Lying down on the floor, facing away from the fire, Malik, objectively, knew that the old lady wouldn't be able to hurt him, that he couldn't die here again, and that he would be able to wake up if she tried to do anything to him, and that she was also a lying coward.
But it still scared him to be rooming with a murderer.
How the fuck did this old woman kill somebody?
She looked like any other old lady with the way she dressed, the way she spoke, and the way she acted. If she came into his shop, he wouldn't even be expecting any trouble from him. He would be slightly annoyed and be wondering if she were the lonely, chatty sort, mourning how her children and grandchildren never visited her anymore, and needed an outlet to unload all her problems, using him as a personal therapist.
Grandma was the only old person that Malik liked, and she also happened to hate those types chatty ones too, along with the snobbish, entitled types.
Malik clenched his shaking hands, remembering Grandma.
He couldn't stop the shaking, those shivers wracking through his entire body, the heat of the fire doing nothing to stop them.
He wondered how she was coping with the death of her last remaining relative. He wondered if his old room had been cleared out. He wondered whether all his old games had been sold off at the first available opportunity, just like he had always been threatened with. His posters were probably all gone as well, the old bedspreads washed, ironed, and folded away into the cupboards.
Hot tears rand down his face, his hands too uncoordinated to do anything about his wet cheeks, or his itchy eyes. He was much more likely to poke an eye out than do anything.
Malik wondered where all his high school football medals would be displayed. Would they be placed on the mantle piece, alongside the framed photo of Grandpa and his county football medal, or on her bedside table, alongside the rose gold watch that he had bought her for their fiftieth anniversary. Maybe his football medal would be on the mantlepiece, while Malik's present to her, for her seventieth birthday, when he was in primary school, a snow globe with dancing penguins inside, would be one of the last things that she would see before she went to sleep.
He curled up tighter into a ball, bringing his legs closer to his body, too aware that his position somewhat compromised his motion. He didn't care, the need for comfort - against the painful, clenching white hot pain in his chest - too great.
He had bought it on a school trip, and had asked money from all his friends to buy it, knowing that penguins were his Grandma's favourite animal. He had spent weeks, afterwards, trying to repay all his friends back with the pocket money that he got weekly. When Grandma had found out what he had done, she had burst out laughing at him, tears pooling at the corner of her eyes, before pulling him into a humungous hug and patting his head. She gave him all the money he needed the following Monday, and he paid all his friends back on that one day.
Malik felt something in his chest tear into two, and found himself wanting to refrain from swearing, for just a little while.
He wondered what his funeral was like. He wondered if Grandma's new boyfriend was there, holding her hand, and giving her a shoulder to cry on. He wondered whether his death would bring them closer together, or would drive them further apart.
He hoped that they would become closer. Grandma needed it, he thought to himself, finally with the strength to wipe his eyes dry.
There was nobody left to look after the shop anymore. There was nobody else to do the laundry, the hoovering, the dusting, taking the bins out, the recycling, the gardening, and the ironing.
Grandma was left alone now.
There was nobody left for her anymore. She had outlived everyone else in her family.
And Malik had left her all alone, because of one stupid mistake.
Because he hadn't bothered to clean up the puddle of water first, because he had been so preoccupied with what the electrician had done, he had slipped and fallen, and stupidly killed himself, angry.
This was all his fault.
And now he was suffering for it.
He needed to find a way back to Grandma. He needed to know that she was alright, even as a ghost would be enough to warn her. He would happily use the blood of the annoying squirrels, in the park, to paint out his messages on her window.
He needed to speak to her. He needed to see her.
But to do that, he would need to survive this place first.
"Where's the scientist's room?" Malik asked the old lady, not bothering to even look at her.
He could here her huff out an arrogant laugh.
"First door on the right side next to the hall," she drolly stated, cruelty bleeding into her voice.
"Make no mistake. If you're here, then it means that you've killed somebody," the old crone laughed out, the creepy fucker sounding as if her voice box had been replaced by one that had been ripped out by a crow.
"The number of monsters that you see, are the number of people that you've killed. I only killed the one person, my sister," she went onto say, her face turning to face Malik.
To her, the boy truly was quite pathetic, rolling around in his denial over his own actions.
Here he was, trying to act all brave, when two minutes ago, he had been curling up like a toddler, and trying to stifle his crying. His façade of bravery was weak and pathetic.
At least she was aware that she was a coward, killing her sister to keep her husband to herself when he felt like leaving her for a younger, more naïve woman to have an affair with.