[Thin Ice V2] Chapter 1
”Are you awake, Young Master?”
Cale turned over on the bed, drawing the cover up to his ears. ”Yes?” he mumbled and hoped that they’d go away soon.
"Young Master, breakfast is ready. You need to get up and eat.” The unknown voice was strangely insistent, and he frowned sleepily.
"Mhm. Sure." His eyes stayed closed as the fatigue he was wrapped in threatened to pull him down into slumber again. Vaguely, he wondered what kind of dream he was having for someone to call him a young master. Perhaps he had watched too many historical dramas?
The voice resumed, speaking from somewhere right behind him. "Young Master, are you listening? Master and Madam are going to be disappointed if you skip it again. It's not good for your health. Young Master?"
He shoved his head deeper into the pillow and groaned, slowly opening his eyes. The pillow’s darkness met him first and he turned his head to the voice’s side. Staring, he blinked rapidly as he tried to discern what he was looking at.
A woman.
”Who…” he licked his lips and pushed himself up, blowing the hair out of his eyes. His eyebrows furrowing, he frowned heavily.
The strange woman bowed to him. She said, in a strong voice, ”You’re awake; I’ll get your breakfast.”
She disappeared so quickly he was left staring at empty air, his gaze slowly moving to the door that was still open behind her. His head tilted, his hand coming up to fiddle with the long hair falling past his shoulders. Twitching, he pushed the hair back and looked down on the bed’s sheets. They were covered in a flowery pattern he’d never seen before.
Scowling, he palmed his eyes and tried to ignore the ache building behind them. His eyes continued to glide from side to side as he did his best to remember how he got here—memories which did not seem to exist.
This wasn't his room.
He wheezed in a breath, the sound cutting the silence in half. Clenching his fingers on the sheets, he leaned closer to the edge of the bed. Like as if he could see more of it, it would magically become his own room.
But Cale’s room was filled with bookcases, the walls painted a dark blue (he’d been a teenager and he’d had a phase, okay). It had a small TV; a wide desk; a lamp hanging from the ceiling; the constant sound of the TV from the living room accompanying him because his mother always woke up hours before him and was hard of hearing. The rug on the dirty floor that he always dreaded cleaning, the faint smell of citrus in the air from the candles his mother lit all around the place—none of it was here.
Stumbling off the bed, the height difference from what he was excepting nearly made him fall over when his feet harshly hit the floor. Cale winced at the pain shooting up them, checking quickly to make sure nothing was damaged and then looked up again. And with increasingly widening eyes, he stared at the room before him.
The floor was dark hardwood, the walls a pale green dotted with small flowers. Looking down, he found that the bottom of his beige sleeping gown reached the floor, even covering his feet. This, too, he had no memory of.
Gripping it, he pulled the soft fabric up and inhaled sharply at the sight of his strangely pale skin. Cale gulped harshly, an insidious thought starting to form in his head.
Dropping the gown, he took a step forward and listened to the sound of his footsteps. They were wrong. He wasn't sure how, but he knew that they were. But pale skin and wrong footsteps were not conclusive; he could have amnesia, grown a couple of inches and been away from the sun for too long. It didn’t mean anything.
A rattle outside the room brought him out of his thoughts. Cale started, quickly taking several steps toward the door before he stopped and stepped back, indecisiveness clinging to his every step. Fingering the sleeping-gown, Cale watched breathlessly as the same woman as earlier walked into the room. She was carrying a wooden tray in her hands, and she smiled when she saw him.
”Will you eat in bed, Young Master?” she asked, glancing around the room.
Cale licked his lips. He eyed the wooden desk chair, clamping down on a frown. It didn’t look very comfortable and right now, he’d either been kidnapped or had amnesia. In both scenarios, he deserved comfortable.
”Ye—" he cleared his throat. "Yes. What day is it?" he asked, dreading the answer. He waited nervously for a response, his hands clenching tightly by his sides.
"It's Saturday, Young Master. Do you feel well enough to leave the house today?" the woman answered.
Cale furrowed his eyebrows, scowling slightly as his mind whirled. Last he remembered, it had been Thursday evening and he’d been going to bed. Casting his gaze about as he tried to think of an answer, he asked, ”What date is it?"
The woman answered, ”It's the thirteenth, Young Master."
Cale licked his lips and stared down at his trembling hands. His eyebrows furrowed heavily—it had been the thirteenth five days ago. A feeling vaguely resembling nausea was beginning to snake its way up his throat. He licked his lips and forced out, ”What month?"
"July, Young Master.” She frowned at him and put the tray down on the bedside table, stepping closer to him. ”Are you alright? Do you require any medicine? Should I summon your healer?"
July. July.
That meant—he’d lost three months? How could he just lose three months of his life?! Things like that didn't happen! He wasn't at a hospital or at home, or anywhere else that he recognized. He didn't know this woman that seemed strangely concerned for him and who kept calling him young master.
The last thing he knew, it had been April and Cale had been at home with his parents. He had read until late at night before he went to sleep; just like any other day. There had been nothing out of the ordinary.
The amnesia and/or kidnapped seemed likelier and likelier.
He inhaled sharply. ”Could... could I get medicine for my headache?"
"Certainly, Young Master. Will that be all?"
"Yes, thank you.”
He watched the woman leave, closing the door behind her. As soon as she was gone, he climbed back on the bed and drew the covers up all around him. Sitting on the bed enveloped by warm sheets, he looked at the tray of food.
Cale bit down on his thumb, his mind trying to spin down four different paths at once. First things first; he needed to find out where he was and how he'd ended up here. He needed to determine exactly how he lost three months of his life and what was going on.
Anxious, he rocked back and forth on the bed, his eyes glancing over every corner of it.
There were the pale green walls with the pretty flowers, the color somehow soothing to his mind. The ceiling wasn’t white, but rather a pale wooden color—he could actually see the beams in it. And he was pretty sure that the floor was made of real hardwood, not that plastic imitation he was used to. Out of the window, he could vaguely see a large garden, and a forest beyond it. And there was, of course, the stately bed in the middle of all this that he was currently sitting on.
Sometime later, he wasn't sure how long as there wasn't a clock in the room, knocking came from the other side of the door.
Cale rolled out of bed and slammed his feet on the floor, hurrying his way to the door. He pulled the door sharply open and asked, ”That’s it?”
The small green bottle had some kind of sludge-like liquid in it, but the woman said, ”It is the one you prefer the most, Young Master. Or would you like another one?”
He stared suspiciously at the bottle, his eyes narrowing. "No. No, it's fine.” After a beat of silence, he added, ”Thank you."
The woman bowed and took her leave. Cale watched her go down the hallway briefly before he closed and locked the door. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the wood and trying his best to contain his shivers. The trembling in his hands was really starting to get annoying; when he looked at the bottle he’d been giving, the liquid inside it was nearly sloshing around.
After several unbearably long moments, Cale sighed and pushed himself off from the door. He gripped the bottle tightly as he walked back to the bed and climbed onto it again. Once again, he swept himself into the covers and blankets, piling them on high until he was but a cloth-lump on the bed.
Staring down at the bottle, he fingered the lid. It felt like a normal bottle, but he had no way of knowing if it would really help in the battle against the pounding in his head. So after a second, he placed the bottle on the bedside table and picked up the tray instead. He placed it in front of himself and made certain that it sat securely on the mattress.
Cale then stared down at the breakfast. It looked ordinary. Bread covered with jam and a cup of steaming hot chocolate; just the way he liked it.
His stomach grumbled, and Cale started eating the breakfast.
It was gone within moments; Cale was starving.
He swallowed every last drop of scalding hot chocolate in the ceramic cup, and the burn eased faster than he was used to. The two pieces of bread were gone in only a handful of bites and when it was gone, he looked down forlornly at the plate, licking his fingers with a feeling of guilt. He stomach still felt slightly empty, but he thought he could wait. It wasn't urgent.
Placing the tray carefully on the bedside table again, he laid down and curled up into a ball. He pulled the covers over his head and unmercifully squeezed his eyes shut.
If he was luckily, this was all a dream.