WARNING: The Regina in this is the cold-blooded, evil Regina from season one without any of the hints of a kinder person hiding deep inside.
X
Breathe, Isabel told herself as she tried to shrink further into the dark corner of the closet, hidden behind coats and the vacuum cleaner. Breathe.
She should run. She knew that. She should have gone out the back door when she had the chance. Or there was the basement. She could have gone down there and out the cellar door, grabbing one of the old shovels to use as a weapon in case he caught up with her.
But, she couldn't. She had lost precious seconds just thinking about it, feeling the terror curling up in her, like cold lead oozing along her guts, freezing her in place. Her cat, Wee Jock, had twined back and forth around her feet, the way she did when Isabel was nervous, waiting to see which way she would run.
Then, she could hear him coming. Isabel glanced at the curtained window. It was safe out there. She knew it was safe. She could run away—down the street—to a neighbor's. But, the thought choked her, made her want to scream. She dove into the closet instead, Wee Jock on her heels. Her hands shook, but long practice let her close the door quietly. Finding her way in the dark was just as easy. How many times had she done this?
Isabel curled up into the dark, the cat pressed against her. The only part that was hard was being quiet. Fear wrapped around her so hard, she wanted to sob, she wanted to hold still, not even breathing, till she had to gasp for air, giving herself away.
Instead, she forced herself to breathe. It was one of the few useful things Dr. Hopper had been able to teach her. Breathe slowly. Count as she drew it in. Count as she let it out. Make her body go through the motions of being calm and she would become calm. Calmer. A little calmer.
That's what she told herself as her heart hammered against her chest so hard she thought she might just as well be screaming.
Outside, she heard the man's footsteps stop. The doorknob began to turn.
XXXXX
Isabel had started the day with the dream of the black ring. It was one of the many things she never told Dr. Hopper about. The little trust she'd had for him had died long before she could have mentioned it.
Obsidian, that was what she imagined it was. She'd seen an obsidian mirror in a museum, once. That was what the ring was like. Dark and cold, it gave back a shadowed image of the world. Sliding down her finger, it had cut her to the bone, scattering beneath her skin like glass needles. She could feel them slicing through her veins, following the flow of blood back to her heart.
She'd had nightmares often enough as a child, no surprise there. But, the ring was new. It had started only when she moved to Storybrooke. If she had still been in Boston—or any place where there was a therapist who wasn't Dr. Hopper—she might have gone to one to hear what they had to say.
Or, if she were still in Australia and Mum and Dad were still alive, she could have told them. They would have listened, she thought. And, somehow, they would have understood what the dream meant, the fears she was trying to explain to them when she didn't understand them herself.
A pale hand with long, thin fingers reached for hers. She was like a rag doll, unable to fight back, terrified but powerless to move, to stop it from happening. Till the ring was shoved on her hand, till it bit into her skin, eating its way to her heart.
Dr. Hopper, already filling up his notes under Mayor Mills thoughtful gaze, would have asked other questions, questions that had only to do with what the mayor wanted to hear and nothing at all with the truth. As it was, lying in the hospital bed, full of drugs that barely managed to touch the pain, she had already said too much.
Later, she'd seen some of the things he'd written when she tried to describe the attack. He'd made a transcript of his questions and her answers. "Lying" was written next to several of them, although he'd usually included a question mark, so there was that.
"Izzy," Dr. Hopper said (not "Ms. Lacey" or even "Isabel," even though they'd never spoken and he had to consult a chart before he called her anything at all. She supposed Mayor Mills had filled it out). "What can you tell us about your attacker?"
"I didn't see him," Isabel said. She was getting so tired of saying it, to the people who found her, to the EMTs, to the doctors and nurses, to the sheriff, and now to Dr. Hopper. "He came up behind me. I didn't see him."
That was in the notes. Mayor Mills mocking, disbelieving, "Oh? She didn't see him?" wasn't.
She'd heard the whispers conversations as she was coming in and out of consciousness.
Sneaking out to The Rabbit Hole when she's supposed to be watching the boy, that's what the mayor says.
Lives for a thrill. Always getting into trouble.
The sheriff never arrested her, didn't want to cause the mayor trouble.
Dropped out of college, you know.
Kicked out, that's what I heard.
Can't think why Regina ever hired her.
She told a pack of lies to get hired so she wouldn't be deported.
Drinking.
Drugs.
Self-inflicted. It's not the first time. Making up crazy stories.
"She can't stay here," Mayor Mills said. "You agree, don't you, Dr. Hopper?"
"Without a job, she'll be deported," Dr. Hopper said, a rare note of protest in his voice. "Storybrooke's the only home she has."
"Then, she should have thought of that before this happened," Regina said, sounding smug. "She'll have to leave town as soon as she's able. I can't have her around Henry anymore. The sooner she's gone, the better."
Black chains choked her into silence. Obsidian blades dug into her heart.
No, she would never trust Dr. Hopper with the truth.
XXXXX
That morning, she had kept twisting the wedding band on her finger. It was a dark, warm gold. It had an odd pattern, like the stalks of dry grass she used to try to make into dolls (unsuccessfully, for the most part). It wasn't black and cold. Just knowing it was there, feeling its warmth against her skin, helped steady her.
She didn't mention the dream to anyone, not her husband, not even Wee Jock. Her husband (not that he would ever admit it) had brought the stray home in a moment of raw charity. He said it had managed to slip into the house when he came home from work. But, she had seen him cradling it in his arms as she peeked out the front curtains.
Just looking outside made her heart hammer. But, it was even worse, waiting inside, hearing a car drive up, not knowing who it was. Oh, it was supposed to be her husband. At this time of evening, it was always her husband. She knew it would be him.
There's been a time when she hadn't worried about the people walking past her or behind her—especially behind her—in Storybrooke. She'd known all the faces even if she didn't always know all the names or give them more than a quick hello.
Mayor Mills had hired her as a nanny when Henry was just a baby. The entire town was scared stiff by the mayor. Isabel had taken a certain enjoyment back then at how respectfully people had treated her, quite a change from the life of a struggling grad student. No one wanted to get on the mayor's bad side, and that meant treating her son—and anyone who happened to be taking care of him—like royalty, and not the wave-gently-as-the-royal-carriage-goes-by sort. This was good, old fashioned, off-with-their-heads terror.
Then, one night, the mayor had sent her out to get milk at the grocery.
She'd never made it.
Voices hissed in her memory. She was asking for it.
She lied. None of it happened.
Slut.
Isabel practiced her breathing, trying to throw off the memories. She gave the cat some. She peeked out windows, trying not to panic at the sight of the world out there, careful never to be seen. Even her husband, who was the only person who seemed to remember there was something more than a ghost living alongside him in this house, never caught her.
On good days—and days that started with the dream were never good—Isabel coped. She fed the cat. Then, she cleaned up the few dishes left over from breakfast and tidied the house, not that it ever needed much tidying. Her husband was meticulous. Dust ran from him the way everything else in this town did.
Even Mayor Mills.
She might read. She might spend time in the greenhouse. It wasn't a normal greenhouse. Those weren't made with stone and frosted glass that let in the light but nothing more. The glass was set with wire mesh and reinforced with thick, steel bars. She felt almost as safe there as she did in the rest of the house. On good days.
On bad days, she could feel the rest of the world reaching out for her. She was naked, helpless, about to be torn apart. She ran out of the greenhouse, gasping for breath, slamming the door shut behind her and trying to keep her hands steady as she set all the locks.
On very bad days . . . well, that's what the closet was for.
She would curl up, hidden in the dark, out of sight and out of mind, practicing her breathing till she felt safe again.
She wasn't supposed to hear someone driving up to the house. Her husband always called if he came home early. Always. But, that didn't mean it couldn't be him, she told herself. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he'd tried to call on the way home and found his cell phone needed to be recharged. Maybe—maybe—
She carefully peeked out, and saw the man coming towards her home. It wasn't her husband.