Two
Rose huddled in the corner, head down. There was nothing else to do. Today was the same as every day, without variation. Faintly, she recalled a time when she wasn't in the dungeon – as she had come to think of these four dark walls with only an iron grate leading up into the hospital for light and a slab with a mattress for a bed – but lately, she had no desire to dwell on it. Lately was all she could have said about the time, for time disappeared in this place; days and nights ran together, indistinguishable, unable to be counted. Months could have passed, although it felt more like years. She wasn't sure how many.
Before, she'd just turned eighteen. Everyone else in Storybrooke seemed to have a plan – college, job, marriage even – but not her. And it was because of her father. Everything was because of him. He put her into her first prison, the one called home, and then he put her into this one. After a while, she came to realize that as bad as this place was, the other one had been worse.
Memories came and went. She didn't encourage them to stay. What was the use in remembering a childhood unlived, cooped up at home, unable to have a social life or join any sports or activities at school? Her books had been her only friends in that awful house; her mind, her only means of escape.
But as dreadful as being trapped and hidden from the world had been, Rose had endured something far more terrible, something no one had known about the one they called 'the weird girl.' The first time her father came into her room, she'd told herself it was only a bad dream. But that nightmare repeated, again and again, until she would have done anything to be free of it. Until dreams from books couldn't erase the horror of the way she'd been touched, and struck when she fought back. Until the only escape she could see lay in pills, or razor blades, or the last time, a kitchen knife.
The knife had gotten her thrown in here – literally, in fact, by that mannequin of a nurse with the ice-cream rolled hair – and from here, there was no escape. The only occurrences of any note were the occasional cold shower to keep her clean, monitored closely by an orderly, and the rare times when she saw a face other than the nurse's or the orderly's peering in at her. The other woman had come only twice – once, a long time ago, and once more recently – another cruel beauty, like the nurse, with eyes sharp and unfriendly as thorns. Who she was, Rose didn't know. She supposed it didn't matter.
Then, she heard the sounds. A man's voice, unfamiliar, with an odd accent, arguing heatedly with the nurse. Another woman's voice, steadier but just as insistent. The angry clacking of the nurse's shoes as she came closer, and other footsteps following behind. Rose cringed as the door unlocked and swung inward, revealing two people she'd never seen in her life – one a pretty blonde woman with a no-nonsense face, the other a curious man with long sandy-brown hair and a cane. Hook-nosed, rail-thin and barely average height, he was a far cry from the porcelain perfection of her only other visitors in the cell. It almost relieved her.
The blonde woman looked around her dungeon, aghast. "This is a psych ward? Even prisons don't look this bad," she remarked.
"It meets regulations," the stern nurse argued coldly.
"The hell it does." When the man spoke, his voice was level, but held an unspeakable fury just beneath the surface. His eyes locked with Rose's for a moment, and she saw a deep sadness in them, before he turned with vitriol on the nurse. "As soon as I can arrange it, this place is going to be sealed off and the patients transferred somewhere fit for human beings. In the meantime, you, madam, need to look for other employment."
"I beg your pardon?" the nurse said through tight lips.
He leaned forward menacingly. "You're fired."
The icy woman narrowed her eyes. "You can't fire me!"
"I just did. Now get out."
The nurse stomped away, and the blonde woman started to come closer. Rose flinched. The man held an arm up to the blonde, and murmured, "Can I have a moment?"
Pursing her lips, the woman nodded. "Of course."
The long-haired man limped forward, clearly needing the cane for more than show, although his tailored suit indicated that he was wealthy enough to afford the best care. When she drew back a little, one of his hands went up in front of him; a gesture of surrender. "Don't be afraid. I've not come to hurt you."
Could she still speak? She wasn't sure. "Who are you?" she rasped, her voice hoarse due to long unuse.
"A friend," he answered without hesitation. His voice was so warm, she almost believed it. "You don't remember me at all, do you?"
Rose shook her head. "Should I?"
"I suppose not." He tucked his chin to his chest, disappearing for a moment behind his hair. "I've come to have you taken out of this – this dungeon."
Her eyes widened with the first hope she could remember feeling in her life. "You mean I'm – I'm free?"
"Not exactly," he said. His peculiar countenance was vexed, but not with her; his eyes were looking off, thinking of someone else. "Not yet. But I'm doing everything I can to make that happen."
"Then where am I going?" she asked worriedly.
"There's a clinic closeby. It's nothing grand, but you'll be allowed company and to go outside in the fresh air." He met her eye again, his own suddenly weary, and forlorn. It seemed as though he'd seen as much sorrow in his life as she had in hers – perhaps more.
"Outside?" Rose echoed. Who was this man, and why was he being so kind to her? He seemed so familiar… and yet, not at all. She stirred up from her bed, such as it was, and moved slowly towards him. "How is it we know each other? I wish I could remember."
"Maybe one day soon, you will," he murmured, as though it were his dearest hope. "For now, can we make a new start?"
"I'd like that." She outstretched her hand. "I'm Rose."
"Rose. That's a beautiful name." He took her hand as though it were the most delicate of china, that could be easily broken. His hand warmed her icy-cold fingers as it grasped them. "I'm Mr. Gold." He stopped himself, squeezing his eyes shut as though self-scolding. "Douglas," he corrected, giving her his first name.
"Douglas," she repeated, committing it to memory. She squeezed his hand in both of hers. "Thank you."
A touched breath escaped him before he could prevent it. His eyes fluttered shut. "No thanks necessary, dearie," he told her, clearly overwhelmed. "I'm only sorry I can't do more."
"We need to get her out of here," the blonde woman said then.
"I know," Mr. Gold nodded. "Go, then." He let go of her hands and stepped back, watching with haunted eyes as the woman took her by one arm.
"Wait!" Rose spoke up. "Will I see you again?"
"Nothing on this earth could keep me away," he promised. He followed them to the elevator, where an orderly met them and took Rose, who was shielding her eyes from the painful light.
"I didn't even know this place existed," Emma said once Rose had been escorted up to the main floor and out of the hospital.
"Neither did I. I don't think anyone did," Mr. Gold muttered. "She'll regret this."
Emma cocked an eyebrow. "Who will regret what?"
The man with the cane rolled his eyes at the sheriff. "Who is usually responsible for anything in this town that needs regretting?"
"Point taken," Emma relented, "but what could the mayor possibly have to do with putting a florist's daughter in solitary confinement?"
"One of these days, Miss Swan, you're going to see how everything is connected to everything else here," Mr. Gold condescendingly informed her. "I only hope I'm there to see the look on your face when you figure it out."
