonder why. . . .

"Oh. Cool." I say quietly. He tells me that there's a table just outside the swinging door where I can eat my pasta, and hands me a fork. I leave just as he's opening the gelid pantry. The table happens to be on the complete other side of the living room from the door to the kitchen, and I roll my eyes.

I sit down in a chair adjacent to the head of the table and begin to eat my pasta. It's very cold, and for some reason, that makes me like it even more. And I already thought that I loved pasta to the full extent.

Jack sits down at the head of the table with a bowl of Frosted Flakes. And by Frosted Flakes, I mean frosted Flakes. We eat in silence for while, until he says, "So, I was thinking, that if you wanna leave your parents a note or something to say that you're not dead, that would be cool."

I tense up at his words. I haven't talked about my parents in years. "Oh," I awkwardly say. "Um, nah. It's fine."

He looks at me incredulously. "Really? Won't they notice that you're gone?"

I try desperately to find something to say, so that I can avoid this conversation, but come up with nothing. Instead I settle for, "Doubt it."

"But they're your parents."

"So?" I stubbornly ask, instead of just telling him the truth.

Then I realize that my question came out rather bitter. He looks hurt, as though the one word I've said has devastated him.

And for some reason, it makes me want to slap him.

"Why do you care?" I continue acridly.

"I–" His contorts with several emotions, until he settles with one. Anger.

He glares at me with disgust and crossness. "Whatever."

Then he and his cereal vanish into thin, frigid air.

The expression of annoyance melts off my face and is replaced with one of sorrow and exhaustion. I place my elbows on the table and hold my head in my hands, chiding myself for being so rude when he was only trying to help me out.

I have really got to work on my people skills. I mean, really, our friendship lasted what, twenty-four minutes?

Well, at least it lasted longer than most of my other friendships. Once they figure out that your parents are dead, they never want to talk to you again.