TRIGGER WARNING: Parts of this story that may trigger traumatic memories, will be marked off with the bolded KEKEKEKEKE border.
Time Passed In Storybrooke: One Week, 10 hours, 47 Minutes.
He shot up in bed, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his face. His heart beat raced, and he quickly became light headed. He knew immediately what was wrong, but he couldn't bring himself to calm down. You have to slow your breathing Killian. It was just a dream. He tried to reassure himself, but it seemed more like a memory than a dream.
He had been fighting his way through what seemed like an army. He cut down man after man, but for each he killed, two seemed to take his place. She had been screaming his name, the golden haired lass, fighting hard against her captor to get to him, but the man holding her had snapped her neck, with no hesitation. She had died and there was nothing he could do. You don't even know her, you needn't worry about black knights killing her off. He thought cynically. But be that as it may, he couldn't get the image of her out of his mind. The way she screamed his name, fear in her voice, the way her neck snapped, and her voice was cut off. He panted harder, his vision swimming, and before he knew it, his vision was black.
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Across Town
It had seemed so real, and it scared her to death. Not the fact that she had died, but the fact that she had been screaming for the one handed man with the sapphire blue eyes. She didn't even know his name, but she had dreamed about him, had fought tooth and nail to get to him, and him to her. Even if the effort was in vain in the dream, it affected her in real life more than she realized. A few things dawned on her at this very moment. She was far from happy, she needed to get out of this house, this relationship, and she needed to find the mystery man that had inserted himself into her life, without so much as a word. She glanced at her fiancé lying next to her, and breathed a deep sigh. How had the man she had loved so much hurt her so bad? Had loved, she thought. As in past tense. She sucked in a sharp breath, before glancing at the slumbering form of the person whom had beat her, both physically and mentally. The more she thought about it, the more she came to understand that her love for Neal was in fact, in the past. She had let this man walk all over her, treat her like trash. She had gone down without a fight, she had quit on herself, and her baby. It won't happen again. She finally drifted off to a restless sleep, haunted by the sound of ocean waves, and the sight of stormy blue eyes.
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In the Morning
She awoke early the next morning, as always, and fixed both herself, and Neal breakfast, as a force of habit. She set his plate of food inside of the microwave to keep it warm, before gobbling down her serving. Next, she tiptoed around their shared bedroom, gathering the little belongings that she had, and tossing them into a backpack that she had borrowed from Neal. Stolen, she thought, adrenaline coursing through her veins at the idea. After all the things that this man had put her through, she was feeling vengeful, and rightfully so. He most definitely will not be getting this back. She grabbed the keys to her yellow bug, and hoisted the bag onto her shoulder. She was almost out the door before she looked down at her left hand, which still hung in a sling, as she had neglected to get it cast. She slowly, but surely wiggled the ring off of her finger, setting it on the kitchen table, right next to his whiskey glass from the night before, where he would be sure to find it.
This is it. I'm finally leaving. I can't go back after this. She thought, slightly unnerved by the idea. For a split second, she thought of going back, but quickly shook off the unease. She was ready. She was leaving, and she was never, ever coming back. She walked to her car with steady steps, and plopped down in the driver's seat, using her good arm to swing the back pack into the seat next to her. Reaching across her body, she closed the door, quiet enough so that it wouldn't disturb Neal. She put the keys in the ignition, and drove off towards the Women and Children's home.
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He awoke slowly, his head pounding, and his stomach aching. Shit, what the hell happened? He thought back to the night before, proud to acknowledge that he hadn't been drinking, so what in God's name could've caused the pain that he was suffering this fine morning? It was then that he remembered the dream, and the events that transpired after it. With a groan, he sat up, pushing last night from his mind. Bloody Hell, it's been a while since that's happened. A panic attack. He had had a God damn panic attack, the first one in at least five years. He rubbed his head, and scrunched his eyes closed, before forcing them open once again, and groped around on his bedside table for the aspirin bottle he kept there for occasions such as these. He found it and popped two pills, before dragging himself out of bed, and off to the shower. It was Sunday after all, and every Sunday, ever since he could remember, he volunteered at the Woman and Children's home. He did it for the kids that had been abandoned, like himself, and he did it for the woman who had been beaten by the poor bastard's they found themselves shacked up with. He even made a point not to get arrested the night before, so he could get there bright and early to help with the processing of new arrivals. Not that there were any. But he did it anyway, for himself, as much as the two brothers, and the girl that lived there. He turned off the water, and stumbled bleary eyed, out of the shower, fumbling around for a towel, and then his clothes. He finally found all the items he was looking for, and set out, expecting a day just like every other Sunday, but knowing somehow, that it would be quite different.