Veteran readers of this should notice that I have given the whole story a big overhaul, and I would appreciate reviews to learn whether or not the new incarnation of this story is an improvement. As an incentive, those who do leave reviews will receive a hint.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sarah, The Goblin King, or anything else to do with the film Labyrinth. All I own here is the story and the writing. Nor do I own the poem I have quoted from at the beginning of this chapter.

Tragic, isn't it?

Chapter Ten: Seeming


All that we see or seem
Is but a dream, within a dream.

Edgar Allan Poe. A Dream Within a Dream

Hands gripped me through a layer of thick fabric, shaking me violently. I stirred, slowly drawing my eyelids apart. Upon adjusting my eyes to the light, I saw the walls of my room and remembered that I had come home. I was free.

Irene hovered over me, her face creased with concern. She stroked my forehead with cool fingers, and the contrast between her frigid skin and my sweaty brow made me realize I had a fever. Very slowly, I sat up and looked around, causing Irene to back away a little.

I turned to the window first of all. The sun shone in and blinded me, and I shielded my eyes from it at first. Slowly, I moved my hand away and squinting at the old, sun-drenched tree that stood just outside my window. An invisible bird twittered cheerfully, its song was the only sound in the room. Irene had not said a word.

I was in far too much of a daze to care and turned my eyes to the various components of my room. I surveyed it quickly: pin-ups of Jon Bon Jovi and Tom Cruise eyed me rebelliously from the walls, a row of faceless books sat neat and neglected on my bookshelf, and my dresser was cluttered with papers, tubes of lipstick and hair bands. It couldn't possibly have looked more normal.

I turned back to Irene, who stared at me in total amazement and bewilderment. I got the impression she was struggling to accept my reality. That thought prompted a stab of fear. What if she was not real? What if my surroundings – my messy room, Irene, the singing bird – were just illusions?

To test her solidity, I extended my right hand and touched her face. Although she moved back very slightly, she did not move out of reach. My fingers touched her pale, soft cheek and left faint impressions on her skin.

My eyes welled up with guilty tears; I felt ashamed for doubting my surroundings. Powder from her cheek whitened the tops of my fingers and the scent of the jasmine perfume she always doused herself in made me cough.

Without giving her the slightest warning, I flung my arms around her neck. In my enthusiasm, I almost dragged her down onto the bed with me. I embraced her fiercely, tightening my grip on her when she attempted to detach herself from my embrace. I had never considered the possibility of being happy to see her before, but I was more than happy; I was ecstatic.

I buried my head into her satin-covered shoulder, sobbing. I was amazed by the extent of my stupidity. How could I ever have thought running away would be the solution? I had spent my last allocated month on Earth wasting time. I had abandoned my dear, loving family for weeks of isolation and despair.

But then I remembered my victory, and smiled through my tears. I had time. I had tricked him into giving it to me. I loved that feeling of superiority; it delighted me. I wanted to laugh and mock him even though he wasn't there. I wanted to say something joyous and nonsensical to solidify the airy giddiness of my victory.

After a minute of deadlock, Irene managed to ease herself away. I looked at her with my big, sad eyes. I craved contact. I had to have someone to hold, someone I could cling to, whom I would not have to release. I felt an impulsive stab of hatred for her when she drew away, and had to bite my bottom lip to keep myself from begging for her to return.

She spoke to me from a short distance. I cannot remember the words; all I know is that she told me exactly how happy she was to see me. She told me how terribly I had been missed. Daddy had rung the police station the moment he had realized I was missing. My face had been featured on the local news station and on hundreds of posters in hundreds of shop windows. None of them were able to get to sleep on account of anxiety at first, and Daddy had only just returned to work. Toby had suffered the most. He had nightmares about me, and described them to his parents. In one of his dreams, a cruel man with a twisted face had told him he was never going to see his sister again. The wicked man had mocked Toby when he had tried to insist that he was lying, repeating what he had said before:

'You're sister is never coming home. You will never set your eyes on her again.' The bad man had shaken his head gravely. 'Never.'

Toby had had other nightmares. When he had learned that every door in the house was shut tightly before Irene and Dad went to bed, he had wept. He had insisted that I would return in the night and die of cold on the doorstep, inches away from safety. He had told them they were monsters.

Irene's revelations left me speechless and sick. They had suffered just as badly as I had, possibly even worse. I had barely considered them during my escapade.

As I looked up at Irene's exhausted face, I struggled to cope. I had never thought guilt would make me feel so wretched.

I couldn't think of anything worth saying. 'Sorry' seemed woefully inadequate. I could have said that word constantly for a hundred days and nights and it would not have made up for what I had done. But I said it anyway. I said it over and over again, recited it until my chant fell apart, reaching my arms out for Irene as I wept.

I cried into her blouse and she passed her hand over my head, shushing me kindly. She was not angry, even though I wanted her to be. She was calm and compassionate. I asked her why she was being so kind, why she didn't shout at me and scream. She laughed, saying that my return had made her far too happy to feel angry with me.

After a few minutes, I felt incredibly thirsty and asked Irene if she would get me a cup of water. She hurried downstairs and soon returned with a glass of lemonade. She held it to my lips at first, but I reassured her I was okay and drank it myself as she looked on, smiling approvingly as I gulped the lemonade down.

As soon as I had finished the drink, my interrogation began. Where did I go? Who did I stay with? Would I promise her that I would never, ever run away again?

She asked me dozens of questions and I obliged her curiosity by providing bland, believable answers. She nodded to acknowledge me and periodically squeezed my hand. Her gullibility made me guilty, so I started asking her some questions of my own.

Where was Toby? Where was Daddy? I sounded panicky and Irene shushed me, telling me Toby was at school and Daddy was at work. She would ring Daddy and tell him I was home. I kissed her on her cheek and thanked her over and over again for being so wonderful.

Soon afterwards, I threw the covers off and started getting out of bed. When I had successfully stood up – I was amazed that my feet didn't hurt – I looked down to see what I was wearing. I was in my flannel bathrobe, my pink nightie beneath it. I was suddenly reminded of the night before, and had a strange sense of being back in the cold, wet street I so wanted to ignore. I felt a paralyzing stab of fear and my breath hitched as a chill began setting in.

Shaking my head briskly to dismiss those thoughts, I turned to Irene, smiling. She promptly beamed back at me. I made my bed neatly, asking how she had been. She told me she had been fine and that the only thing her life had been missing was me. Instead of feeling nauseous, I felt touched.

I followed Irene closely when she went downstairs to ring Daddy. I was too nervous to stay with her when she phoned him, and ended up wandering around and exploring. I went into the kitchen and was delighted to see familiar dishes – a red mug I had given to Dad as a present on his fortieth birthday, a dinosaur bowl that Toby used for his cereal – besides the sink. Afterwards I hurried into the living room, which was just as unchanged and lived in as the kitchen had been. Everything looked gloriously normal.

I returned the hall afterwards, but stopped by the door. Irene had finally managed to reach Daddy at work.

After she had got the fact that I was home through to him, she said nothing for a little while and she gave no indication that anything was being said. From what I could gather, Irene's news had been met with silence. I hovered anxiously by the door, waiting for something to happen.

I exhaled heavily in relief when Irene started looking alert again, nodding and periodically saying 'yes.' When she was given the chance to speak she said that she would see him soon and reassured him she would ring the police station and let them know that I had come home.

"See you soon, honey. Love you. Bye." She ended the call.

Very quickly, she turned to me and told me what I already knew: Daddy was on his way home. Then she picked up the receiver again and phoned the police to let them know I had come home. After a brief conversation, she returned her attention to me, asking if I would like to come with her to pick Toby up from school. Beaming, I told her I would love to.

Before long, Irene and I were setting off. I chose to sit in the back for two reasons: firstly, I would get a good view of the route and secondly, I would be under less pressure to speak. Although Irene's kindness had given me a new appreciation for her, I could not bear the prospect of another barrage of questions.

I wound the window down and stuck my head out. Although all of the houses we passed all seemed identical at first, I started noticing differences as the journey progressed. Some of them had doors red or blue instead of white, others had primrose stuffed flowerboxes in their windows. We speeded past a despondent, sweaty-browed businessman, and a little further on a harassed, pram-pushing woman yelling something to a running child.

We arrived very quickly, and my heart sank when I got out of the car and saw that the playground was completely packed with parents and strollers. Irene and I battled our way through the crowds until we could see the entrance to the school. After a few minutes of inane conversation, the school doors were opened. Children of all shapes and sizes poured out of the building, their chatter and laughter deafening. To my intense annoyance, I felt the beginnings of a migraine.

There were hundreds of children and I scanned as many as I could, looking for Toby. I became disorientated and dazed, disheartened when I couldn't find him.

Ironically, I became aware of Toby first of all when I heard him say hello in his high, childish voice. When I turned around, Toby was hugging Irene around the waist. His face was buried into her stomach and all I could see was his mop of bright, blond hair.

Then, without warning, he turned around and looked straight at me. He blinked, and rubbed his eyes.

I studied him as I waited for him to react. He had grown slightly and that barely noticeable change terrified me. I wondered about the other things I had missed – what he had achieved at school and what friends he had had over to play. He had only just turned five and I had no idea what the memory of such a young child was like. Would he remember me, or would the passing of time have made me a stranger? I knew I would be heartbroken if he had forgotten, and wrung my hands together anxiously as he assessed me.

I gasped in delight when he ran towards me and hugged me. He sobbed into my blouse and mumbled indistinctly, digging his fingers into me so I couldn't move away. Overwhelmed by emotion, I started to cry as well and, gently removing his arms from my waist, bent down so my eyes were level with his.

He spoke to me, asking me broken questions whenever he managed to suppress his tears: "Where did you go, sis? Why did you go and leave me and Mom and Dad alone?"

I attempted to show him how sorry I was. I presented him with explanations that I suspected he was too intelligent to believe and, upon seeing his incredulous face, crushed him against my chest in a choking embrace. He cried into my shirt and I kissed his soft, golden head tenderly, murmuring apologies.

Both of us were entirely oblivious to the crowd. When I moved my gaze away from Toby's head I saw that a gang of mothers were watching us, their gazes reminiscent of vultures who have just seen meat. A few vacant-eyed children also looked on, gawping idiotically. I turned my eyes to Irene, who was busy glaring at them. She saw that I had got my emotions under control and, after I had disentangled myself from Toby, we all hurried back to the privacy of the car.

The car was blissfully silent until Toby began questioning me. I would have been angry and frustrated if my interrogator had been Irene, but as it was Toby I kept myself calm and gave him the best answers I could think of. He eyed me dubiously on occasion but, to my relief, seemed to accept most of what I had to say.

Eventually there was a lapse in our conversation, and I asked Toby what his day had been like. He immediately launched into a long account of what he had done at school. His class had been painting their favorite animals. Toby had painted a lion and produced his painting from his backpack. I heaped it with praise, making him beam with pride.

I was momentarily taken aback by how comfortable he was with me, but soon dismissed that worry. He was child, and like most children he was as adaptable as Play-Doh.

When we got back home Toby got out first and ran up the path, waiting for me and Irene impatiently by the door. As soon as Irene had unlocked the door, he grabbed my hand and dragged me up the stairs and into his room. Just like the kitchen and the living room, everything in his room matched up perfectly with my memory of it: His story books were stacked untidily against a wall, his blue and green striped duvet was piled on his bed, and Lancelot was next to his pillow. The only new object in the room was a brawny action figure that produced distorted sounds when you pressed a button on its back. Toby picked it up and showed it to me. I told him I thought it was wonderful.

While Toby returned the figure to its place, I wandered over to the bed and picked up Lancelot, stroking his careworn fur and smiling at him absently. I asked Toby if he still played with him, and was promptly told no, not really. He had to be careful with him because he was my favorite, he didn't want to risk damaging him. Lancelot had always been my favorite and discovering that Toby continued to cherish him made my smile spread.

Toby had found a few of his favorite figures and was playing with them on the floor, and after returning Lancelot to the bed I joined him. He was delighted to have someone to play with, and told me in a remarkably solemn voice that he was He-Man and I was his archenemy, Skeletor. I moved my action figure around mechanically while Toby enthusiastically simulated battle cries and repeatedly tried to knock my figure over, winning every time because I held it loosely.

I didn't pay much attention to the game; instead I listened to the sounds that came from downstairs. There wasn't much to hear apart from the distant slosh of water as Irene did the dishes, but I listened anyway. Toby's shouts made my head hurt and the gentle sounds of the dishwater were comparatively soothing. After a few minutes, I heard Irene empty the sink and turn the television on. I returned my attention to Toby; I had no desire to listen to one of her soap operas.

The game stopped instantly when Toby and I heard the front door open. We abandoned our respective roles and hurried downstairs.

I traced the quiet murmurs to the living room, but was reluctant to go in. I was afraid that he would be angry with me. Daddy was a mild person most of the time, but when he got angry – everyone does – I found nothing more abhorrent. But before I could succumb to my fear and run back upstairs, Toby slipped his hand into mine and led me into the room.

I blurted out "Hello," and Daddy turned to look at me. He was unchanged: he wore his grey work suit and had placed his briefcase at the foot of his chair. He was standing and staring straight at me, unusually alert. His gaze was unnerving. I walked over to him, panicking silently. I spoke again, saying sorry and apologizing for causing him so much trouble. I nipped my bottom lip tightly to stop it shaking as I waited for him to answer.

The next thing I knew, I was being embraced. I started to cry, overwhelmed by joy. Daddy wasn't angry with me.

We spoke and his words made everything better. He told me that Irene had explained everything and he assured me that he understood. He forgave me. He squeezed my hand and wiped my eyes dry with his handkerchief, smiling reassuringly when I thanked him.

He told me not to worry, and made me promise not to think about what had happened. What was done was done; it was in the past. He would say nothing more about it as long as I did the same.

I agreed happily and nothing more was said about where I had been and why.

Things were better that way.

…

…

…

The speed with which ordinariness returned startled me in the beginning. Everything prior to waking up and finding Irene felt like a nightmare and I started to treat it as such. There was no evidence to support the fact that my horrible experiences had been real, nothing tangible anyway. They were nightmares, that was all. Nothing to worry about. All smiles.

Toby finished school a few days after I came back and I spent a great deal of my time with him. I played with him, read him stories I had loved when I was a little girl, and woke up early on Saturdays to watch cartoons with him. Every moment I spent with him was precious and I was determined not to waste any time.

We had a belated party to commemorate my eighteenth birthday. Irene baked me a cake and I opened presents they had bought and wrapped for me without knowing whether I would ever be able to open them. The joy I felt from all the effort they had went to to give me a great party was nothing next to that which sprung from that which I felt from celebrating it with my family. Even Nana came, despite her illness; I had been afraid she wouldn't be able to make it. I exclaimed over every present, exaggerated every positive feeling to the point of hysteria.

I rarely doubted the reality of my experiences. Everything was wonderful. Irene continued to be just as kind and Toby just as adorable.

On the other hand, Dad's behavior was peculiar. He was odd; something about him had changed. There had always been some measure of distance between us but the tensions were worse when I came back, despite what he told me at our reunion. I quickly got the impression he was avoiding me. When I did see him he always seemed to be apart from the rest of us. He would stand in doorways and look inside without entering. He would pass me in the corridor, glance, but not speak to me.

His behavior made me that he had never forgiven me. He had lied; he nursed wounds that would only heal with time, patience, and good behavior.

I resolved to be a good daughter. If looking at me and considering what I had done was painful for him, I would avoid him. After that decision was made, life became infinitely more comfortable for both of us. I was content with the company of Irene and Toby, and my father seemed to like isolation.

I made good use of my time, passing most of the summer with Toby. I indulged him, gave him everything he asked for. One day, when he begged me to take him to the arcade in a town that could only be reached by a two hour bus ride, I took him. On another occasion, he demanded an expensive toy Robot he had wanted for a year. Being penniless, I begged the money I needed to buy it with from Irene, producing an old, holey coat I hadn't worn since I was thirteen to persuade her that I just had to get a new one. She gave me the money instantly, freely expressing her horror.

Toby and I spent lots of time playing silly, childish games together. We acted out Cowboys and Indians dozens of times and I always ended up being the tragic, doomed Indian. I soon perfected a death act. When Toby's plastic pistol sounded my hands would seize my heart and I would keel over, sprawling elaborately over the grass and remaining perfectly still until Toby ordered me to stop being silly and put on my Skeletor voice for him.

No one told me to stop. No one told me how silly it was that an eighteen-year-old woman should play with a five-year-old boy like they were both the same age. I was glad; I did not want to be reminded of who I really was. Sarah Katherine Williams was a desperate fool who looked out of windows and saw nothing but bleakness and desolation. The Sarah I became when I was with Toby saw joy in every little thing and put creases around the corners of her mouth because she smiled too much.

I, the Sarah with the world view of an idealistic five-year-old, lacked the remotest interest in what eighteen-year-old girls were supposed to be interested in. When Irene told me that one of the girls from my year at school had got engaged, I was shocked. Eighteen was far too young to get married as far I was concerned. I shook my head gravely, concluding that Claudia Peake was a very silly girl.

Irene relayed similar gossip to me constantly; she was like a machine, efficient and relentless in her delivery of words. I had no job and no friends, and was obliged to act as her constant companion when Toby returned to school. She liked my company, although I was not really glad for hers. Irene, to be blunt, had no imagination. Sometimes, when I was sat with her, I wondered if she dreamed. I concluded that if she did, she dreamed about people whose faces she knew and events very likely to occur.

Gradually, her conversation became unbearable. I did not want to hear another word about the contents of her shopping list, nor did I care about what the Grovers were doing at the weekend. To spare myself further torment, I formulated a plan: I would get a job, one that would allow me to work with children.

I told Irene about my ambition, and asked if she could help me. She was pleased that I had a desire to work and asked a friend of hers who owned a daycare center if she could get me a job. I was working at the place within a week.

I loved it, and I spent most of my work hours smiling. I helped the children make sandcastles, praised them when they were good, and settled arguments over the gauzy fairy princess costume that every little girl in the building longed to wear. Occasionally, I felt guilty for having as much fun as the children.

Time flew by. Every day was exactly like the one before and I liked it that way.

But despite all of my efforts to forget my doubts, I could not. Occasionally, I would remember things that I could not easily dismiss. I began to mull over my troubling memories before I went to sleep in the evenings and devoted a great deal of time to deciding whether or not they were real. I had impressions of many things. One of them involved warm fingers that should have been cold, another told me that my mouth was dry and my lips were cracked. On one occasion I remembered a strange, outrageously dramatic conversation; nothing I tried stopped the words swilling around in my mind.

To combat my anxieties, I tried to distract myself. I worked extra hours at the daycare center, pretending to offer my services reluctantly for the sake of appearances when I was actually grateful. I took Toby to school and picked him up afterward. We walked there and back, and I took immense pleasure in the soothing plainness of the scenery.

My efforts failed; the worries never went away. If anything, they became more intrusive. Worries abounded. When I was walking to Toby's school, I stared intently at cracks in the pavement and asked myself why nothing had changed. Stasis was evident in everything. The seasons and the weather altered, but they were the exceptions. Nothing new was built, nothing was damaged or altered. No new programs turned up on television and the films being shown at the cinema were always the same. Rambo III and Killer Klowns from Outer Space must have grossed record figures based on the number of sell-out showings they enjoyed in my town. It was the May of 1989, but everything was exactly as it had been a year before.

I realized most of what I have described above soon after arriving. When sorting through the papers on my desk, I found two envelopes; one was addressed to my parents and the other was meant for Toby. Neither of them had been opened and I cut them both into small, jagged pieces with scissors before they could be found. I forgot them successfully, and that self-imposed amnesia lasted for most of the year. My beautiful life was only truly soured by the discovery of a piece of one of the destroyed letters towards the end of May; the few legible words on the fragment of paper I found behind my trashcan – although meaningless in themselves – recalled everything I had tried to suppress. Why had my letters never been opened? Why did Dad hide himself away? Why did everything feel very slightly wrong?

Those little, nagging doubts didn't take long to blossom into big ones.

In a final, desperate attempt to forget, I started taking trips to the library again. The staff smiled at me when I passed them; they all remembered me from before and they were all the same, right down to the clothes they wore. I smiled back at them hastily, and hurried past with my books, averting my eyes so I would not have to see their unnaturally happy faces.

After reading around a dozen forgettable books, I felt an impulse to read Wuthering Heights. I started reading it while in the library and stopped halfway through chapter two. It was not that it was a bad book; it was just that it was wrong. What I read of the Wuthering Heights in the library bore no resemblance to the Wuthering Heights I had started to read in my little room in the city.

I returned the book to its place calmly. Nothing was confirmed, I told myself. For all I knew, Emily Brontë had written an alternative version of her book where Cathy and Heathcliff confessed their undying love for each other in chapter two.

I told myself that I had to be happy. I had to go on as normal until I was absolutely certain I was occupying a fabricated world.

When I got home, I tested what the book had virtually proved. I made myself a cup of coffee, carried it into the living room and tipped it onto the carpet in front of Irene. She sprung up from her seat and hurried out into the kitchen for a cloth. I watched the spot that I had damaged intently and the mark was gone by the time Irene returned to the room with a cloth. The fact the stain had disappeared did not stop her dropping to her knees and scrubbing the relevant piece of carpet aggressively. She didn't notice when I walked out of the room; she was too busy muttering about what she was going to make for dinner.

The real Irene would have screamed. She would have ordered me to scrub the carpet until it was spotless. She would have grounded me for a week.

I walked numbly into my room. Everything there felt surreal. The walls seemed less solid because I knew they were not really there. The family photos that I had spread all over the room felt like photocopies when I handled them. Suddenly, I felt terribly afraid. I had no idea where I was, not really. I could have been anywhere and anything could have been happening to me. Terrible things, unspeakably terribly things, could have been happening to me and I would never know.

I mulled over similar thoughts for hours as I sat on my bed. I only got up when Irene called me down for dinner and even then I barely spoke. It hardly seemed worth it. I ate without tasting what went into my mouth and kept my eyes on the vase centerpiece. I did not want to look at my fake family.

I was occupying a fantasy world. Everything I was experiencing was a reflection of my wishes. When I wanted something, I received it; when I disliked something, it disappeared. It became clear that nothing of the past year had been real. I couldn't help but wonder why I hadn't accepted the truth sooner.

It made sense, really. He had told me that I was gone, that no one person on Earth could see me. If he had been telling the truth, it was impossible for me to have interacted with my family. I had spent a year participating in imaginary conversations and studying imaginary expressions. Suddenly, painless feet and open doors were magically comprehensible. My life was a product of chance and improbability.

I just had to decide what I wanted to do about it.

…

…

…

The next day was a Saturday. I was free from work and it was a sunny day so, when Irene asked me to, I took Toby to the park. I felt I needed a distraction.

He chatted to me throughout the entire journey. I wanted him to shut up. I wanted him to stop trying to be real when he wasn't. I wanted him to help make my decision easy.

He rambled on for what seemed like hours, telling me that he and his friend Jamie were learning about the Vikings at school and they were going to be dressing up in horned hats for a presentation. He also told me all about his 'girlfriend' Sophie, describing in detail her blonde curly hair and boasting that she was the prettiest girl in his class. He paused, and clearly expected me to comment. Bluntly, I told him she sounded very nice.

He stopped walking immediately and peered up at me forlornly, asking what was wrong. Guiltily, I smiled in apology. I told him I had a lot on my mind, and that there was nothing for him to worry about. He seemed satisfied by my answer and raced in the direction of the swings.

I let him run ahead, smiling happily as I watched him go. It was a beautiful day and, despite everything, the sunshine put me in a good mood and helped me forget. As Toby became a tiny figure in the distance, I started to chase him and laughed loudly when he increased his speed.

Toby reached the swing first and pulled himself onto it. He was energetically swinging his legs back and forth by the time I reached the gate of the playground. He ordered me to push him and whooped gleefully when I did, sending him high into the air.

Pushing Toby exhausted me quickly, and the swing slowed. Toby complained – why had I stopped pushing? I told him that I was tired and had to rest. Upon finding a bench, I sat down and remembered how wonderful sitting down has the potential to feel.

He came and sat beside me. When I didn't pay attention to him, he laid his head against my chest. I was taken aback and quietly asked him if anything was wrong.

He told me that he knew I was going away again. I panicked instantly because he sounded strangely solemn; it was as if he was certain of the truth of what he was saying. I insisted I was not leaving, looking at his doleful expression in agony. The sight of him made me want to cry. I couldn't tell him the truth, I just couldn't. My callousness did not extend to telling a five-year-old he only existed inside my imagination.

Instead of speaking, I stroked his hair and allowed him to cuddle me. After a long pause, I told him that everything was okay. He asked me if I would stay and I said yes, and I meant it. He was too sweet; I couldn't bring myself to hurt him. Whether he was real or not had ceased to matter; I held by baby brother in my arms. He loved me and I loved him, and that meant the world to me.

We sat on the grass and, after I had taught Toby how, put daisy chains together. The sun was stunningly bright, and I could barely see because of its glare. When we had cleared the surrounding grass of all its daisies, I showed Toby how to make his rope of daisies into a loop. When he had finished it, he put it over my head, beaming at me with pride and saying that he had made it especially for me. I embraced him, pressing him against my chest and kissing his sun-bleached hair.

The illusion was beautiful, too beautiful. I replaced the truth with the sight of Toby's embarrassed grin and breathed in the fragrant summer air.

...

...

...

I worked hard to forget that I inhabited a fabrication. The thought of letting go became terrifying, more terrifying than the thought of what might be happening to me in reality. I clung the fabrication desperately, in the same way a shipwrecked man clings to a rotting piece of wood to keep himself alive.

I had to work hard to maintain my smile. My nights were frequently disturbed by memories, and I slept poorly. I covered my face in suffocating layers of make-up to disguise the limp, grey skin ringing my eyes, worked hard at the daycare center, and lavished Toby with attention.

My intense devotion to my environment paid off: life improved. I got promoted at work; Toby became more appreciative of me; Irene became quieter and I was spared her high-pitched, grating voice and petty conversation.

However, the change in Dad made me happier than all of the other improvements put together. Out of the blue, he took Irene and me out to dinner and was charming and relaxed. He commented on how pretty I was getting and made me feel pleasantly uneasy, joking that I would have to fight guys off with a stick. Irene smiled neutrally the entire time; she didn't seem to mind the fact we were ignoring her.

May was soon succeeded by June, and my birthday came steadily closer. I would be nineteen, and I couldn't remember the last time I had been as excited about my birthday. I decided the day was going to be a landmark, a proper celebration.

I decided I wanted a party and booked a venue. My party would be on the Saturday after my birthday and, assured of that information, I wrote invitations out to all the names I could think of. I was thrilled when every person I invited told me they would come.

The next day I woke up to find a letter waiting for me on the doormat. It wasn't junk mail; the address had been handwritten in beautifully turned-out letters. I didn't recognize the script.

Curious, I tore it open and pulled out a letter.

I froze after reading the first few lines; it was from my mother. She was sorry for not writing. She had been incredibly busy with her career. But she missed me; she had always missed me and was sorry for going away. She was coming back to see me for my birthday and make up for all the time she had been away. She loved me very, very much. Dozens of kisses blackened the bottom of the page. They blurred, bleeding into each other when my tears fell onto the paper.

I ran into the living room, thrusting the letter out towards Dad and explaining exactly what it said in a breathless, excited voice. He took it from me gently, scanning it as I waited in a haze by his side.

He was cross at first, I saw his face droop into a sad, tired frown. He expressed doubts about Mom's sincerity, telling me it might be better it she didn't come. I was hit by a sudden, terrible fear that he wouldn't allow me to see her, and I explained the letter to him again, carefully highlighting Mom's heartfelt apologies and perfectly expressed regrets. He gave in eventually, telling me she could come as long as I wanted her to.

I threw my arms around his neck and thanked him a dozen times, kissing his face and laughing.

Everything was going to be all right.

...

...

...

I spent the whole afternoon getting ready for Mom. I brought a pretty red dress in town and spent hours making myself worthy of it. I applied my make-up meticulously, practiced smiles, held banal conversations with my mirror and continually adjusted various aspects of my appearance. My hair was always wrong and my make-up was either virtually non-existent or spread too thickly. I fretted for hours, only calming down when Irene walked in and told me that I looked stunning. Her comment made me blush with pleasure, and I decided it was time I went downstairs.

I shivered slightly as I walked down the stairs. I was going to see my mom. My real, living, breathing mom. The thought of seeing her in the flesh for the first time in years was simultaneously terrifying and incredible.

We had exchanged calls; she had left me her number in the letter. She had the sweetest voice and said the kindest things to me. Every other word seemed to be sorry, and my face was stained with tears by the end of our first conversation. She had missed me just as intensely as I had missed her.

Dad met me at the bottom of the stairs, and smiled reassuringly. He said I looked beautiful, firmly telling me not be scared and to deal with the reunion as well as I could.

Mom was arriving at six, and as I had half an hour to wait. I killed time by playing with Toby. All my stress evaporated when I was with him. He asked me silly questions about my appearance and made disgusted faces whenever he picked up on the adult's excited chatter about my beauty. I was careful to preserve my appearance and constantly reminded Toby not to touch me as I helped him do a puzzle.

The puzzle was simple, but I was too dazed with the thought of my mom's imminent arrival to help much. For a few minutes, I doubted her. Had she meant her apologies? Did she just want to say sorry or was there something else, another reason for her interest in me?

I couldn't help but wonder what she would look like. My clippings of her had stopped years before, and my memories of her face were foggy. In my mind, she was a magazine cover. The picture had been taken for a minor teen magazine, not long after her high school graduation. In the image, she wore a blue, polka-dotted dress, her black hair was pin straight and she had turned her head toward to the camera. Her red mouth was caught in an enigmatic half-smile, her cheeks were pink and soft, and the outline of her lovely blue eyes had been traced with silver eye shadow. She was the image of perfection.

I moved the puzzle pieces around lazily, disinterested in the game. My hand stopped when the door bell rang, and eyes darted to the clock. It was five to six; she was early.

I climbed up carefully and headed over to the door. Irene and Dad stood at a comfortable distance, watching me with kindly, encouraging expressions. I shot them a smile before opening the door; I wanted to reassure them everything was going to be okay.

A dark haired woman stood in the porch, smiling and stepping forward to embrace me. She squeezed me in an embrace, attacking both my cheeks with kisses. Her long, soft hair swung forward to tease my cheek, and I started to panic. I drew away, and looked at her from a distance. She was dressed in a flounced, polka dotted dress, her lips were red from thickly applied lip-stick and her smile was forced, an ugly strain on her beautiful face.

She was completely artificial.

I backed away from her in shock and swung my eyes around my surroundings, taking in everything. Irene and Dad held their stiff arms around each other, and looked like they were posing for the cover of a marriage manual. In the next room, Toby played obliviously with his puzzle on the floor, his tongue stuck out slightly in concentration. Something about the image was wrong, and as I watched him I remembered that Toby liked shredding puzzle pieces into bits with his deceptively little hands.

It wasn't just my mother; my whole family was a fabrication.

I couldn't bear the sight of them and ran, pushing past my mother and running out onto the porch where I inhaled the cool evening air. My mother turned around and looked at me tenderly. She extended a hand towards me, making me hurry further back, down the steps. I was terrified by the possibility of her touch.

She asked me what was wrong, called me sweetie and asked me to kiss her in a girlish, innocent voice. I moved further back, distraught by the sight of her. She seemed puzzled by my reaction, creasing her brow and asking me what was wrong.

I answered her bitterly "Everything. You left us when I was four and you would never have come back to us, not in the real world. You loved yourself too much; you could never get over your ambitions. You haven't sent me birthday cards in years, you've never visited me. You don't love me, not really. The only thing you love is attention, and you don't care who it comes from. None of this is real." I started choking on my hurt and anger, sobbing breathlessly as I turned away from her. I couldn't bear looking at her.

When I recovered, I glanced inside the front hall of the house. Dad had left Irene by the stairs, and was standing beside Mom. His arm was around her tightly pinned waist, and she gazed at him adoringly. He ignored her to look straight at me, creasing his brow in incomprehension. "What are you saying, Sarah? Of course we're real. How could we be anything else?" He paused, sighing. "It was bad of you to say those terrible things about your mother, look at her." My eyes darted to her face; she looked at me with a soft, kindly face. "She loves you, just like she loves me." He briefly turned his head to Mom, smiling at her charmingly. She just stared at him, looking vacant eyed and lovely; her face was a picture of complete absorption. "See? We love each other, so everything's all right again. I expected you to be glad, Buttercup."

I stared at them, dumbstruck. I wanted to run to them, to embrace them both at once and become a part of their cozy, loving group.

Dad slowly turned his gaze to me, displaying the same smile he had used on my mother. It was a frightening smile, and seemed terribly wrong. I was winded by a sharp, sickening pain in my stomach.

As I looked at him his features became blurred and indistinct, like they were being seen through smoke. When the image cleared, my father had gone. Jareth was watching me. His hair had been cut short and styled just like my Dad's and wore his navy-blue suit, but I knew he was an imposter. His face was strange, repellently alien.

I had taken the place of my mother, although the changes were negligible. We both had the same long, dark hair, bow-shaped lips, and height. The only thing to change in the girl was her build: every trace of health had been stripped from her body. Her face was gaunt and tightly drawn, her limbs pathetically thin. The dress overwhelmed her, hanging from her body like a sack. She was deeply asleep and her skin was transparently pale, ice-like.

Jareth was propping her up, not embracing her but holding her stiffly, as one might hold a mannequin. He didn't look at her at all, but gazed straight at me. He seemed full of wonder. I observed him, twisting my face up in revulsion as I stared.

He parted his lips to speak, but did not make any noise. The whole world had gone perfectly silent. I ran down the rest of the porch quickly, shouting, "I hate you! I hate you! I will never forgive you for this! Never!"

No one answered, nor did anyone follow. I looked back briefly, but only saw the dim glow that emanated from the front hall of the house.

I turned away completely, running away at full pelt. It was dark and cold, both conditions were unnatural for July. I hugged myself as I ran, rubbing my arms frantically to generate some heat. But no amount of running and rubbing my arms stopped me trembling as I remembered the icy pallor of my face.

I ran without knowing where I was going, uncaring of my destination. I intuitively knew I would have been running in the direction of the park if I was in the real world, but didn't take that for granted. I knew the world I was running through was not real.

The exertion soon made me immune to the cold, and I started sweating. Soon, I panted from thirst. I started assuring myself that I was probably not thirsty in reality, and my parched throat was quickly forgotten. My real body could have been feeling anything imaginable; my feelings were just one aspect of an exceptionally intricate hallucination.

Within a minute, my feet were crushing grass underfoot; I was in the park. I had not escaped my fantasy, and was – for some inexplicable reason – clinging onto the irrelevant logic of my past. The grass was dewy and soft and soothed my aching feet.

Meanwhile, I desperately worked at a solution. How could I possibly escape a fantasy? Did I have to rage and scream at the sky? Did I have to beg? I didn't want that; I despised the idea of that. I would not let myself be dependent on his pity.

I looked around quickly, paranoid, but despite looking hard, I didn't see a soul.

I kept walking but slipped, skidding down a bank that I had forgotten and plunging underneath the surface of the water. I fell an unbearably long time, which was strange because the real river was only good for paddling in. I tried to scream, but dozens of bubbles surged out of my mouth instead of words. Water poured down my throat, filling my lungs, choking me.

I closed my eyes and ignored the swiftly dulling pain. I was escaping.

……

……

……

……

……

……

Something very important I forgot about before - HAPPY EASTER!

Finished edits 12.04.09. Happy to have finished them. Everything completely redone. Hopefully better now.

Many thanks go out to NiennaTelrunya for betaing this.

Please review. I have invested this story with a lot of time and effort, and am hungry for feedback! I will reply, and I like I said above, I will leave you a hint.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Please check out my livejournal, to be found on my profile. It contains lots and lots of goodies that should help to illuminate things.

Night night.