Chapter 2

A/N. This chapter comes with a caution: I've tried to handle this description delicately, but to explore Belle's trauma requires some detail. Highly sensitive readers may want to skip to chapter 3.

Ruby looks at me doubtfully, but I shake my head: we mustn't try to talk Belle out of this belief, not yet. I need to know what she thinks happened, and she'll shut down if we, in effect, call her story a lie.

"Can you tell me what happened, Belle?" I keep my voice gentle. "You don't have to. You decide if it would help to talk about it."

"Should I leave the room?" Ruby asks, glancing from her to me.

"No," Belle is firm about that. "I—it helps to have a friend here."

We wait as she deliberates. She fiddles with the drink in her hand, swishing the tea around so the ice clinks against the glass. She's still watching the ice slide around as she begins. "He's a monster. Rotten teeth, scaly skin, claws instead of fingers. He has the laugh of a madman. But his eyes—I don't understand. His eyes are kind. He steals me from my father. He drags me—his claws cut into my wrist and draw blood—he drags me out of my home, and when we're outside there's a, an explosion and I'm dizzy and everything's spinning, I have to grab a hold of him to keep from falling. When I can see again, we're inside the great hall of a castle and he's dragging me again. He drags me down stairs—it's dark and cold and I fall because I can't see, but he yanks me by the hair and makes me stand up again, and he pushes me to make me walk again. He takes me to a dungeon. He flings the door open with his magic and he pushes me in, pushes me to the ground, and I'm crying but he slams the door. It's dark and cold and I can't see. There's no water, no candle, no blanket. I cry until I can't cry any more, and then I hunch up in a corner and kick at the mice, there are mice everywhere, and he doesn't come back. I'm so cold and hungry. At last he brings me water and while I drink it, he stares at me, and then he leaves again and slams the door.

"I don't know—days go by. I think I'll die here. I guess it's night: the temperatures drop. I pull the straw up around me to try to get warm. And then he comes back. He doesn't open the door; he just appears, standing there, staring. I can smell whisky on him. I try to talk to him, to ask for water, but he just laughs that crazy laugh. I start to cry, and that does something to him, he goes crazy, he waves his hand and his magic throws me against the wall, and manacles appear and lock around my wrists and my ankles. The chains pull me apart. I think I'm going to be quartered. And then he stands over me, his eyes are like a cobra's; when I look into them for some sign of kindness, I feel myself growing weak. I stop fighting against the manacles; I'm so tired.

"He smiles like a crocodile. He bends down and grabs the collar of my dress and rips, rips it all the way down, rips it off of me, and then he rips my shift, and his claws scrape against my skin. I'm so cold and so scared but he likes that, he likes to see me cry. He rips my petticoats, then my underthings, and he stares and stares at me. His magic is like needles jabbing at me. And then he—"

She describes the rest in such detail that Ruby, lacking the benefit of the dream catcher vision, believes her. Even I begin to doubt; I have worked with rape victims before and what she describes is convincing. For her, it's the truth, and though I know it's not reality, right now that's not what matters.

Or is it reality? Was the dream catcher vision—conjured by Gold's magic—a lie? I glance at that photograph on her entertainment center. I remember how Gold's shoulders shook when he saw the vision in the dream catcher. No. No. No. I'm certain this man is innocent.

I'm equally certain Belle isn't lying.

Ruby has taken her under wing, literally, and is stroking her hair soothingly and saying comforting things. Belle releases her fear and her anger in a flood of tears and curses; she feels safe enough in Ruby's care and in my presence to open up to us, and I find that a miracle, because, in her mind, she barely knows us. Or maybe it's not her mind she's trusting; maybe it's her gut, and her gut's telling her she needs us and we won't let her down.

I'm torn. Nothing in my experience or my study could have prepared me for this. Every patient is unique; every illness, unique; the treatment must be tailored to fit both. With another woman, I would proceed gingerly; over a matter of months we would deconstruct her pain, then build her back up again. Belle is too direct and bold for that. She's not just fearful right now: she's mad as hell, rightfully so, though she's mad at the wrong person. Most patients want their pain taken away before they start the work of therapy; Belle, I believe, has another priority: understanding.

Should I tell her these are false memories, implanted through vicious psychological conditioning techniques by some unknown "medical personnel"? She needs to know, and I can't hope to retain her trust if I'm not completely honest. But before this week, the total of all the words that had passed between us wouldn't add up to fifty: how can I expect her to take on faith my claim that the images in her head are false—the images so detailed and vivid that just to allow them to come forth has left her shattered? I find myself wishing Gold would return so he could show her that dream catcher—but then no, his presence, and especially his use of magic, would frighten her, and she would think the dream catcher vision a lie.

But there have been cracks, little memories already leaking through. Sometimes with amnesiacs, especially when the brain is healthy and uninjured, the memory returns of its own accord. Are her love for Gold and her own instinct of self-preservation strong enough to break through the conditioning? If I take the safer approach and wait for her mind to fight its way back to health, will it be too late for their relationship to recover?

She is strong, that's clear; when I ponder the source of her strength, I have the answer to my dilemma: her strength rises from the platform of truth.

She's stopped crying.

"Belle, we have two options. We could just wait and see; there are encouraging signs that your memories are intact and over time will emerge. This is the safest way to proceed; the mind has a remarkable capacity for healing. But if we go that course, in the time we're waiting, you're going to continue to be haunted by images such as the one you just described."

She narrows her eyes. "What's the other option?"

I blurt it out before I can lose my nerve. "I'd like to hypnotize you and prod at your memory. If we can access it—access the real memories that I believe are being suppressed—I believe we can set you free. I have to inform you, though, there is some danger in this: it's possible that more of the. . . visions like the one you just described will surface."

There's a sudden intake of air, but it's not from Belle: it's Ruby. She has the grace to say nothing, but her face says it all: I might just as well have asked Belle to walk into a snake pit.

Well, I suppose I have. But how else can we kill the cobra that's choking her memory to death?

Ever optimistic, Belle is. "The harm is already passed, don't you think, Archie? The man who attacked me is gone, isn't he?"

It's on the tip of my tongue to blurt out to her that the "harm" never existed to begin with, and the man she's referring to could do her a hell of a lot more good than I could, if she'd allow it. But she has to see the lie for herself, and I have no evidence to offer, nothing concrete to prove the torture she was subjected to in the asylum. As soon as I leave here, I'll be calling James and asking for a subpoena to search the hospital's basement—but I doubt if we'll find so much as a Post-It note to prove anyone ever worked there. Regina is impulsive, but she's also smart enough to cover her tracks. The only evidence I can offer Belle is the truth that's in her own mind and heart, the reality of her relationship with Rumplestiltskin. "He is. But the mind can have difficulty distinguishing between reality and vivid imaginings."

"I survived the attacks. I can survive the memories." Belle sets her jaw and nods crisply. "Let's do it."

"Tomorrow, then, after you've had some rest?"

"No, Archie. Now." I start to protest, but she interrupts. "I can if you can."

I wish I had my medical bag so I could check her vitals. I don't like to proceed so incautiously, and I tell her so. She glances toward the kitchen and my eyes follow her: she's looking at a wall clock. "It's been less than an hour since Dr. Whale did all that. If this can bring me closer to remembering my life, Doctor, I don't want to waste another minute. You can't imagine what it's like being cut off like this from everyone and everything you love—to be cut off from yourself!"

Being cut off from loved ones—yes, I can imagine that; I hear it every day from my patients. But being cut off in the manner Belle has been—she's right. "All right. If at any point you want to back out, just say so and I'll stop immediately. Fair enough?"

"Let's go," Belle says. "Should I lay down?"

As I draw the curtains to darken the room, I ask her to hunt around for some object she can use as a focal point: something she can hold in her hands, something familiar and comforting. She stands in the center of the room and runs her gaze over the knickknacks, the books, the CDs and DVDs. She wanders to the desk and sorts through the books on top; she finds a stack of unpaid bills (Ruby will have to help her catch up such matters). She wanders to the bedroom; she's in there a long while, opening drawers and the closet. When she returns she is carrying an armload, which she drops onto the coffee table to sort through. There are stacks of handwritten pages; there's an electronic photo frame; there's a stuffed bear holding a Valentine; there's a deep purple silk shirt that I recognize as Gold's.

She bites her lip as she examines these objects. She runs her hands across the cool silk, then holds it up to her chest and tries to make a joke about having gone through an Annie Hall stage at some point. As Ruby and I exchange glances—she remembers a Woody Allen movie but she can't remember the man who wore this shirt?—she sniffs the silk and mutters something about the familiarity of the lingering cologne. She sets the shirt aside and picks up the handwritten pages, reads a few paragraphs and blushes. "Seems I have an admirer. I hope it's the same one who left the shirt—I'd had to think I'm a loose woman!"

Ruby hangs her head. I understand: I'm feeling the same way. What Regina and her underlings have done is worse than if they'd killed Gold outright—if we let them continue to get away with it.

She turns the photo frame on and watches the pictures cycle through. One is of Moe; another, of Belle alone; but the rest are all of Belle and Gold together. There's even one that makes Ruby and me raise our eyebrows: the couple is laughing. Gold and laughing: two more words I'd never imagined I'd put together. Belle scowls as she lets the images cycle through twice, then she sets the frame aside and picks up the letters again and reads one of them, her expression evolving from puzzlement to confusion to affection. Then she blinks hard and sets the letters aside. She takes the teddy bear in both hands. "All right, this is what I'll use." She lies back on the couch and sets the bear on her chest, toying with the valentine.

I have her under.

It's taken multiple efforts. I'm rusty; I seldom use hypnotherapy. I worry for a moment that Belle might be one of the fifteen percent of the population who can't be hypnotized at all, but at last the world falls away from her and she's floating in nothingness with only my voice to guide her.

With a whisper I ask Ruby to go to the kitchen and pop some popcorn. Ruby glances at me askance, but with a shrug she complies.

I take Belle deep into her subconscious by asking her to imagine she's in a house, a house she knows that belongs to someone she loves. I then ask her to walk slowly to the basement, open the door and walk down the stairs, one by one, taking her time, her path into the dark guided by a sweet-scented candle. When she has reached the bottom of the basement—the bottom of her subconscious—I ask Ruby to bring the bag of popcorn in, set it on the coffee table and open it.

"Hold the candle up high, Belle, so the light fills the basement. Move forward; take your time. There's nothing here to worry you; you're safe here. In front of you is a door; give it a push and it opens easily. Light pours through the open door. You don't need the candle any more; set it on the floor. Walk through the door. Look! You're in the lobby of the Bijou. To your left is the ticket taker; reach into your pocket and find the ticket and give it to him. Straight in front of you is the concession stand. Rows and rows of candy in the glass counter, a soda machine up front; a popcorn machine in the back. Breathe in, Belle, breathe the odor of the fresh-popped, buttery popcorn. Approach the counter. You'll have such fun tonight. There's no hurry; you have all the time in the world. Walk forward to the counter. To your right is a man; he's your date tonight, as he has been many, many times before. You know him so well. You've known him most of your life and there's no one in the world you'd rather be with. He holds your hand and when he looks at you, you feel safe and content. Tonight will be so much fun; you and your date and a good movie. Go to the concession stand. Claire is behind the counter. You know her; she goes to the high school. You see her here every Friday night. She knows your name; she knows what you like. She says, 'The usual, Belle?' And you say—"

Belle murmurs, "'Yes, please. How are you tonight, Claire?'"

"She smiles and chats with you as she pours a soda. You pick up the cup and listen to the soda bubble. Take a sip as Claire brings you the candy you like—"

"Hershey's Kisses."

"She brings you a bag of Hershey's Kisses to go with your soda. What kind of soda is it, Belle?"

"Sprite."

"The soda tickles your tongue as you sip it. Pick up your candy, Belle. Now Claire turns to your date. 'Would you like your usual too, Mr.—'" I wait but Belle doesn't fill in the blank for me. "He says yes, and she brings him a soda, two boxes of Junior Mints, a box of popcorn—"

"No butter, no salt," Belle instructs. She wrinkles her nose. "Boring. 'Live dangerously; try a little butter for once.'"

"And he says?"

"'Wait until you try my special movie mix, sweetheart.'"

"He pours the Junior Mints in and shakes the popcorn box—"

"Claire thinks it's funny."

"Does he make you laugh too?"

She falls silent.

"He picks up his cane again, then the popcorn."

"My candy in my pocket. I get the sodas."

"And you go into the theater. Where will you sit?"

"In the front. There's more space between the seats; he can stretch out his knee."

"What movie are you watching, Belle?"

"Somebody-or-other's Ballroom Dance Studio—something like that; I didn't catch the title."

"Do you enjoy the movie, Belle?"

"Yes, it's sweet." She smiles slyly. "Especially the bakery scene."

"The movie is over. Are you going home?"

"Yes. Tomorrow's a workday."

"Does he walk you home?"

"Yes. It's snowing. It's been snowing all day."

I wonder briefly if this was the day that photo was taken. I'd like to ask, but I don't want to take her out of the moment she's reliving. She's remembering so much, and she's so happy and relaxed. "You walk up the stairs to your apartment."

"Yes." She frowns. "We have to go slow. The cold bothers his knee."

"You unlock the door. Does he come inside with you?"

"He always does. He says it's to make sure I'm safe, but. . . ."

"You take off your coat."

"He hangs it up for me."

"He takes off his coat."

"Yes."

"Look up at him, Belle. Say his name."

Her lips tighten into a straight line and she doesn't reply. I make a quick note.

"What comes next, Belle?"

"Cocoa." She runs her tongue across her lips. "With milk. And a teaspoon of chocolate syrup."

"You're in the kitchen, making the cocoa. Does he come in with you?"

"Yes."

"What does he say?"

"Nothing."

"What does he do?"

"He licks the spoon." She scowls now and her head thrashes on the couch cushion. "'No! Let go! Get your hands off me!'"

"Belle, what's wrong?" I'm alarmed now; I didn't expect this. Everything seemed to be going so well; surely she's immersed in a real memory, so how is it this lie has reared its ugly head again?

She shrieks and thrusts her hands out as though pushing someone away. "'No! Stop it; you're hurting me! Why? Why are you doing this to me? I thought you loved me!'"