Part 3
She isn't surprised that the peacefulness doesn't last long. She has never known any calmness after all and there is no reason to presume that she would get much of it now that she is getting to know this unusual man.
"Can you tell me your name?" the man, who wants her to call him Rumple, asks quietly.
She smiles a little herself at his question. Everyone has been calling her 'Belle' so far, ignoring her when she exclaimed that it isn't her name. He might have been the most insistent, before, but at least he's giving her the chance now to make clear for once and for all that she is not the woman everybody seems to think she is.
"I'm..."
Her eyes widen in horror when she is inwardly scrambling for that single word, the most important one of all. It is on the tip of her tongue, and yet, no matter how hard she tries, she can't fully recall it.
"I... I don't know," she whispers after several long seconds, panic welling up inside of her. "How can I not know my own name? How could I not know that I don't know?"
She casts a pleading look at him, hoping and almost expecting that he can provide her with some sort of answer, that he can bring some sense into the world which she has never understood, but which was never as confusing to her as it is right now.
"You knew once," he says, slowly and very carefully, those intent eyes never leaving her and making her feel as if not everything is hopeless. There is worry in them, and so very much pain. She wonders whether his grief has appeared recently or that it has been there since the day she first saw him, and that she simply hasn't noticed before. "You had a life, outside the hospital. But there was an... accident. Your memories were taken from you when we were at the town line, in the forest."
The words fully register in her mind after only a few seconds. It seems ridiculous. She does remember. She has been in the hospital... for as far as she can tell, she always has been.
But his theory does explain how she could end up on the road in the forest, with no idea how she got there. Indeed, for as long as she remembers she has longed to get out of the cell where she has been kept, to see the world that must be beyond the small windows of the tiny room where she is forced to spend her life. She wouldn't have just forgotten the very first time she left the hospital – not unless there was a very good reason to.
She recalls how easy it was to walk, how her legs had no trouble carrying her weight whatsoever, despite having hardly been used for as long as she can recall. Having had an actual life, freedom, would explain that.
And yet, she does remember the room in the basement of the hospital - only too well. She can take exactly four steps from the back to the front, and less than three from one side to the other. Tasteless meals are brought three times a day and she is allowed to take a brief, cold shower in the bathroom at the end of the corridor once a week. And every once in a while, she visits her. Just the thought of the dark haired woman with the cruel eyes makes her shiver.
The man who prefers to be called Rumple, by her at least, notices immediately. He leans slightly towards her, his hands extended, almost as if he wants to hold her. He withdraws almost as soon as he started moving however.
She should be relieved that he keeps his distance. She would have been, earlier. Now she almost wishes that he would get closer to her, because somewhere deep inside of her she senses that she feels better when she is in his arms.
He settles for reaching for her hands, only taking them in his own when he has brushed his pleasantly warm fingers tentatively against hers and she doesn't withdraw. The gesture seems somewhat awkward, but she isn't sure whether he doesn't know how to hold anyone's hands or because he's nervous touching hers – but then again, she has no point of reference for such things herself.
The panic that arose within before recedes somehow as she firmly reminds herself that no matter what's going on, no matter what has happened to her, she is at least safe for the time being. There is someone looking out for her now, even protecting her perhaps.
"It had to do with the crash," she mutters, realization dawning. It's the first time that something actually makes sense. She woke up after all while lying on the road, injured, with a damaged vehicle nearby.
He nods in reply, confirming her conclusion, but the way he moves his head just a bit too enthusiastically tells her that is more to the story. Finding that he is eager for her to accept anything less than the full truth doesn't upset her as much as it would have done before. That makes it easier to collect her thoughts and consider her words in order to reveal as much of the truth regarding her own life as she can.
"But I... I remember the hospital. I remember being here, downstairs, for a long time."
"That's because you were," he says, the sadness and regret in his eyes only increasing. "You were freed a few months ago. You created a life for yourself in the town. It seems you lost those memories in the accident."
"But how can I remember one thing and not the other?" she asks, trying to come to terms with the apparent fact that she was free for at least a while, despite not recalling any of it. "There's more going on, isn't there?"
"There is," he confirms after a while, lowering his head and sounding more resigned than she's heard him before, even when she broke his cup. "But I don't think telling you now is a wise course of action. It's not easy. You... your life has not been easy. For the time being, you might be better off not knowing all of it."
"What if I want to?"
She asks it more out of curiosity than anything else. She's confused enough as it is and she doesn't want to make it any worse, not straight away at least. She probably wouldn't know what to make of the things that might be told to her, not without knowing anything about who she actually is, who she was while she wasn't locked up in the hospital.
"You've got friends who could tell you about it. You spent time with miss Lucas. Miss Blanchard and miss Swan would be delighted to talk to you as well. And there is your father, of course."
Especially his last words are spoken with reluctance. Apparently, he doesn't really want her to talk to any of these people, not yet at least, but it's something that she can't consider right now. Similarly, she is very much aware that he doesn't mention himself as someone who she could talk to in order to find out about her life. But that too has to wait, since the person who he mentioned last dominates her thoughts for the time being.
"My father..."
She shakes her head, trying to remember the man who must have raised her. She didn't really know that she has a father, but at his mention there is a feeling both of comfort and dread in her stomach. It's as conflicting as just about everything she has experienced since finding herself injured on the road in the forest.
More than ever before, she's aware that she might not be who she thinks she is, that she possibly has had a life which she can't remember. Whether that's really the case or not, at this point there's no denying that all the people she's met in the past few days, and this man in particular, apparently know more about her than she does about herself.
Perhaps the most unexplainable, the most disturbing, is that they seemingly all say the same things about her and the life which can't be hers.
"All of you know me as Belle, don't you?" she says quietly, the words as much a question as as statement.
The man opposite her nods, this time without doubt or reluctance.
"I am Belle."
He nods again, but with a decreased conviction which she doesn't fail to notice.
"You are Belle," he hastily says at her change of expression. "But you don't have the memories that make you Belle... or at least, not the Belle I... we know. But I'll find a way to reverse it, to give you back your memories. It may take a time, but I'm going to find a way."
She listens closely to his reply, considering the girl who she is and the woman who she is supposed to be, according to the people she's met. It's as confusing as it is wonderful, an undeniable part of her wanting to have the life those people are hinting at... to be the woman who is free and has people, friends, who care for her.
"Would it be all right for me to... be Belle?"
She might be Belle according to him and the others, but she doesn't feel like Belle, whoever she is or has been. The last thing she want is being an impostor, to try to be someone who she is not. And yet...
She expected him to agree immediately, given how eager he was before. But he is reluctant to answer her, studying her intently instead. She can almost see the carefully considered thoughts running through his head, along with the strong emotions which all but consume him whenever they meet. It's easy to imagine the two extremes clashing violently, rationality and emotion struggling for domination within him.
The silence grows and she becomes uncomfortable once more as she thinks of the answers he might give her. The way he tried to bring back her memories earlier implies that he really, really wants her to be the woman he remembers with such fondness.
But that doesn't change that she isn't that woman any longer, not as long as she can't recall anything of the life she apparently had. Indeed, Belle highly doubts that she could be the woman she is said to be even if she wanted to as desperately as this man does.
"You should be who you want to be. In a way, you are the woman who I know. But without your memories... But you are your own person no matter what. I think you should try to be what feels true to you."
She nods at his words, agreeing. It's not just that she's intuitively the most comfortable with this option; she wouldn't really know how else to approach the unknown life ahead of her.
"Thank you," she says, placing a hand on his arm with only some hesitance to empathize her words. She isn't certain whether that gesture will help to make clear to him that she is truly grateful that he gives her helpful advice and is so willing to support her in the first place.
Judging from the way he smiles a little and carefully covers her hand with his own, just for a moment, she has definitely succeeded.
She makes a point of storing this information to the back of her mind, intend on making new memories in case it's true that she can't access her old ones. Either way, she is more and more convinced that she wants to spend more time with this man. She wants to get to know him better, to comfort him again if needed, and such gestures will perhaps be very useful in the future.
"And thank you," he says, adding to her confusion by repeating her earlier words of gratitude. His words are so heartfelt that they seem to refer to much more than the way she just held him, which is the only reason she can think of for him to express such thankfulness.
"Whatever for?" If anything, she has only upset him so far, no matter how inadvertently. "As far as I can remember I've met you only a few times, and all I seem to do is hurt you."
"I was the one who upset you," he says, raising his voice slightly. "I shouldn't have pushed you and I can't apologize enough for doing so. You were... frightened of me. And yet, you came to me when you saw me here. You helped me when you didn't have any reason to do so. And you did it anyway."
"I'm glad I did. It's true that you scared me, before, but... you are not like I thought you were."
She studies him, focusing merely on his physical appearance for the first time now that he just sits there, patiently enduring her gaze.
His suit is rumpled and she has never seen anything quite like the various layers of black material, but she can tell that his clothing is as beautiful and impressive as it must be expensive. She recalls that he walked with the aid of a cane and that his leg was awkwardly bended when she held him, but there's no visible injury that would require such a tool now that he is sitting next to her like this.
His hair is quite long, much more so than any of the men she has seen when she was brought back to the hospital. The strands are dark, the bits of gray she spots limited to his temples. His cheeks and chin are stubbled and there are wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but his skin is tanned and mostly smooth.
"You are kind to an old man," he mutters, as if the mere lack of disgust in her eyes is an unexpected compliment. It helps her identify his tone as self-conscious and informs her that he thinks really quite lowly of himself.
"You're not old," she replies, almost intuitively. She pointedly meets his gaze, wanting to make an end to the loathing in his voice. She imagines that she could get lost in the depths of his eyes, possibly the most striking part of him. There's something in there, something more golden than brown and so very deep, which gives her the strange impression that he isn't necessarily referring to his physical age.
There's so much pain in his eyes, evidence of such loneliness and suffering, almost too much for a single lifetime. She knows these feelings so very well and yet, her expression wasn't nearly as haunted and lost as his whenever she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror in the washing room.
"You tend to say that," he replies, his voice barely audible and with so much hope and disbelief that she can barely stand it.
"I can imagine," she says, just as softly. Her cheeks turn red at this admission and she is vaguely shocked to speak out loud like this, but she wants him to know that his age doesn't bother her in the slightest.
She very clearly recalls the sensation of slightly chapped yet soft lips against her own, finding this particular memory not nearly as terrifying as before. Although she doesn't dare speculate how she would react to him this time, she most definitely wouldn't scream now if he were to kiss her once more.
He is not the sort of man she imagined herself sharing her life with when she had nothing but empty fantasies to pass the time. Yet now that she is getting to know him like this, she can imagine having been in love with this man... and falling in love with him all over again.