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Her freedom and innocence has brought the whole thing down
(This post can be used to contact either the muse or the mun)
(This post can be used to contact either the muse or the mun)
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It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards
Once upon a time, she was a young girl who lived in a perpetual state of magic and awe. Where tea parties with mice and Hatters where a daily occurence and flowers could sing (and sometimes berate) you.
In Storybrooke, ME her life is as normal and unextraordinary as possible. The only child of a pediatrician and high school science teacher, her parents have always been incredibly sensible and they passed that trait on to their daughter. Rosemary doesn't believe in magic, only those things you can taste, touch, see, and fee. The overactive imagination she had as a child eventually giving way to a quiet young woman who can only truly see what's right in front of her. What she can't ignore, however, are the dreams she has nearly every night. A hookah smoking who doles out advice, white roses dripping in red paint, and a mad queen who seems to want her head.
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Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't.
Perhaps she should have seen this coming. Her memories returning to her, no matter how painfully slow the process, was just too good to be true. When her parents confronted her about being seen with Jefferson, she couldn't think of a believable lie. Not off the top of her head. The truth had spilled out and, when her mother finished crying, and her father finished shouting, the hospital was called.
It didn't matter how much she fought back, how much she screamed. They claimed over and over that it was for her own good, and she begged them to understand that this wasn't going to do her any good, but they just didn't see it. To them, the changes in Rosemary would only end up hurting her in the end, and this was what they had to do.
The room they threw her into was only slightly larger than the last time, but otherwise the same. One small window high up , and barred. As if she would have been able to fit through it without them. Same cold, cinderblock walls, and white cast iron bed, with only a thin sheet to ward off a chill. It was sterile and spartan, but she would survive. She had to. She would cling to the stories Jefferson had told her. About their life, their little shack in the woods. The memories would help her remember who she was, she was certain of it.
Except, they didn't. Because days ran into each other. Rosemary wasn't certain how long she'd been in this little basement room. A week, perhaps. maybe two. After a while, even the setting of the sun didn't seem enough to separate one from the other.
It didn't happen all at once. She resisted the drugs they gave her, and rejected everything they told her about her life. Insisting on the little that she believed to be true. But soon enough, things began to change. She fought back less and less. Stopped objecting when they told her how much her parents loved her. Didn't argue when they told her that everything Jefferson had ever said were simply pretty little lies taken from a children's story.
Instead, she spent most days on her bed. Legs drawn up to her chest and eyes trained on the window, wondering just how long it would be before she was allowed to see the sky again.
It didn't matter how much she fought back, how much she screamed. They claimed over and over that it was for her own good, and she begged them to understand that this wasn't going to do her any good, but they just didn't see it. To them, the changes in Rosemary would only end up hurting her in the end, and this was what they had to do.
The room they threw her into was only slightly larger than the last time, but otherwise the same. One small window high up , and barred. As if she would have been able to fit through it without them. Same cold, cinderblock walls, and white cast iron bed, with only a thin sheet to ward off a chill. It was sterile and spartan, but she would survive. She had to. She would cling to the stories Jefferson had told her. About their life, their little shack in the woods. The memories would help her remember who she was, she was certain of it.
Except, they didn't. Because days ran into each other. Rosemary wasn't certain how long she'd been in this little basement room. A week, perhaps. maybe two. After a while, even the setting of the sun didn't seem enough to separate one from the other.
It didn't happen all at once. She resisted the drugs they gave her, and rejected everything they told her about her life. Insisting on the little that she believed to be true. But soon enough, things began to change. She fought back less and less. Stopped objecting when they told her how much her parents loved her. Didn't argue when they told her that everything Jefferson had ever said were simply pretty little lies taken from a children's story.
Instead, she spent most days on her bed. Legs drawn up to her chest and eyes trained on the window, wondering just how long it would be before she was allowed to see the sky again.
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