Disclaimer: I'm doing this for artistic expression and fun. I'm not making any money from this, or pretty much anything else. I do not own anything related to Jim Henson's Labyrinth; I do own this tablet, a Café du Monde coffee mug, an old Trek bicycle, and the idea for this story. Please don't take them away.
"History doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme." – Mark Twain
Sarah balanced her coffee cup precariously between her black stocking-covered knees as she pulled her long, dark tresses away from her face and flipped them into a make-do ponytail. She then carefully retrieved her coffee with both hands, leaned back in the uncomfortable subway seat bringing the cup towards her face, and inhaled the heavenly scent of the "go-juice", as she called it. She'd had another ridiculous, crazy dream last night that woke her several times, grasping her sheets to maintain a hold on reality, and finally reaching for her anti-anxiety medication.
In the dream, she's been clothed in layers of rags, and was running through alleys of the city looking for someone, though she couldn't remember who it was. She remembered feeling an urgent and overwhelming need to find the person, treading through rat droppings and wading through trash in her search. Every turn and corner seemed to be darker, more threatening, and more unworldly. Voices around her encouraged her to turn back, whispering "don't go that way… never go that way… you will never find him." She awoke several times after dreaming of being enveloped by complete darkness, or falling off of a building, flailing her arms uselessly, her heart beating as if she'd run a marathon.
She shook her head and began sipping her coffee in an attempt to dispel her memories of the dream, admonishing herself silently; "Get a grip, Williams! Women your age do not allow themselves to be controlled by ridiculous dreams!"
Sarah mused at the colors on the subway map above the doors as she reflected on her recent promotion to from Associate Curator to a Curator at the museum. That should have happened when she was twenty-two or twenty-three. At twenty-seven, she had spent several years as an Associate Curator even after getting her Master's degree and working on countless exhibitions and programs, some even overseas. It was a slap in the face. She partly blamed the mysterious dreams and strange occurrences over the past twelve years that seemed to eat away at her strength and drive. Her father had called it her "ferociousness." She snorted indelicately at the thought. She could be ferocious when she needed to be; for example, when items were not being packed correctly for shipment to another museum, or when Karen tried to belittle her career choice.
The subway ground to a halt at the next platform more abruptly than she'd expected, sending Sarah swaying ungracefully into the man seated next to her, nearly knocking his book from his hands. She scrambled to hold on to her coffee, turned to offer a polite apology, and found herself staring up at chiseled facial features and a shock of wild, blond hair. Sarah felt a sharp intake of breath at the similarity of the man's appearance to a certain tyrannical fae being who had once challenged her, made her face her own weaknesses, completely incensed her, and now terrified her when she so much as thought of him. She then noted that the man's eyes were bright blue, unlike the strange mismatched eyes of the fae. The man also appeared to be older than the mystical king, deep lines creasing the areas around his mouth and eyes. He also sported a common business suit, and his hair, though unruly, was cut above his neckline.
Sarah sighed in relief, mumbled and apology, and began gathering her belongings in preparation for exiting at the next stop. "PTSD much, Sarah?" she thought to herself. The blond-headed man in the business suit grimaced at Sarah and turned back to his book. As Sarah shifted in the packed subway car to grab hold of an available spot on a pole near the doors, she missed seeing the man's grimace morph into a smirk, one eye dilate to a near chocolate-brown appearance, and the creases and wrinkles in the man's face fade from sight.
It was never a question for her as to whether or not her run in the Labyrinth had happened. She knew it had been real, which was probably some of the stress she had been fighting since she returned from her magic-filled adventure. At some point, though she couldn't recall when, she had stopped calling on her friends in the mirror. At some point, she became afraid to admit what had happened, knowing that no one would believe her, knowing that she would never be able to fully share that experience with anyone in her world, except as concocted bed-time stories she would relate to Toby when he was small.
Sarah plopped down clumsily in her office chair as she began divesting herself of her coffee and bags. Her hands shook slightly as she continued to think about the man on the subway and to remember her dream from last night. It wasn't just the dreams that had plagued her on and off. Strange things would happen on occasion that defied logical explanation. She would hear a voice whisper her name, and a soft wind brush by her cheek when she was at home with all of the windows closed. Various small objects along with articles of clothing would disappear, never to be seen again – a pencil sharpener, a cell-phone charger, and her favorite bra. She would hear muffled giggling in the apartment, and caught herself running into other rooms and sliding across the wood floors to catch the mysterious giggler under a bed or a table, but she never could identify the source. She had even moved to a small (ridiculously tiny) apartment in another borough, thinking her roommates were the culprits. Sarah hid her face in her hands as she felt that awful, all-consuming, "freezing" sensation that meant she was about to have… a panic attack.
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In another dimension, a tall, fair, slim being stood at a large, arched stone window, surveying his kingdom with an air of possessiveness. A light breeze stirred a sliver of hair from in front of his face to reveal narrowed, mismatched eyes displaying a glint of mischief, and something else that might be called cruelty. The being crossed his arms in a gesture of self-importance as the right corner of his thin lips drew up into a smirk. "Hello again, Sarah….. how are you enjoying my dreams?"