And she woke up on the outside. It was the twenty-eighth time she had woken up to this morning: the same parliament of fowl outside her window, tittering away the same notes, the same sunshine glancing off of her bedspread, small bits of dust hovering through it just so. She had seen these dust drifts twenty-eight times before, heard the song, and listened to her Father shuffling around downstairs.
It was always the same; a long, lazy cycle that she had memorized after the tenth. A year that she relived, over and over, to the same end: the beginning once again.
She sighed, closing her eyes tightly. A few years ago, she would have begun to shake with the knowledge of what was to come. She thought of the month of days that came before this that was just like this. There were so many attempts to change the inevitable results, that it became a game to her.
The third year, she tried to run away. She ran through the streets of Storybrooke with a purse full of stolen money from her father and headed straight down to the Toll Bridge. Once she crossed, her stepped slowed. Eventually, without her really noticing, she stopped. She couldn't move any further then that spot. She remained there for an entire hour before someone found her. They took her away then, just as they always did.
The twelfth year was fun. She spent the day walking around town, acting like a tourist. Everyone said hello to her in a guarded way, but she refused to allow that to mar her good time. She bought lunch at Granny's Place, she rooted around for knick knacks at the drug store. The only hitch in her plan was her near encounter with the pawnshop, which she seemed to instinctively know she should avoid. But, once she returned home, her father sat her down for The Talk, and the men walked in soon after.
The idea of going back to that small, dark room in the basement of Storybrooke Hospital was beyond horrifying. It was her curse, she thought, to remember. She remembered everything about her old life. She remembered all the moments there, the pain she felt, and the freedom. She remembered every second of every day in this new, terrible world where there was no magic, not as she knew it. There was only technology, which had a distinct purpose and no imagination.
It didn't come with any perceivable price, and perhaps that was better.
She knew that, whether or not she got up and went downstairs, she would be taken. She had tried it the twenty-first year. It felt like she could never be surprised again. So she decided how she would handle this year: she would follow the script with no enthusiasm, without any attempt to resist. There was no sense in trying to enjoy her time outside of her dark, gray box. No amount of begging, screaming, crying, bargaining, trying to leave, trying to demonstrate sanity would change what would happen by 4pm today. Without fail, without alteration, the men would come and they would take her.
She took her time. She took the longest shower the hot water would allow (a convenience in this world that she had come to appreciate a great deal). She picked out her favorite green dress from a closet that wasn't chosen by her. She found her most comfortable black shoes. They had scuffs on the toes from tripping over sidewalks she had never stumbled over, and angles worn into the soles she had never walked in. There was gum stuck to one, from a theatre she never went to.
All of these details were too much sometimes. They made her feel crazy. They made her feel like the sanity she clung to for the last twenty-eight years wasn't worth the trouble. Because her memory could never hold this much, she could never remember this much about her life. But her life-memories came with feelings. They came with smells, and tangled up with other memories, came a past. Her adventures, the ones she thought she would never had.
When she got to the middle part of the year in the gray box, a few weeks after the Evil Queen's visit and a month or so before the leak in the ceiling, she would conjure up every last moment she had traveling throughout the Enchanted Kingdom. She would think about every person she met, every town she walked through. Every loaf of bread that was offered to her, as a lonely young woman travelling became a marker that she touched in her mind, repeating it to herself like a well-worn sonnet. It was comfortable, and unlike her shoes here that are worn to her specifications, they actually fit.
And the Queen did come, every year on the same day. She felt the need to gloat over the broken, beautiful captive of the curse because she couldn't talk to anyone else about it. Regina knew that she could never leave this place, and anything that was said to her would never leave that room. She was attached to the Queen's enemy, and any torment to her felt like it would reach him some how, even though it had been several years since their time together.
After the fifteenth year, where she just repeated everything Regina wanted to say to her, leaving the woman stunned, her red mouth crinkling in confusion, she now just sat and listened in silence to everything she had to say. The first few years involved questions:
Who are you?
Why am I here?
What have you done?
Why do I remember, when no one else does?
How dare you?
The answers were always the same: she deserved it because of the man she loved and did not want her. She had to stay hidden away because the curse was more important than anything or anyone. The second through seventh year, she asked the most questions. She realized in those years that, unlike her, Regina didn't remember from year to year. There was no retention of information. Her curse was different. But this was to her advantage: She could always ask the Queen new questions and build on her information from before.
After that, there was no more information to be gained from Regina. It would always be the same dripping sarcasm and stock character of the Evil Queen. Regina had nothing, and was nothing. She could see that so clearly: her entire life had been built on revenge, and it had consumed her whole. Snow White was now quietly sad, teaching children who never changed. Charming remained asleep, dreaming of their world inside of the same hospital where she remained awake. Cinderella was there, pregnant with her prince's child, a mere boy who went to a school. Red, whom she had come across once or twice in her travels, worked as a waitress for Granny's restaurant.
Over the years, she had managed to ask about everyone she could think of. All of the princesses who were distant acquaintances, folks she had met on the road, everyone. Without the stimulation of change, she gathered all of the information she could and thought about it. She tried to figure out the differences and similarities between them, why they were all here as well. Some she didn't know enough about their lives before, she would surprise the Queen with non sequitur questions about a person she didn't remember talking about just the year before.
The Queen always stayed one hour, ever year. No more, no less, no matter what she did or said.
There was one she never asked about, one who never came to see her. One she only allowed herself to think about when she could feel the tug of the cycle moving towards the beginningend again. The one who pulled her out of her life and dropped her into a world that was more real that she thought possible. She thought of a calloused hand on her arm, calloused in such specific places. The parts of his hand where the thread rubbed endlessly, the ridges and whorls of his palm where straw became magic and gold.
She winced at herself in the mirror, where she was applying the make-up this world had provided her. She knew it would be scrubbed off of her face as soon as she was forced out of her outside clothes and into the drab bag they called covering in the grey box. There was no way she could think of that place as a hospital: nothing about it spoke of healing or health to her.
She couldn't think of him yet. It wasn't part of the plan.
With nothing left to do but to get it over with, she started downstairs. The movement in the kitchen paused, listening to her light footsteps gliding down to the first floor, the sun shining like always. The sun always shined on this day, all of the days. The clouds always formed the same patterns, the dog always barked in the backyard at the same squirrel running on the tops of the fences. She set her mental watch to it.
She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and paused for a moment. It would be the last look she would get for a while of her features. There were no wrinkles, no aging past the day the curse came. She was no older than that moment, ever. Same with her Father, same with Regina… none of them ever changed. How could her mind, her heart be so old yet exactly the same?
She asked Jefferson that yesterday. His visit happened every year, the same time. The day before the beginningend was known as Jefferson Day in her mind. He always came in the night, around when the night nurse came on shift. He knew her, and knew how she took her tea: black, with crushed sleeping pills thoroughly stirred in.
Every year he asked the same question:
"Do you remember, still?"
And she always answered. "Yes, do you?"
"I wish I didn't."
"I know."
Once the tradition was fulfilled, they informed each other of what they had learned. Ten years ago, an outsider came in. A baby, adopted by Regina with the help of Mr. Gold, which they hoped would change everything. He aged, unlike everyone else in the town. Jefferson watched him closely, as time moved for him and no one else. The boy became something of an obsession the first few years, but once he proved to be nothing but a child, they lost interest.
She kept him informed of new tidbits from the Queen. Any time a new question came to him, he was sure to tell her for when the time came. They had been quiet on this point for about five years now, because nothing new had surfaced. So rhetorical questions had become how they communicated.
They had these conversations as he unlocked her door and walked her to her Father's house. Jefferson seemed to have some sort of inherent knowledge about the curse: he knew that it would fall into a cycle that took a year to complete. He knew that the next day, the anniversary of the beginning, would start all over again. It would be as if the whole previous year had been erased and everything was started anew. He had asked her where she started the year, and because it was waking up on a sunny morning, that was where she needed to be when it began again.
In reality, she almost longed for those first few years. The first Jefferson Day was the day before the second year, as it had taken him that long to make it through the major players of the town. The basement of the hospital was the last place he checked. She still remembered his darting, curious blue eyes in the grate, lighting on her crumpled form in the corner.
"Hello? Who are you?" he asked, whispering through the small window on her cell door.
"Belle," she said, without thinking. He was new and unexpected. "Who are you?"
"Jefferson, known in all of Wonderland as the Mad Hatter," he said, laying down his cards immediately. He explained himself the next year: he wanted to know who else remembered from the start, to save himself the awkward, drawn-out conversations and the inevitable rejection of blatant stares and quick exits. He had too many of those at the beginning to want to waste his time.
"Wonderland? As in, the place… world… plane… near the Enchanted Forest?" She asked eagerly. She had seen magic performed in a far away kingdom during her travels, where men and women rode on carpets from place to place, and a man fell into a basket, only to appear years older a few seconds later. She had witnessed these entrances and exits, but never experienced them herself. Wonderland was a placed she was warned away from, though only by proxy. Very few survived their encounters with the Queen of Hearts.
"You… you remember, still?"
"Yes, do you?"
"I wish I didn't."
"I know."
And that moment, and the moments to come, became a touchstone for their sanity. It was these few hours of conversation once a year that sustained them. Even with no new information to go off of, they could still talk about their world. They could still share their adventures there in safety and comfort, knowing that someone else knew and understood. The reminisced about the air and how clean it smelled. They talked about different small towns and villages they both knew, discussing the people they met there.
At year twelve, Belle asked Jefferson why he didn't come to visit more often, didn't come to talk to her in-between. It has bothered her for a long time, as his freedom seemed unfair in comparison to her captivity.
"Oh, my sweet girl," he said, sadly as he touched her cheek for a moment. "Just because we remember doesn't mean we aren't trapped by the cycle."
When they reached the twenty-year mark, Jefferson and Belle barely mentioned the curse. They simply told each other stories they'd told the years before, if only to remind them selves of what was really reality. Jefferson described his house that year, large and ornate, but empty of all life and happiness. He called it a prison, same as hers, just with the added pain of watching his Grace walk around with a different family.
Year twenty-one, though, had been spent in silence. Belle could not bring herself to move this year. From the first day to the last, she didn't speak, didn't move of her own volition. She had hoped this never-ending cycle would be broken by now. It became too much to bear, and Jefferson could see it in her eyes when he arrived. He spoke their words, both of their words, as Belle couldn't bring her tongue to move or her throat to cooperate to make the sounds.
Jefferson entered her cell and sat down beside her. And that year, instead of immediately leaving to go back to her Father's house so she could fall asleep and wake up on the outside to begin again, they sat there for a long time, him watching silent tears roll down her face.
He carried her to her home that year, Belle still unable to respond. Everything, all of it hurt too much. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he gently lifted her up. She had lost weight this year, but she knew that it wouldn't matter tomorrow. But right now, it meant that Jefferson felt like he was carrying a small, flutter-hearted bird back to her nest. He dropped a kiss into her hair, pretending she was his daughter and he could protect her from everything.
And she pretended he was Rumpelstiltskin, finally come to rescue her.
Not yet… not yet, she thought.
I can't think about him yet.
Belle had entered the kitchen and her Father was staring at her from the chair at the head of the table. She was supposed to say something, something cheerful and untroubled.
"Good morning, Father," she said stiffly. She sat at the table, arranging her skirt with small gestures, as if on stage. They were directly across from each other; remnants of letters and his breakfast lay between them.
"Good morning, Rose," he said, turning his body away from the table. His legs stretched out to the middle of the room, his eyes cast towards his boots. He used her this-world name, not her real name. It threw her off the first time. Now, it felt like it was never anything else.
It hurt to see her Father like this. The last time she had seen him in the Enchanted Forest was when she left to save the kingdom. His eyes were so sad then… they were even sadder now. Over the years, she wondered what drove him to this point, what made him think locking her away was the only answer. It had to be some remnant from their world. Maybe because only a mad woman would willingly walk into the arms of a mad man… whatever it was, Mo French had decided when this world was created that she needed to be locked away for her own safety.
The mummery began.
"Rose, we need to talk," he said, still staring at his scuffed toes.
"What about, Father?" she asked, her voice dead and low. She stared holes into the side of his face, willing him to get it over with. There was something comforting in knowing how things worked, a security in it. As much as Belle wanted to resist, she knew it was inevitable, so why draw it out?
"Dr. Hopper came to me a few days ago to tell me your… ideas about that Enchanted Forest have gotten worse. That you think you're a runaway princess and that I… I'm a king, Rose," he said, inhaling deeply. The pause was always the same. She resisted the urge to mouth along with him. He continued.
"He suggested, and I agreed that… that you should be checked into the hospital for a little while."
"But what about the library, Father? I'm the only librarian in town," she asked, resting on the table now, chin to hand to elbow. She knew the answer: They'll just close it while you're gone, it won't be for long.
"They'll just close it while you're gone, it won't be for long. You just need to let go of this idea," he replied. He looked up into her eyes now, his full of tears, hers full of acceptance. She knew it wasn't his fault. This Mo French… this man who looked and sounded and smelled and acted like her Father, was not the same man. The past had gone out of him.
"I called the hospital, and they should be sending someone by any-"
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Right on time for this version of the conversation.
"That'll be them," her Father said, standing up and walking to the door. Rose followed behind him. Kicking and screaming was embarrassing for everyone involved, as was having the men from the hospital come all the way into the house. So she walked along behind him down the hall to the front door, where two men who looked suspiciously like dwarves stood waiting for her.
"If you'll follow me, miss," the slighter one, wearing white shirt and pants gestured to her gently. They were always gentle with her, and she was thankful for that. No matter what kind of fight she put up. She nodded silently and followed them both to the van.
Sometimes she asked them questions. The first year, in her confusion, she demanded to understand. The men always looked at her sadly and spoke with soft, broad strokes. They didn't want to spook her, that's how they spoke to her. She was a wild animal to them, one with the potential to slap and scream and cry. But Belle was kind to them this year. She just walked towards her fate, the fight gone out of her.
The heavier set man in blue opened a van door for her to step into. The windows were bright and completely uncovered, so anyone and everyone could see her roll past towards darkness. Her Father climbed in after, sitting next to her, softly holding her hand. He always murmured the same indistinct syllables, something about it being okay. About his love for her. About this not being permanent. About how she needed to let go of the Enchanted Forest and come back to reality. It always finished the same way:
"You'll be home soon, I promise."
Belle always wondered if that was the truth. That, given enough time, her Father would have gotten her out of the hole in the bottom of the hospital. But then she remembered her years on the road, with nary a sign or word that she was being sought by the king. She was forgotten then, and she is being forgotten now.
They were silent for the rest of the drive to the hospital. From the front, muttered conversation between the two orderlies was different than the previous year. Her ears perked up, latching onto every word. The mayor's son was missing. He left this morning like he was going to school, and never made it there. Belle had never heard this conversation before: of course it would be about Regina's son, he was the only one that changed.
It sat in the center of Storybrooke, where everyone and anyone could see her getting out of the van, with her soft green dress fluttering in the breeze, being walked up the steps towards a year that never changed, and never seemed to end. But there was only one person in the city square to see. There was only ever one person.
Mr. Gold leaned on his cane on the sidewalk opposite the hospital. He was carrying a briefcase in his gloved hand, his eyes shaded by tinted glasses. Belle couldn't say for certain, but she could almost feel his gaze on her. It was the only time she would be able to see him during the year, and it was as a smartly dressed gentleman, not the mottle-skinned man she knew and loved.
It took her until the third year to recognize him. She always saw him, staring at her when she arrived. The fourth year, she ran to him and demanded that he do something. Help her. Take her away. She still loved him. He looked confused and he stumbled backwards, his cane not just for show. Belle had grabbed him by his lapels and shook him a little, knocking his glasses off of his face. He dropped his case, and held onto her shoulders for balance.
It broke her heart right into pieces: Rumpelstiltskin didn't recognize her. He seemed shocked that a young woman who was being lead to the hospital would run at him. He carefully removed her hands from his clothes (they felt nothing like his hands) and apologized quietly that he didn't know her. He leaned heavily on his cane to retrieve his bag and glasses, and watched as Belle sobbed uncontrollably while being dragged back to the hospital.
This year, like every year since her outburst, she simply stood and stared at him. And he stared back. Belle assumed he liked to know what was going on, to see what value there could be in the information. He always looked towards her Father's hunched form, clearly guilt-ridden and pained, no doubt weighing the potential of that information for later use. Her Father would vaguely look over at him, nodding slightly in recognition.
But he always looked back to her. She always stared at him, hoping and praying that maybe this year would be different. She always whispered his name under her breath, inaudible even to her own ears. Belle whispered as she was taken by the arms by the dwarves in hospital clothing, and pulled backwards inside. She didn't stop staring, she didn't blink away her tears. It was the only look she had of him, and he was so handsome, even in human skin.
"Rumpelstiltskin. Please. Please, come back to me."