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thebravethingWhen they come for her she runs.
The woman says she's the sheriff of Storybrooke, which is a name of a town she dreamed once. The boy she doesn't know, but the way he looks at her like she's a promise makes her feel ill, and she can't stand the feel of their hands around hers, leading her somewhere new she never chose.
Alarms scream like children in her ears and chase her deeper into the woods, bare feet used to bare concrete bruising and slicing against stones that are real and roots that are real though this feels like the old friends she's made of nightmares.
She stops when she knows that she's lost.
The girl who had a name once, whose name wore away like a path into the floor of a cell (eight steps door to wall, seven steps side-to-side, a rhythm she walked to keep her mind in motion when stagnation curled inside her like a dragon) drops to her knees in the woods and starts to laugh, because even lost is free.
The woman says she's the sheriff of Storybrooke, which is a name of a town she dreamed once. The boy she doesn't know, but the way he looks at her like she's a promise makes her feel ill, and she can't stand the feel of their hands around hers, leading her somewhere new she never chose.
Alarms scream like children in her ears and chase her deeper into the woods, bare feet used to bare concrete bruising and slicing against stones that are real and roots that are real though this feels like the old friends she's made of nightmares.
She stops when she knows that she's lost.
The girl who had a name once, whose name wore away like a path into the floor of a cell (eight steps door to wall, seven steps side-to-side, a rhythm she walked to keep her mind in motion when stagnation curled inside her like a dragon) drops to her knees in the woods and starts to laugh, because even lost is free.
