"Mr. Gold?" I called, wandering into his shop. A few moments later, he emerged from the backroom.
"Ah, yes. Katrina," he greeted, "How may I help you?"
I shifted my weight and avoided eye contact as I cleared my throat.
"Could you please let me pay this month's rent a little later? I'm running low on cash," I muttered nervously.
"I'm afraid not, dear," he answered, walking around his counter until he stood directly in front of me, "If I did that for you, the others would expect the same treatment."
"Please, Mr. Gold," I whispered, finally looking up at him, "I don't have anything to pay you with this month."
"Then you'll be evicted. I'm sorry, Kat, but there's really nothing I can do."
"I'll make a deal with you," I begged, "I'll do anything! That apartment has been my home for as long as I can remember. I have nowhere else to go!"
"I'm closing up the shop now, Kat," Gold told me sympathetically, "Enjoy your last few nights in your apartment."
As tears bit at the corners of my eyes, I turned from him and fled out into the night.
Figaro had been running from her old, drunken father for almost two weeks. She'd left abruptly and only brought a loaf of bread with her. She hadn't eaten for days. She hadn't thought it through very well, but all she truly cared about was escaping another lashing for no reason. Her father simply liked to have power over her. It didn't matter; she'd never have to see him again anyway.
She walked through the woods, holding her stomach. Figaro knew there were a lot of people who were hungrier than she was, but that didn't stop the pain. Her auburn hair was greasy, and her usually milky skin was caked in mud. The girl was tired, hungry, parched, and unbelievably sore.
Figaro didn't think she'd make it much longer, but then she spotted something through the trees. Squinting, she could see something that looked like a castle. The young girl used what strength she had left to make it to the front doors of the palace. Before she could knock on the heavy, wooden door, her knees weakened, and she fell to the ground.
'This is it,' she thought, her vision blurring, 'I'm going to die here, and nobody is even going to notice for days.' But then the doors swung open, and she came face to face with a red, leather boot.
"My, my," an impish voice sang, "What have we here? What's your name, dearie?"
"Figaro," she panted, eyes fluttering closed in exhaustion.
"Rumplestiltskin," she heard before slipping into subconscious.