I do not own Once Upon a Time.
But this story is from my heart.
All Alone
Regina Mills watched him laugh and talk with her. With his mother. His real mother. And Regina's black-streaked heart ached painfully in her chest. Her. Emma. His birth mother. A good mother. There was no denying that.
And all those memories Regina had gifted them both with. Happy, realistic memories. Gifted by the love she held for her son in those final moments when she thought she would never see him again.
All those memories were fake. Emma knew it was fake. Henry did not.
She, Regina Mills. Mayor of Storybrooke, Maine. Former Evil Queen of the Enchanted Forest of Fairy Tale Land. She held the true memories. They were all there. Cuddled up inside her head like a helpless litter of adorable, abandoned puppies. Some of those puppies were so hopeful. And some were so sad.
She remembered struggling to be the mother she wanted to be. Struggling.
All alone.
Well, maybe not all alone. There had been Sydney Glass, always available for assistance as he really had no other choice. But an assistant was not the same as a helpmeet. And Granny had always been brave enough to offer wisdom though Regina had often reminded her that she did not need it. At all. Even when she had.
And for quite while, there had been Sheriff Graham, the Huntsman. The fact that he had no willpower of his own and no heart to feel for her was only a slight mar in her vision of support. In fact, he had been there the first time it had happened.
She remembered.
They had been laying together asleep after an extremely satisfying bout of intimacy. In those days, he did stay until early morning as Henry was still too young to really remember.
And suddenly, she had awakened. Why, she did not know. And listened to the darkness. Finally, she heard him again over the one-way baby monitor she still kept near her bed since his room was several removed from hers.
He was whimpering in his sleep.
She pushed back the covers, noting that it was two in the morning. And tried not to feel annoyed at her innocent child. She trod down the hall to his room and peeked in. Through the gloom, she saw her son. Her son. He lay in his toddler bed very still and flat on his back. Whimpering.
She approached quietly.
"Henry?" she whispered quietly. "Henry, sweetie, are you okay?"
She reached out to brush her hand across his forehead. And suddenly Henry sat bolt upright in bed.
"I JUST WANTED TO BUY YOU A BLUE CAR!" he screamed at the top of his little toddler lungs.
Regina's heart leapt up in her chest pounding so suddenly and painfully that she almost fell over. She clutched her chest reflexively with one hand, her lungs refusing to draw air. Her other hand turned, palm out, toward the boy.
Slowly, Henry lay back down and was quiet. She watched him, trembling for a long moment. He had ceased whimpering.
"Okay, Henry," she whispered shakily. It was all she could think of to say.
She stared at her sleeping son and willing her flight or fight senses to even and slow down. She realized that she nearly thrown a magic burst at him when he had risen up and shrieked. She shuddered to think what that would have done to her precious little boy.
Regina Mills, former Evil Queen, walked back to her room and crawled under the covers without taking off her robe. She was still trembling.
"What was that?" her bedmate mumbled sleepily.
She reached over and pulled his arm over her. He complied, as always, sleepily cozing up to her. Not that he had a choice.
"I have no idea," she answered, half to herself. "I just don't know."
She stared at the ceiling for a very long time. Such a bizarre occurrence might have been almost funny except it wasn't. She eventually fell asleep.
Her son slept peacefully for the rest of that night.
She didn't really much think about it at the time. It was like diapers and spilled milk. You didn't count the frequencies or obsess over it. You just dealt with it and moved on to more important things.
Sometimes Henry slept through the night peacefully. Sometimes he didn't. Sometimes she would lay awake and listen for him to cry. Sometimes he woke her with his mumblings and whimperings.
She stopped having Graham spend the night. He didn't really seem to care. No, of course he didn't. He couldn't.
Then one day as she was in her office sipping her third cup of coffee for the morning, it walked right up and abruptly slapped her in the face.
Henry had cried every single night for six weeks straight.
He would start whimpering or talking and she would stagger into his room. She'd turn on the light and there he'd be, eyes wide open and full of tears. Shaking and quaking.
She'd approach him and he'd look straight at her. Or toward her rather. Straight through her. She'd call his name quiet and soft. Sometimes loud and clear.
"Henry? Are you okay?"
He'd answer her.
"Y-y-yeah."
Little trembly baby voice full of fear and tears.
"Henry? Why are you crying?"
His shaking would increase until it shook the whole bed. He'd shake his head and more tears would pour from his eyes. His little face would crumple inward all the more and he'd struggle to speak.
"I d-d-dunno."
And sometimes he'd start violently jerking his body and looking wildly around at something she could not see. Whatever it was, it would scare him all the more and then he'd really start screaming.
Once, in the throes of desperation, she'd even slapped his little face. Lightly. Barely a tap. And shouted in his face. Just to wake him up.
"If you're so fine, what's wrong?!"
And of course, he only dissolved further into his growing hysteria. And she'd had to stifle the instinct to jump out the window and run away into the night.
Sometimes she'd pick him up and force him to walk around the house, hoping to wake him up. Change his diaper. Try and feed him a cracker, a sip of juice. Anything to make it stop.
"Henry? Do you know where you are, honey?"
And he'd shake and tremble and cry and wail. Losing all ability to speak.
Eventually, he'd wear himself down and fall to sleep, still red-faced and hiccupping and whimpering. And then all would be quiet. And she would look at him.
Wondering what she'd done wrong.
One night, she heard him starting up and gone into his room just he was heading out the door. She spoke to him; he looked right through her again. She sat down on the floor to cuddle him and he hit her. He hit her. She controlled her reflexive magic and let him go. He walked into a corner of the room and stood still, weeping. She didn't move. She didn't know how to move. Suddenly he turned around and walked right over and sat down in her arms and continued crying. She held him, baffled.
Then he'd gotten up and wandered out of his room. She wasn't scared of the stairs; there was a baby gate up. So she followed her wailing, trembling son as he wandered through the bathroom, her room, his playroom.
She hadn't picked up his toys and they were everywhere. Amazingly enough, this child who was seeing visions she couldn't, managed to avoid all the little bits of sharp, poking toys that she, much as she tried, could not avoid stepping on. How did he do that? She vaguely decided that every night before bed, the house would be spotless and pristine.
Finally, he headed back to his room, climbed up in his bed, laid down, and fell immediately asleep. She stood all alone in the dark. Confused and scared.
What was happening? Why was it happening?
She grew to dread his bedtime. She grew to dread her own bedtime. She did not want to hear him cry in the dark.
Once, she could not bear anymore. He was crying and she put her hands gently over his mouth and said shhhhh! She let go and he continued to wail and weep. Only now, along with his wide open, terrified eyes staring ten miles past her, he also clamped his tiny hands over his mouth and screamed into them. Not only was he fighting something only he could see, now he was withdrawing further within himself so save her discomfort.
The sight shattered her heart into a million pieces. She began crying badly. And removed his hands from his tiny mouth. And decided he could scream out loud all he wanted to. She could bear it. Anything that he may not retreat further into his own darkness.
Each episode lasted no more than thirty minutes. But thirty minutes of a child's unstoppable pain is an agonizing lifetime to a mother's soul. Even an adopted Evil Queen/Madame Mayor mother.
Regina set down her coffee cup and stared blankly into space.
Six weeks. That could not be normal. Had her time as a manipulative (oh yes, she knew it) spell caster managed to warp him in some way? Was this her fault?
She turned to her computer and Googled Henry's symptoms.
After searching site upon site, she concluded he must be having something called "night terrors".
The name itself sounded horrible. Like monsters and demons torturing her tiny son while he slept. Blue flames licked the tips of her fingers, almost destroying her internet connection.
She forced herself to stay calm. She drank some more coffee and kept reading.
The most soothing thing she read was that night terrors were sometimes but always not always a direct result of emotional distress. Apparently they could also be caused by physical illness and being overtired.
Experts encouraged parents to stay calm and soothing as they could during night terrors. They advised not attempting to wake the child up but to help ease him back to sleep with as little interference as possible.
So basically, everything she'd done was wrong. Again.
She took him to the doctor who said it was a phase he would grow out of. When, Regina demanded. A few years, the doctor ventured.
A few years.
Regina changed her tactics immediately. She kept Henry on a strict bedtime and eating schedule. She structured his waking and sleep environment with a rigidity borne of love and dread. She regulated his food, his beverages, his tv programs. She bought a sleepy music CD and played it as he was going to sleep every night.
When he woke up crying, she did not speak. She turned on the sleepy music CD and left off the lights. She just reached out for him in the darkness. She patted and rubbed his back. Stroked his face. Brushed his hair lightly with delicate fingertips. If he did not calm, she would lay down in his bed with him. Lay quietly next to him. Cradle him lightly against her body.
More often than not, he would continue to cry in his broken, weary toddler voice while leaning his body against hers. And eventually he would go to sleep lying against her. She would lay in the darkness, still and silent, listening to his music, listening to her thoughts.
And then she would arrange him more comfortably and go to bed herself.
All alone.
Over the years, the night terrors still continued. Sometimes it would be every night for several weeks. Sometimes only a few. Sometimes he would scream and wail. Sometimes he would call for her and not know why.
Sometimes she considered removing her own heart so she would not have to feel the pain of her son's nighttime anguish. But she did not. Because she was his mother. And she could take it.
She found when he passed six years old, he would only have them between an hour and two and a half hours after he went to bed. If he made it to three hours, their night would be calm.
Henry was a happy, bright child in the daytime. He laughed easily and often. He never remembered his night terrors. When he had them, the next morning he would say he slept well. When he did not, he might say he'd had bad dreams.
Regina tried to understand and accept her son. She tried so very hard. All alone.
When he turned nine, the severity and duration and frequency tapered off dramatically. Though it was still there.
Then, to her great relief, it was almost none at all. She began to welcome sleep. Feeling refreshed when she awoke in the morning. Feeling hopeful.
And then he started to withdraw during waking hours. She could not discern why.
One night not long before Emma Swan had showed up in Storybrooke, when Henry had not had an episode in a year, he experienced a particularly bad one. And all he could speak was one word.
"Emma."
Not 'Mom'. As he had done so many times before. But 'Emma'.
And her heart had shattered all the more as she had soothed her son while he called for another mother.
And now Regina Mills watched him laugh and talk with her. With Emma.
And he did not know her, Regina, his adopted mother. Who had stayed in the dark with him.
And she was all alone. Again.
You may think that Henry's condition resulted from having the Evil Queen as a mother. Or that was why he seemed quiet and withdrawn until Mary Margaret gave him the storybook. And all of those insights may or may not be true.
That being said, this is the true night time story of my son. And I am neither Evil (I swear) nor a Queen (not in the least). He doesn't call out for anyone else but me. And the kid is not in the least withdrawn or unhappy in the daytime.
Thank goodness he is finally starting to grow out of them. Because it tears my heart out every, single time.
I put this story here because no matter what else Regina is, she is a mom and this could have happened to her. And I needed it out of me.
So, anyway, thanks to you for reading.
Thanks to my mystery guest reviewer and to Caroline the Poet for adding your support to this tale. :)
Thanks as well as Caro. mendez94 for your kind review and gracious words. You are most appreciated. :)
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