She is standing, and she is in herself. She sees herself, and yet she is not present.

She is in a world of white, so dazzling that it blinds her. Her lips part to breathe in air that tastes of sharp mint and lemon, burning her tongue and the roof of her mouth with a freezing heat. Hands open and close of their own accord, as though squeezing an imaginary ball. Feet are bare, exposed to the same bitter zeal that sears her mouth. A soft breeze tickles her face and allows her to feel the silky, flowing fabric of her gown swirl around her.

Her eyes slowly adjust to the surroundings. The frosty light is still unmistakable, but something replaces it. A tower appears in the distance, and she knows that she must go to it, although she does not know why. Her feet begin to move, bringing her close to the stone building, the only thing that appears with color. She wonders what it is, why it is so important for her to go there as fast as she can. A finger twirls around the end of her hair, and she watches the red strand twist and appear almost luminous in the strange, inhuman light.

And she appears suddenly inside the tower, blinking at the sudden darkness; it is as though the light has been stripped from the world. No… her eyes acclimatize to the low light, and she becomes aware of where she is.

The walls are of stone, grey stone that sucks the color from the room and leaves it in despair. The ground is covered in straw that scratches at her bare feet and threatens to puncture her skin with even the tiniest movement. A tray containing a teapot, a cup, and a bit of uneaten food rests on the floor; the faded blue pattern is a last gasp at the outside world, and it appears to fail at its attempt of cheeriness.

If she squints, she can see a woman sitting on a stone bench, her head leaned against the wall, her eyes faraway from here. Another glance, and she gasps, for she recognizes the woman: it's her. She is forlorn, dressed in a striking blue gown that contrasts the gloom. But even the dress cannot brighten the face of the wearer.

She doesn't understand. A part of her mind cries out, denying the evidence before her eyes. Her mind is suppressed; she reaches out for any snippet that will calm her, that will remind her that this isn't reality. But there is nothing there. Who is this girl? What is she? Why does she look like her? Why can't she… she is Lacey. She isn't this girl, whoever she is.

The door swishes open all by itself, and she jumps, seeing a man enter the room. But not an ordinary man. He is dressed in tight-fitting, leather pants and a red waistcoat and shirt. His skin is what makes her look twice, almost scaled and punctuated with pit holes and scales. He is hideous, and yet the way that he walks suggests that looks are deceiving.

She sees the girl look at him as though she has seen him like this many times before, as though she knows him. "What are you going to do to me?" the girl asks, in an accent that is so frightening familiar that the girl called Lacey can't bear to look at her. Because the accent is hers, not this strange girl's.

"Go." The man looks at her, speaking through tightened teeth. He turns away, unable to even so much as look at her anymore.

"Go?" the girl repeats, and the girl called Lacey feels her tongue being clamped down upon by her teeth.

"I don't want you anymore, dearie."

And there is something in his voice… something on his face, that stares right through her, unable to see any hint of her. And she knows… "Mr. Gold?" she breathes, her eyes widening in horror.

If he can hear her, he gives no sign of it. The other girl, the girl who is not her, begins to speak, her face disturbed and almost pleading, but Lacey can't hear her. "Mr. Gold, it's me. It's Lacey." When he doesn't respond, she lurches forward, stumbling and expecting him to catch her in his arms like she knows that he would. But he doesn't move. She regains her balance a few feet away from him, and she shakes her head. He's only paying attention to the other girl, the one…

That's Belle, she realizes. The girl that Mr. Gold wanted so desperately for so long. She was the one that he thought she could be. He was so mad about her, and Lacey couldn't understand why he thought the girl was her. She didn't like this Belle. This girl who still pricked at the back of Mr. Gold's mind, even now that he had accepted her as Lacey.

But Belle wasn't real. Belle was simply proof of the fact that Mr. Gold wasn't quite sane anymore. A figment of his imagination, that was all. Even if she had been real at one point, she was gone now. She was dead, or missing, or something, but she wasn't there anymore. She was invading her mind, and Lacey feels a scream beginning to erupt in her throat.

Because she wants to be rid of Belle. But something wouldn't let Belle out of her mind. Mr. Gold remembered her, and that meant that Lacey couldn't escape this girl. But is she looks just like me…

It doesn't make sense. She doesn't want it to make sense. She doesn't understand. Her heart is pounding, screaming in her chest. Belle is gone now, leaving a desolated man in her wake. Mr. Gold, she is sure.

A dream? A memory? No, not a memory. Impossible.

Mr. Gold is gone, and the door slams shut behind him. She lets the scream loose, but she knew that it couldn't be heard. She flies to the door, trying the handle. It is locked, and the scream begins to build until her throat is raw; she thinks that she can feel blood trickling down into her stomach and the feeling makes her wretch until blood-colored sick stains the straw floor.

The straw floor begins to disappear, and she feels a rushing wind again, blowing her flowing gown up and over her head so that she feels the wind against her bare skin.

Now she sees Mr. Gold again, this time as she knows him in the real world. He stands against a backdrop of pure white, leaning on his cane with his head bowed. And she is filled with something… something like hate.

She doesn't know how the gun appears in her hand, but she doesn't want to miss her chance. The shot rings out, echoing eerily even though there is nothing for the sound to reverberate against. He staggers under the bullet, apparently not aware of the assailant. He is on the ground, and she is next to him, tearing away at his suit coat to reveal the white shirt underneath that is stained red with blood…

The blood continues to flow, and she feels the nausea building up in her throat once more. The blood… the blood… she didn't know it was possible for a man to contain that much blood.

He begins to disappear under her fingers, and she cries out, not sure if the sound it made in regret or fear or anger. Emotion is gone, leaving a blank slate behind, and she can't bear it.

"No!"

"Lacey…"

"No, please!"

"Lacey, my love, it's me."

A scream, a sound of pain and clenched teeth.

"Lacey, wake up."

A hand on her shoulder, pulling her back to the present moment. She lurches up in bed, immediately feeling a sense of cold that overwhelms her. She tries to bury herself in the soaked sheets, realizing that she's covered in sweat. Her eyes become aware of a soft light coming from the bedside table, and she grasps that Mr. Gold is kneeling on the floor next to her bed, one hand on her shoulder.

His face is concerned and pained, as though only distantly aware of a physical pain ravaging his body. "Lacey, are you all right?"

She doesn't know. She runs a hand through her sweat-soaked hair, trying to remember what had happened. There's nothing… "Yes, I'm all right. I'm fine." Her voice picks up in strength and speed, trying to make sense of this.

"I heard screaming. I…" He trails off, looking at her face.

"I'm fine. It was just a dream. I have those, you know."

"We all have them, Lacey," he says quietly. "But we don't all scream in our sleep."

"It was a nightmare, yeah, but I'm fine now." She doesn't want to talk to him. She remembers that the dream was about him, but the details are gone, fading into the night.

He looks at her as though he isn't convinced, but he knows better than to press her for answers that she isn't willing to give. "Very well," he says with a slight twinge of regret evident in his voice. "But if you want to talk about it…"

"I'm really fine. I promise." She offers him a smile, wondering what's taking him so long before she realizes that he probably can't get up by himself. She pulls the sheets back, sliding onto the floor and taking his arm, letting him put his weight on her. His cane is on the floor next to him, and she picks it up and hands it to him. "I'll see you in the morning."

He limps out of the room, looking back at her for a brief moment. Then the door closes behind him and she is left alone in the room.

She climbs back into bed and is about to switch on the light when she notices something… the blood that still stains her hands.