The Buried Life
Signifying Nothing
"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools..."
-Macbeth, "Macbeth" Act V. Scene V.
"The queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey."
- "Sing a Song of Sixpence"
Mayor Regina Mills sat behind the desk in her office, filling out paperwork. The stillness was punctuated every so often by the clacking of computer keys, when Regina needed to reference other documents. Eventually, she lay aside her work and stretched muscles that had barely moved since the morning. As she did so, Regina contemplated her surroundings. Her office décor was regal enough, but her mouth twitched into a slight frown. The room wasn't all black as she would have preferred. In a morality play, color symbolism wouldn't be out of place, but here it wouldn't do to make citizens uneasy.
Although, the more she thought about it, the more the dichotomy appealed to her. The black did overpower the white, after all. How symbolic. Regina smirked at how the color scheme reflected the situation with her antagonist. At that the smile faded, creeping away nervously from Regina's scrunched, red lips. That insipid little twit was teaching Henry this year, meaning that Regina had to actually interact with the woman at various occasions.
No longer able to watch Mary Margaret's unhappiness from a distance, as the mayor she had to set an example by being... polite. Worse still, Mary Margaret had been filling Henry's head with those fairytales that ought to be gathering dust on some shelf in the attic of an old bookstore. He wouldn't let Regina see the book, convinced now that she, his own mother, was an Evil Queen; smart people never let evil know how much they know. Of course, a truly clever person would have not let on that he had any knowledge at all. It gave Regina a headache trying to get through to the boy. At least he was still an impressionable child; if no one believed him, she was sure that he would eventually grow out of this phase.
Regina sighed, grabbing her keys and coat as she went to leave. She could have turned on the radio, but she wanted to sit in silence with her thoughts as she drove to the school. There wasn't a "happily-ever-after" for her. Still, she had control of the little corner of the world that was Storybrooke, Maine. She had a lover, in the flesh if not the heart. She even had Henry, named after her father, a child who could help fill the void in her life as she raised him. If only she could keep him young forever... No, it wasn't perfect, but it was good to be mayor.
"The king was in his counting house, counting out his money."
- "Sing a Song of Sixpence"
Mr. Ambrosius Gold was the reclusive pawnbroker and money-lender in Storybrooke, though no one would ever call him by his given name. Whether that was out of deference or fear is unknown, but it was likely the latter. Either way, it was common sense that you did not cross him. You also were advised not to make a deal with him. The good people of the town were only half joking when they said he would charge an arm, a leg, and your firstborn.
That, however, did not stop anyone from running to him when they were desperate. It certainly had not stopped Ashley Boyd, he mused. She did in fact owe him her firstborn in return for the help he had given her. Some help it was. Mr. Gold knew what the townsfolk said about him – it was not as if people could keep secrets in this place – so the situation was slightly amusing. What saddened him was that he knew it was nigh impossible for him to collect the payment. Payment... what a funny way to refer to a child. A child that Ashley had offered up freely. Unlike what the selfish girl assumed, Mr. Gold wanted to raise the child as his own – properly. Was it so wrong to want to love and be loved in return?
Then again, that was dangerous territory... After all, Madame Mayor had adopted her son almost ten years prior, and he saw how well that was working for her. The gossips twittered from time to time about "the poor boy, missing his birth-mother... only has stories for friends." Regina did not know how to love, at least not now. Ashamedly, Mr. Gold doubted whether he himself was capable of loving anymore after... But he did not dwell on that thought, turning sharply away from it.
The mayor drove past his store; she would return the same way with the boy in a short time. Mr. Gold was never outside at this time of day. He was not going to acknowledge that woman. In fact, despite being the two most influential people in Storybrooke, Regina and Mr. Gold were never present in the same place at the same time. No one had ever seen them so much as pass each other on the street, though both often walked through town. To the townspeople, this was far more suspicious than if the two had been spotted in a secret meeting. The negative space, the complete and utter lack of contact, indicated that there was something huge hidden beneath the surface, though no one could guess what it was.
Mr. Gold watched as Henry sulked in the back of Regina's car. There was something about that boy, something familiar... Oh, well. He waited in his shop for a few more hours, fixing some recent acquisitions, before tallying up the register for the day and heading home. The cold wreaked havoc on his already hurting leg, causing him to hold his cane in a white-knuckled grip, leaning on it heavily. Mentally, he cursed that cane and that leg and that weather and that town. Mr. Ambrosius Gold was more bitter than all of those.
Moe French was resigned to bachelorhood; he was married to his career. Ever since his teenage years, Moe had wanted to own his own business. Well, he was partway there. He had become a moderately successful florist, but everything he had worked for was quickly slipping into jeopardy. With a dream in his heart and stars in his eyes, Moe had ignored the warnings of friends and family. At the time, he had jumped at the chance Mr. Gold offered.
For a while, circumstances seemed to be in Moe's favor. There was enough money to buy a delivery truck and flowers to stock it. However, the catch was that Moe had to make monthly payments on the money he owed. The interest was through the roof. Still, Moe remembered – if somewhat vaguely – many years without issue. Somehow, he had slipped up somewhere. He was not good with managing money – had he always been that way? Wasn't he a merchant? – and so had fallen behind on payments. Mr. Gold did make allowance for late payments, but his patience was wearing thin. The next deadline was looming overhead, and Moe felt as if it had been so forever – but it couldn't have been. Time moves forward, doesn't it?
A young woman sat alone. This occurance in itself is not unusual. Everyone has sat alone at some point in life. The particular woman in question had no choice in the matter. She had been confined to the same four walls for quite some time. Only two people ever made themselves visible to her: the hulking janitor and the nurse he watched over as she gave the woman three meager meals each day. Once in a while they would stand guard as the woman took a short shower – just long enough to scrub most of the grime off.
She had not received beatings, but usually when the "caretakers" came by she would hunker on her bed in a corner of the room – cell – with her knees tucked up under her chin. The woman-child would look up at the "caretakers" with old eyes - the eyes of one who knew herself, not the empty and dull orbs of a lunatic. Sometimes they gave her pills, or injections. Those were the worst times.
She tried to stay strong, but the drugs made her vulnerable, almost breaking her defenses.
Almost.
Here they are and here they stand: A mayor rules her town. A businessman collects payments. A merchant sells flowers. A woman endures. None of them are relevant to the others. These people travel in separate circles, and did not meet. They did not influence each other. Their actions were not pertinent. Nevertheless, keep them in mind. After all, Once Upon a Time... who knows?
Elsewhere, a boy sneaks out of town and hikes until he finds transportation to his destination. His quest begins.
Author's Note: The title "The Buried Life" comes from Matthew Arnold's poem of the same name. I chose it for two reasons. The title itself represents everything that has been buried - literally and metaphorically. The poem struck me as one that perfectly expresses the relationship of Rumpelstiltskin and Belle (Dear Reader, I highly encourage you to read it). "Signifying Nothing" comes from one of Macbeth's speeches in Act V. Scene V. of Shakespeare's eponymous play, "Macbeth."