• Chapter Two


    Every muscle ached, every nerve was on fire, and Beryl couldn't open her eyes in for fear of seeing how badly she was injured. She had woken from her unconsciousness several moments ago, but couldn't bring herself to open her eyes and dissolve the illusion she had put herself in. She pretended she was at home, in her bed with warm blankets tightly tucked in around her, socks hot-from-the-dryer on her feet. There was the smell of chicken soup and she could see the sunlight fall across her bed. Outside, it was a beautiful spring day, with only the slightest n** in the air, but she didn't have to go outside if she didn't want to. She didn't have to do anything if she didn't want to. If she preferred to stay in her cozy bed all day and all night, Beryl could do just that.

    She wasn't stupid enough to believe it was true, though. She had at least held onto her sanity, a little voice in her mind telling her it was all a lie, a dream, a faint wish she couldn't ever achieve. She was lucky she wasn't dead, so she had no right to pretend she was comfortable. In truth, Beryl was far from home, on a bed she had never slept in before. There was no chicken soup, no sunlight, and there was a pure winter chill in the air, a chill that struck her the moment she started to think about it. Worst of all, Beryl knew she couldn't stay in that bed, she couldn't sleep or even lie there any longer than she had to. She had to find out where she was.

    Working up the courage and eventually opening her eyes, Beryl not the least bit surprised. It was almost as if she was in a four star hotel room. There were no windows, not a single one, but the room itself was beautiful with taupe walls and tan plush carpets. There was a closet at the far end of the room and a dressing table with a large round mirror attached. The bed she slept in was plain, but soft and almost comfortable, much to Beryl's surprise. A small table next to the bed had cloth flowers in a glass vase and, as Beryl reached out and opened the single drawer, she found paper, pens, and assorted items that could all come in use somehow. There was no television, no radio, no computer in the room that would suggest modern technology existed, but the design of the room itself was so modern Beryl knew it could only be a few years old by the style itself.

    Leaning back in the bed, still fighting off the chill that seemed to come and go, Beryl shook with cold. Pulling the bed covers closer, Beryl gasped when she saw the bruise on her arm, the horrific purple splotch spread from wrist to elbow. Looking over her hands, Beryl couldn't bend one or two of them, probably jammed. Throwing the sheets away from her, Beryl held her breath as she looked over her bruised and battered body for more wounds, finding many of them. There was no more dried blood, however, and many of her wounds were bandaged. Someone had taken care of her. Who had rescued her? One of the hotel staff? What had happened?

    “I assumed you were a modest woman, so I took the liberty of removing only the needed articles of clothing.”

    Beryl screeched as she heard a voice in her room, next to the bed, and tried to pull the covers back over her. Her sweatpants, still bloody, and tank top were not much at all; maybe that was why she was so cold. But who had spoken?

    “Whoever you are, show yourself!” Beryl demanded, biting her lip. She hoped one of the hotel staff wouldn't come rushing into the room, finding her talking to herself. She could only keep her mouth open in awe and shock as a figure materialized at the foot of her bed, standing over her.

    He was not a tall man, but held himself with dignity, shoulders back, head held high. His clothes were beautifully tailored, a business suit, shirt, and tie all in various shades of blue and grey. The man couldn't have been more than thirty, his eyes glittering with mischievous intent although he was obviously a full grown adult and had been for many years. His skin was pale and his face was long with a sharp jaw, a sharp nose, too. What shocked Beryl the most, however, was the fact the man's hair and eyebrows were frosted, glittering with the pale blue hue one could find in shaded snow. They looked so brittle Beryl wondered how he brushed his hair at all, shaking her head as she brought her thoughts back to the matter at hand.

    “Who- who are you?” Beryl stuttered, mouth dropping open. “Do you work here? Are you supposed to give me a message?”

    “I don't work here,” the man said, his voice slightly gritty, like snow under boots, yet very suave and sophisticated. “I live here. You are sleeping in my guest bedroom.”

    “Where am I?” Beryl asked, growing more and more frustrated. “Who are you? What happened that I'm here now?”

    “You were wandering in the snow and I found you. I don't know where you came from, but you are now in my house. And,” he finished, a smile growing on his face, “I think you know who I am.”

    A freak dressed up as Jack Frost, Beryl thought to herself, wondering what sort of psycho she had just been taken prisoner by. But, as she looked at him closer, her eyes widened. Maybe she wasn't right about the psycho thing but about everything else. Almost to confirm her thoughts, the man blew into his hand, a puff of white billowing around the object he now held. It was a snow globe, a very small glass bulb on a white base, encasing a white, glittering snowflake that spun round and round. Snow fell in the globe without having been shaken, a sort of magic woven to keep the snowflake in perpetual movement, as if spinning in slow circles wasn't enough.

    Walking to her side, Beryl tensing with every step he took to jump out of the bed and run for whatever exit she could find, the man smiled a mischievous smile that matched the look in his eyes. He held out the snow globe for her to take and, tremulously, Beryl took it, looking up at her rescuer.

    “You're Jack Frost!”

    “Correct,” Jack replied, “For the first time this night.”