They say that the devil will whisper wicked things in your ear, will tempt you, and I think some part of me wanted it to happen. Hoped it would be true. But the devil, to me, was white wings in the dark. I would catch a glimpse sometimes, outside my window as I got ready for bed. I would feel a chill, wondering if he was watching me. I would tell myself it wasn't real. I was told it wasn't real. I'd been in therapy for years, unpacking my trauma and the delusions that came with it.
But I forgot about devils and white wings and whispers when I graduated college. I had less time to dream, then, caught up in a whirlwind of distraction. Thrust into a job, into worrying about money and taxes, I left some part of myself behind. When I came home I was exhausted, and I spent the free time I did have doing chores, aimlessly decompressing from work, or taking care of Toby. And then dad died, leaving me even more unmoored. Despite my fatigue, the nightmares were still locked away.
There were moments, however, when I wished there was more. Those quiet moments when I was alone with my thoughts, when I would stare out of my bedroom window and think of bargains and a clock striking thirteen. The labyrinth was like a dream, spider-silk thin in my memories. The more years that passed, the harder it was to hold onto. And yet, the more that real life threw at me, the more desperately I wanted it to be real. How can you truly heal when part of you craves what's hurting you?
I didn't see Hoggle or Sir Didymus or Ludo in the mirror anymore. And I felt deeply, irrevocably, alone. Even when I was with friends. Especially with my father gone. I should confide in real friends, they said.
Yet my longing for something beyond this life was a keen ache. The need for magic, for something more, is intrinsically human, but deep in my cavernous heart I knew I had experienced a world beyond this one—even if it was a world of my own making—and now the door was shut. I was lost and I might never find my way back. But that other world frightened me too. Seeing it meant I had lost control, that I opened something meant to stay closed forever.
I walk to the university just after sunrise, admiring the early dawn light against the brownstones. I like the quiet that morning offers and it has become a ritual to get to campus early, enjoy a cup of tea at the library, and read before work. It's my goal to work there someday, which is why I had both gotten an administration job at the university and applied for grad school. Though I have my reservations about turning my place of solace into my place of work.
Soft golden light shines on the clocktower as I make my way to the library. There is a swell of comfort that comes with routine. Every day I walk to campus, leaving the house at 6:30, and every day I arrive when the clock strikes 7, a few minutes faster than the clock on my phone. The bell tolls and I check its large, brass hands out of habit. My chest immediately tightens. The clock struck thirteen. I pull out my phone, desperate for a firmer hold on reality. 6:58am. I look back at the clock, only to find that it's normal again, its short hand hovering over VII. Covering my eyes with my hands, I take several deep breaths. I've been under a lot of stress, but that doesn't mean the visions will come back—perhaps I just need more rest. It's not real. I shake my head and walk to the library as the bell counts the hours. It tolls thirteen times.
With my cup of black tea, I make my way through the stacks, trailing my fingers along the spines. Familiarity, ritual. I think of another book—a slim, red volume with gold stamping. Flower crowns, white dresses, autumn rain. A clock with spinning hands. Black-gloves. My fingers constrict around my paper cup.
"Do you have those papers ready?" Amelia says, not sparing me a glance as she walks by my desk. She is trying to impress in her pencil skirt and I-mean-business blue. The president of the school is meeting with a big donor today and there is some inane pressure to dress up even though they would only briefly walk through our office.
"Almost." I feel more normal already in the hustle and bustle of the office. And while I often daydream about the day I'll be able to leave this job, I luxuriate in the comfort of the mundane. My buzzing brain has quieted to a low hum.
A flurry of nervous energy, Amelia sighs and fidgets. "Well, I'll go check downstairs and see when they will be arriving." I can hear her quick footsteps retreat down the hall and I smile, shaking my head.
When I receive what I need for the paperwork, I print it and walk into the president's office to set them on her desk. When I walk back out, Amelia has returned, slightly breathless.
"They are on the way here. Did you finish—"
"Yes, Amelia. It's on her desk."
The elevator dings and voices carry through the open door. Amelia and I both smooth our skirts simultaneously.
The group walks into our office, all handshakes and that particular laugh that is shared only between people of wealth. My jaw clenches with irritation. They stand, chatting, acting as if we aren't there, and Amelia and I share a look. She smiles conspiratorially and inclines her head towards the blond man with his back to us. Hot and rich she mouths. I smile and roll my eyes. And probably completely insufferable. I look back at the group, wishing they would retreat into the other office. But, as the man turns, I feel the blood drain from my face. He looks at me with mismatched eyes. I haven't seen anyone with eyes like that since…
I take a shaky breath and grab the desk for support. No, no, no. I was better. I am better.
"Sarah, are you all right?" Amelia whispers.
No, I'm not. I sink into a chair, raising my gaze to discover that the man's notice has returned to the group. We still are not introduced, we are just lowly administration assistants, but he catches my eye again as they walk to the president's office. His brief gaze is difficult to read—part curiosity, part amusement.
"I'm fine," I say as the door softly closes behind them. I stare at my hands and find myself practicing the steps I'd been taught years before. Focus. I look at my hands on the desk, I feel the glossy wood beneath my fingertips. I hear muffled voices. I breathe.
"Perhaps you should go home? You look so pale." Her brow is furrowed with concern.
I nod, sparing a glance to the closed door. "I'll take a half day. Thanks, Amelia." I grab my coat and my bag and leave the building as quickly as I can without running. I need a break. That's all. If I can just relax, rest, this will all go away. Like last time.
The cool autumn air is bracing and I take several deep breaths. I close my eyes. It wasn't him. Just someone who looks like him. These sudden intrusions of one world into another is a shock to the system. It frightens me, but there is that familiar pool of want in that dark room of my heart.
I walk to the library instead of walking home. I buy another cup of tea at the small café downstairs and find my favorite desk at the secluded spot on the third floor. I open my laptop and log into my email. The electronic version of the paperwork is still there and it would have his name. My numb fingers stumble over the keys, my face too close to the screen.
Edward Bennett.
I'm not sure what I expected. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Don't look for evidence to support the hallucinations, Sarah. Did I really think 'The Goblin King' would be printed on the paperwork? There is nothing of import through a Google search either. Just that he is an alumnus, some of the community work he's done, nothing strange. In the photos online, he looks nothing like Jareth. I shut my laptop. That strange yearning pulls at me while the tightness in my chest loosens. It's going to be okay.
Too shaken to be alone at home, I stay out until it's dark, venturing into a café when I get hungry. As the clock strikes ten—I tense, counting the hours—I gather my things to walk home. There is no sense in avoiding it and, at least, nothing has happened since I left work. Part of me begins to feel silly by how shaken I am. Life is just getting to me. That's all. My dad had passed away. Toby needs me. My mind is just inventing things so that I don't have to confront the real sources of my stress. I call Irene on the way home.
"Sarah?"
I smile. "Hi Irene." 'Mom' had never quite fit, but she feels like a lighthouse in the dark. "How are you?"
Her voice sounds tired. "Today has been a bit easier. Did you apply to grad school?"
"Yeah…just…walking home…"
"Are you all right, Sarah?"
"I'm fine. Just a weird day. Worried that the stress is getting to me."
There is a pause. "Is it happening again?"
"No I've….everything is under control."
"Have you given any more thought to getting a therapist? I know you said you didn't want to but … with all that's happened …"
"I'll think about it." And maybe I should. She has been trying to get me into grief counseling for a month.
"It's a lot right now. You help so much with Toby. I think you just need someone to talk to."
Perhaps it's her kind tone, or simply hearing the phrase 'you need someone to talk to', but my lower lip trembles. I know I've isolated myself, adrift at sea, clutching the goal of grad school like my only possession in the world.
"I'll find someone. Promise."
"You let me know if you need anything, okay? Toby is already asleep and I should head to bed. Text me when you get home."
"I will. Love you."
"Love you, sweet girl."
The sound of my oxfords on the sidewalk is like a metronome and I count the steps. Alone with my thoughts again. At least I'm only a few blocks from my apartment. Autumn leaves fall in the dim glow of the streetlamps and, for a moment, I remember why I love New England so much. I shove my hands deeper into my coat pockets and enjoy the way the cold air plays in my hair. I remember standing on a desert of red clay, overlooking a vast and winding labyrinth, the wind pulling at my clothes. It doesn't look that far.
Wings flutter behind me.
I whirl around and see only an empty sidewalk. I glare, even though my heart is racing. There is no sense in running from nothing, and yet I do. There is nothing there. I run down the sidewalk. I run down the endless stretch of a maze. I'm out of breath. I kick and scream because there are no turns or openings.
I drop my keys as I try to unlock the door. Fuck. I open and close the door with more force than is necessary and flip on the lights. My heart hammers in my chest as I lean back against the door and close my eyes. Home. Everything where I left it—my dishes in the sink, my piles of books everywhere, my papers on the coffee table. Why don't you come inside?
There is comfort in ritual—getting ready for bed, wearing my favorite silk robe, making a cup of chamomile tea with honey. By the time I get into bed I feel more relaxed, more rooted. I pull my computer into my lap and find the email of my previous therapist. I send her an email.
My phone chimes. Irene.
Are you home?
Yes!
Good.
Heart emoji
My phone chimes again. My therapist has already emailed me back. Except she tells me she is no longer practicing. She refers me to someone new. 'You'll be in good hands, Sarah.' His name is William Sharpe. Anxiety ripples through me at the thought of a new therapist, but I email him anyway to set up an appointment. I close my laptop.
I am so exhausted that, by the time I turn off the lights, my head barely has the chance to hit the pillow before I fall asleep. And so I don't see the barn owl at the window, looking down at me. But I do dream of the labyrinth, of falling into the oubliette, of gloved hands in my hair.
"Did you miss me, Sarah?" I can only hear his voice in the dark, speaking softly in my ear.
And when I wake up before dawn, I almost believe I'm still there, in his prison where people are left to be forgotten.
AN: This is my first fic and I hope you enjoy it! I'm not sure how long this will be, but I'm guessing about 10 chapters. I'm obsessed with Hannibal and I've been dying to write something inspired by it. Labyrinth seemed like the perfect fit.