A/N: And here we go! New update, and I explained further what I mentioned in the last update in this chapter. Enjoy! Love, Joanne.

29. What's Going On?

"BELLE!" shouted Mr. Gold as he ran to her side. He had successfully used his power, the last of his magic that could have been used in this world, to push her away from the tractor trailer. He hobbled over to where she had fallen, and tried to revive her. "Belle, please don't leave me. Please, Belle, don't die on me…"

He felt her delicate neck for a pulse, trying to ignore the nasty gash on her once beautiful forehead. "Oh God," he cried. "No, Belle. You can't… Please!"

The ambulance soon came, and I watched as they gently placed her on a stretcher. "Is there anything you can do for her?" I asked the EMT. "I will give you anything, pay you anything-"

"There is nothing we can do," said the man. "We are taking her body to the hospital to be examined. We will inform you of the results within the week."

The ambulance left, and Mr. Gold headed back to his car, unable to fully process what had just happened.

. . .

He was never really informed about what really happened to Belle. Regina made sure of it. She had Sydney Glass post an obituary of Belle French in The Mirror, and held him off on publishing an exposé on Mr. Gold and Belle's intimate relationship. "They aren't stupid," smirked Regina. "Gold will take all the blame for her death, and guilt can do nasty things to people…"

Mr. Gold read Belle's obituary and broke down as he read.

Belle French, 23

Miss Belle of Storybrook passed away suddenly yesterday. She was hit by a trucker coming out of The Blue Fairy late that night, and although efforts were made to try to revive her, she had slipped into a coma, and quietly passed away at the Storybrook hospital. Toxicology reports that traces of a deadly mix of drugs were found mixed in her system. The coroner reported first to The Mirror that it was not the impact, but the deadly mix of drugs and alcohol in her system that ultimately killed Miss French. Surviving is her father, Moe French, 55, who is currently indisposed at Storybrook Rehab Center.

"She died of drugs and alcohol?" he wondered out loud. "Why don't they say where she will be buried? There is something going on…"

He called the EMT, and got the machine. He growled into the phone. "Listen to me, you insignificant twit. I want information on Belle French's case. I want you to call me back as soon as you get this, and you will tell me where her body is, when and where she will be buried, and the REAL toxicology reports. If you delay in responding back to me, I will find you, and you will PAY!"

. . .

I opened my eyes, and all that I saw through my blurred vision were men in white lab coats putting IVs into my arms. I turned my head to get a better look at what they were doing to me, and one of them put a mask over my face, and I was instantly knocked out.

When I finally came to, I was in a dark room, all by myself. I wore nothing but a thin hospital gown in the stone cold room, and I shivered.

I tried to remember what had happened to me as I shakily tried to stand. The last thing I remembered was getting knocked off of my feet. My head throbbed, remembering the impact.

"Hello?" I called out. "Can anyone tell me where I am?"

There was only silence, and as I slowly began to remember the pain and heartache that Mr. Gold had caused, I began to scream.