A/N: Most of the fics I write will be disregarding season 2 until Regina and Emma are reunited, wherever that may be. That being said, I am feeling angsty and this goes along great with the premiere episode. Reviews are appreciated.
Her body is on autopilot, her mind having shut down hours ago. She vaguely remembers David leading her back to her home, protecting her from the small clusters of angry citizens that still crowd the street. He reminds them of Emma's words, and they slump away, defeated, hungry for revenge but wanting even more to please their Savior. The crowd dissipates and she's finds herself at the stoop of her mansion. It's exhausting to simply lift her feet over each stair but she manages to do so and once inside, she thanks the Prince of Fairytale Land for honoring his daughter's wish that no harm should come to her. He nods and wishes her well, and she closes the door behind him, locking both the main chain as well as the deadbolt.
Her body feels heavy, her weight doubling and tripling as she makes a feeble attempt up the long flight of stairs toward her room. Fingers curl around the railing for support and she heaves herself up, using every bit of strength she has just to make it to her room. That's all she wants, that's all she needs.
She's on the second to last stair and she sighs appreciatively as her bedroom comes into view. Her feet shuffle loudly against pale carpeting, sparking a warm friction against her bare feet. The Queen sized bed calls to her as though her royal throne and she slumps into it, her body sinking deep into the mattress. Her resolve is slipping away and her body curls instinctively into the fetal position. The stoic veil of emptiness that consumes one's mind after tragedy is wearing thin; she's alone now, there's no need for a façade.
Her breath hitches in her throat. Sobs are pulling at her chest; she can feel them clawing and hissing up her throat while the life sustaining muscle in her breast pumps traitorously. She's urging her brain to give the signal to shut down, to let go, let each organ churn one last time before easing into retirement. The body's impulse to live trumps the plea to die. There is nothing she can do.
She clenches her eyes shut tight and feels tears burning her cheeks. She cradles her face in the nearest pillow; the scent that overwhelms her makes her breath hitch in her throat before spurring on an even stronger chain of sobs. Her body is curled on Emma's side of the bed, her face buried against a lavender colored pillowcase. It's the girl's feint perfume – a mixture of cinnamon and cocoa, the intoxicating essence of her absent lover. Memories of hugs and caresses, touches and kisses overwhelm her. She urges her body to fall prey to madness, to feel Emma's ghost there holding her as she had every morning for months.
But reality is cruel. She feels, oh yes, she feels. She can feel her heart breaking at the prospect of never seeing Emma again, of being unable to save her, in turn losing both of the people she loves. She can feel the methodical thumping in her chest that reminds her that while she is still living, her lover may very well be dead.
Oh, she feels, tracing her wrist with her index finger over the little red marks where Emma had squeezed so hard, screaming, begging not to let go, to save her. She feels the girl's digits sliding down her palm until they brush against the pads of her fingers, slipping, no hope in sight.
She feels, and it's a punishment worse than death.