#if I suddenly fall into a deep inexplicable depression it is because of this stupid clay | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

welllpthisishappening · 6 years ago

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All Was Golden in the Sky (14/27)

Magic is dying.

Emma knows it. She can feel it, the emptiness rattling around in her, like it’s trying to make sure she disappears as well. What she doesn’t know is what to do about it, because, suddenly, there is a man in Storybrooke claiming she’s the Savior and a seeress certain a prophecy promises the same and the last thing she expects is for her minimal amount of lingering power to pull her away.

To New York City.

And another oddly familiar man with blue eyes and a smile that sinks under her skin and makes magic bloom in the air around her. Things are about to get interesting.

—

Rating: Mature AN: I love Will Scarlet. That’s it. Also, here’s, like, the explanation for a lot more stuff. Thanks for reading it. As always @resident-of-storybrooke @distant-rose and @bmbbcs4evr are great.

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

It’s sunny out.

Strictly speaking, Emma finds that absolutely and completely offensive.

She resents it, honestly, the heat on her cheeks and the tiny pinpricks of sweat on the back of her neck, small beads of moisture that fall down her skin in a pattern she can’t begin to think about. She’s far too busy being wholly and entirely pissed off.

And that’s not even really right.

Pissed off would suggest that she feels anything.

At all.

She doesn’t.

She feels nothing. An empty shell of withering magic and a distinct lack of True Love because it’s been four days and she hasn’t done much except snap her eyes open when that same sun peeks through the curtains of her apartment, tug on a pair of jeans and t-shirt that are both in desperate need of soap, and slide her feet into sandals that have a hole in the bottom.

Only on the right side.

Even her fucked up sandals are wrong.

Emma assumes that’s par for the course now, or something. But she puts them on anyway, trudging down the stairs and never bothering to check if the door behind her is locked. She’s not sure where the bad guys have gone, is fairly certain she doesn’t care at all and even more positive that Mary Margaret and David are taking care of it, but if they are still some sort of threat Emma is not entirely opposed to them, simply, ransacking her apartment.

None of it feels right anymore anyway. The jeans are too scratchy and the shirts are strange, a red leather jacket that she feels like she needs but can’t quite wrap her mind around, so different from flowing gowns and shoes that very rarely had holes in them and even further removed from rags and magically repaired stitches.

She genuinely hopes someone robs her.

It would give her something to do, paperwork to fill out or a gun to brandish and maybe she could even test out her magic. Emma hasn’t really tried to do anything, the fluttering at the ends of her fingers a reminder of what she’s had and lost and won’t get back, and she’s well aware that everyone is walking on eggshells around her.

They glance at her and look away quickly, lips pressed together and nostrils flaring in unspoken concern. They mutter under their breath when she stalks down Main Street, which is an absolutely atrocious word, but even Emma can’t come up with another descriptor for what she’s been doing.

She stalks.

In her broken sandals.

And sits. At the end of the dock, sandals next to her because she may be drifting towards the edge of several different mental states, but she’s, at least, got the wherewithal to make sure her sandals don’t fall in the ocean.

It’s a slim victory, but it’s one she’s going to hold onto with both hands.

Because she’s not sure what happens next. Or, rather, isn’t willing to acknowledge what has to happen next.

They have to go back to Misthaven.

And she’s got to get them there. Somehow. With her recharged magic and Isaac’s stupid, bloody pen and neither one of those things are particularly appealing because both of those things mean leaving Storybrooke.

Emma also can’t wrap her mind around those specific words in that very specific order.

She takes a deep breath, more salt-tinged air and humidity that she’s sure she can taste at this point, hair curling over the sides of her shoulders.

The water under her feet keeps moving. She’s kind of offended by that too. The water should be more aware of what’s going on, take a moment to mourn as well, and Emma is quick to realize she hasn’t cried much in the last few days.

Four days.

It’s been four days.

There was no body, so there wasn’t really a funeral, but there was a magically-formed plot in the graveyard that Storybrooke inexplicably has. And Ruby’s muttered joke about good planning on Regina’s part falls impossibly flat, Mary Margaret’s eyes bugging and David scowling and Emma doesn’t respond.

That’s becoming a bit of a trend.

And the sun had shone then too, bright rays and more heat and some kind of misplaced metaphor about being alive that Emma resolutely refused to acknowledge. It didn’t matter. The metaphor took root in her brain, sinking into every facet of her being and she can’t get that goddamn Céline Dion song out of her head.

It’s ironic.

Or something.

Obnoxious, maybe. That’s probably a better word for it.

Emma sighs, body slumping like the rest of her muscles have given up as well and, for the second time, she’s loathe to realize that he would absolutely hate this. He’d glance at her – in all of her depressing and lack-of-muscle glory, eyebrow arching and the ends of his mouth curling, and he’d tell her to stop that, love, it’s not worth it, which is just-- “That’s absurd,” Emma says out loud, probably a sign of that impending insanity and that would make him smirk at her.

He’d do something stupid with his tongue. She’s positive. She’s…

“Oh, fuck,” she breathes. Her breath catches, teeth digging into her lower lip until she can feel blood. The salt in the air turns overpowering, the taste of it finding its way into her mouth and it’s a strange counterbalance to the bitter tang of blood. Emma swallows, squeezing her eyes shut.

It doesn’t help.

The world spins and her stomach lurches, a burst of magic behind her eyelids that feels like a small supernova.

She hates the cyclical nature of it all.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Emma chants, doing her best to not start panting. That doesn’t worth either. Damn. Fuck, damn, shit, god fucking it all to fucking hell. “Get a goddamn grip.”

She doesn’t mean to follow her own advice so literally, but there is a dock right underneath her and Emma is slightly worried she’s actually going to fall into the ocean at some point.

That water isn’t very deep.

She’ll probably break something.

Then, at least, it will be obvious.

“Shit, that’s melodramatic,” she grumbles. She needs to stop talking to herself. She needs to start talking to other people.

She knows Regina is frustrated she hasn’t tried talking to Isaac yet. And Emma’s got some increasingly horrible suspicions about Isaac and the longevity of his pen and she’s fully aware that she’s on borrowed time, but that means limited time here by this water and a different dock than the first dock and--

The tears that land on her cheek sting her skin.

Like they’re branding her. Magically. It’s ridiculous.

And she doesn’t hear the footsteps at first, is far too preoccupied with consistent oxygen to her brain and at least a few of her major organs, but then the footsteps are a pair and he’d tell her they’re joined at the hip, love, did you think they’d stage an intervention any other way?

“Idiot,” Emma mumbles, mostly to a ghost she isn’t entirely sure she wants to shake. She’s insane. That’s it’s.

That’s the only answer.

At least we’re not like that, huh? Able to function on our own, right?

He definitely smirks and his eyes flash, the end of his tongue making his cheek protrude in a way that’s equal parts ridiculous and endearing and--

“Em,” David says cautiously, a soft hand falling on her shoulder and Emma doesn’t flinch. That’s also a victory.

Two victories at this point is very impressive.

Emma swallows, the blood only just lingering in her mouth. Her tongue flashes between dry lips, and she’s only a little confident that she’s actually got ChapStick in her apartment. She’s not sure how they got stuff in their apartments to begin with.

She hasn’t really asked Regina much about the specifics of the curse. Or if they’ll be required to pack things before going back to Misthaven.

She kind of wants to bring her coffee maker with her. Just, like, maybe magically enhance it so it doesn’t make that awkward squeaking noise when it’s been used for too long.

“Em,” David repeats, like she hadn’t heard him before and isn’t simply ignoring him. She makes a noise in the back of her throat, something that might be an agreement, but he also hasn’t actually asked a question and Emma doesn’t need to pull her eyes away from the waves to know that David’s gaze flits towards Mary Margaret.

Staring at her like he’s looking for marching orders. Do you think our very brave captain of the guard genuinely enjoys plaid as much as he’s been making it seem these last few cursed years or is he simply too stubborn to admit it’s a horrible fashion choice?

Emma scoffs, not quite a laugh and Mary Margaret clicks her tongue. “Don’t do that,” Emma warns, and she might not actually be talking to Mary Margaret.

Insane. Absolutely.

She might just jump into the ocean at this point.

“I’m sorry,” Mary Margaret whispers, which isn’t exactly the worst thing she could ever say, but it’s pretty damn close and Emma’s neck cracks when she twists around. Her eyebrows pull low when she notices the expression staring at her, glossy eyes and thin lips and David seems incapable of staying still.

He rocks back and forth, eyes looking anywhere except Emma. She doesn’t blink. She breathes, which is a step in the right direction – three in and four out, Swan, or your lungs will disintegrate and I really do enjoy your lungs – trying not to consider all the incredibly horrible things that they could be there to report.

“Do you know what happened to Ursula?”

Mary Margaret’s eyes bulge. It’s gross. Bulge is a gross word. “What?” “Ursula,” Emma repeats, swinging her legs back onto the dock so she can rest her chin on her knees. “I’ve just--I’ve been wondering, I mean--” “--Is it because you’ve been staring at the water?” David asks, a bit of sarcasm in the question and that almost makes it easier to get oxygen to those organs.

Emma’s lips quirk. “No one’s really needed me for anything else.” “Oh, you can’t possibly think that.” “Eh,” she shrugs. “I’m sure her majesty has got it all figured out and you guys--did we actually come up with titles? I mean, if Regina’s going to be overlord of all of us…” “I don’t think she’d appreciate that title,” Mary Margaret reasons. She drops next to Emma, careful not to nudge the sandals, but her face shifts slightly when she notices the state the sandals are in and insanity, at least, affords a fairly good excuse for laughing like a crazy person. “It’s kind of...you know, aggressive.” What she’d deserve, don’t you think, love? Those in supreme power and ultimate control should be willing to bend to the wants of the people.

Emma scowls at her, pointedly ignoring whatever look that sparks between David and Mary Margaret. “Honestly,” she says. “There’s got to be an official hierarchy now, right? Regina up top and c’mon, M’s, what are you? I know it’s there. I know it.” Mary Margaret sighs.

And David answers.

“Captain of the guard and--” He huffs, gritted teeth and an uncomfortable air around him that Emma probably shouldn’t appreciate. She tries not to laugh. It doesn’t work. “Her royal highness, the grand princess, Mary Margaret.”

Emma has to wrap her arms around her waist to stay upright. Her whole body shakes with the force of her laughter, David’s quiet mumblings barely making it to her ears, until Mary Margaret is laughing as well, a little cautious and decidedly quiet, like she’s not sure if it’s appropriate and it probably isn’t, but then it’s easier and louder and Emma doesn’t totally hate the tears in her eyes that time.

“Oh my God,” Emma chuckles. She drags the backs of her knuckles against her skin, likely leaving red streaks in her wake, but it feels like another step and maybe she should throw her sandals away later.

“It’s kind of ridiculous,” Mary Margaret admits.

“Kind of?” “You’re more than welcome to grand princess’dom.” “Nah, I’m good, thanks.” “Yeah, that’s what I figured.” “Did you just?” Mary Margaret rolls her eyes – and there goes any smile. Her tongue darts between her lips again and it might be Emma’s small intestine, twisting and knotting and decidedly painful when she sits up straighter again. “I did,” Mary Margaret promises softly. “I’ve--Emma, you are wanted here, you have to know that.” She doesn’t answer. She might hum, is dimly aware of some kind of noise working its way out of her, but it is disingenuous at best.

Mary Margaret looks distraught. And it requires some finagling and David’s hands on her waist, sure arms and ridiculous upper-body strength, but he takes her grumbling in stride, muttering just don’t flail your arms into me when he moves her. The dock creaks precariously underneath them, all three sitting far too close and Emma definitely elbows him in the side more than once.

Don’t run, love, it’s ok. It’s going to be ok.

“It’s going to be ok, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, and she can’t possibly know. Well, that’s probably wrong too. Mary Margaret knows and Ruby knows and even Regina, in all her hierarchy and power-focused glory, knows.

That’s why they’ve all kept their distance. That’s why they wouldn’t let Emma sit in her apartment when she managed to teleport them to Storybrooke, a last-ditch magical effort that left her legs feeling like jello and half-cooked pasta.

Because there’s a place.

And a group. And, maybe, eventually, it will be ok.

Just not now.

“How did you decide on the royal titles?” “Belle helped,” Mary Margaret says, and Emma should have figured that. They’d arrived on the Storybrooke town line two days before because, as Will said, if that idiot is getting a funeral, then we’re going to be here and Emma couldn’t argue with that.

She wanted them there.

“She’s a genius, you know that,” David continues. “Honestly, and there’s a ton of books in that library below the clock tower we didn’t even know were there, stuff Regina had--”

Emma’s neck cracks again. He squeezes one eye shut. “What?” she snaps. “Stuff that Regina had what? Dark magic shit?” “Emma,” Mary Margaret cries, but she doesn’t turn her head, just keeps staring at David with magic searing through every one of her veins and the dock starts to shake.

“It’s ok,” he says. His voice is steady, calm, even, a soft determination and confidence that reminds Emma of snow drifts and castle walls and she presses her teeth together so hard her jaw pops.

None of these things should be happening to her body.

She assumes it comes from a lack of sleep.

She hasn’t really been sleeping.

It’s not good for you, Swan, staring at the ceiling like that every night. You get headaches when you’re tired. And grumpy.

Emma huffs out an exhale, surprise coloring the sound. David doesn’t blink.

Don’t do that, darling, you know you do. Despise the mornings like they exist solely to ruin your day before they begin. They’ll get there earlier if you don’t try and sleep beforehand.

Emma takes a deep breath, a measured inhale and even slower exhale, letting her fingers flutter at her side and the bits of light hanging from the ends of her hair disappear. That’s the first time that’s happened in four days.

Impressive. That could get you home. You’ve got to go home, Swan.

It’s silent after that. Almost too silent. The echo in between Emma’s ears is far too vast and entirely too depressing, breathing staying normal and maybe even a bit hopeful, but part of her mind reaches out for the voice again and she wants, wants... misses. Him.

Completely. And totally.

Her hand moves back towards her neck, searching for something that isn’t there and she hasn’t been able to find it. She’s looked. More than once. More times than she can count.

She even moved the coffee maker.

But the ring isn’t there and she doesn’t know where it is and Emma isn’t sure why that makes it feel as if every inch of her is slowly, but surely turning to ash, but thinking about it for too long makes it difficult to remember anything else.

Anything good.

You can’t stay here, love. We both know it. We knew it before you got here.

“Ursula,” Emma repeats, and David’s mouth twitches with something that may actually be pride That’s kind of nice. His thumb reaches out, brushing away tears she’d almost forgotten she was still crying and the touch leave goosebumps in his wake.

Mary Margaret shifts slightly, wrapping her fingers around Emma’s wrist and keeping her own thumb steady over her pulse point, a light pressure that feels almost grounding against suddenly aggressive waves.

“When you--” David starts, gritting his teeth at the thought of saying the next few words.

Emma tries to smile. “It’s ok.” “You’re an awful liar, anyone ever tell you that?” “Yeah,” she laughs. “Several thousand times, I think.” “Smart guy.” “Sometimes.” “Anyway, uh....well, you saved everything, Em. According to Regina and even what Belle was able to find in those books--” “--Not dark magic, by the way,” Mary Margaret interjects, and David chuckles when Emma rolls her eyes. “Just...we’ll get to that part eventually.” Emma hisses in a breath. “That’s foreboding.” “We are bearers of a variety of news,” David admits. “But you’re making it very difficult to stay on task here and--” “--Is there a schedule?” Emma asks. He nods. “Figures.” “Try not to interrupt again, ok?” She sticks her tongue out. And she’s not really sure what happens next, only because the whole thing happens so quickly she’s not even sure it does happen, but David jerks forward and his lips ghost over the top of her forehead and--”You saved us, Emma. Every one of us. The Darkness wouldn’t have stopped, no matter what Killian tried to do.”

He winces at the use of the name, realizing belatedly that Emma hasn’t in the last four days and she can’t shake off his apology with Mary Margaret’s fingers digging into the back of her wrist.

“It’s ok.” “God, the lying.” “Ok, ok, but I mean…” Emma snaps her jaw several times, not sure how to phrase the words and the waves get stronger. “Well, Rumplestilskin had a point. I kind of made the problem myself. I just--I didn’t think he’d kill him.”

“That’s the part we don’t entirely understand,” Mary Margaret admits, not much more than a whisper. “When we were still home you said a woman in a field told you that the sword you’d given Killian could destroy the Dark One.” Emma shakes her head, disappointment rattling down her spine and threatening to yank her vertebrae out of her back. It’s a disgusting thought. “Nah, that’s not really what she said. She said it would cut ties. That we’d created something with our True Love--” “--I knew it was True Love.” “Yeah, fat lot of good that’s done me,” Emma snaps. “Sorry that was super shitty, huh?” “Eh, you haven’t heard the rest of our story yet.” “M’s, the foreboding shit has got to stop.” She hums, half a smile and repentant eyes. “You two left,” she says, and it’s not the accusation it probably could be. “To use the sword, right?” “The woman. The one in the field, she wasn’t--Killian didn’t think she was human and she...she knew things. Said she knew what he’d be willing to do. I--I didn’t think that would be dying. That’s seems unfair, doesn’t it?” “Absolutely,” David promises, another quick kiss and arm slung around her shoulders. She’s going to sweat to death at the end of that dock. “But he would have done more, Em. You’ve got to know that.”

She nods. Or hums. Maybe both. Emma’s lost control of most of her limbs. “Yeah, I do,” she whispers. “I just...it was us the whole time. The whole stupid prophecy. All that work George did for nothing, huh? I should have killed Rumplestilskin as soon as I saw him.” “You wouldn’t be you if you had.” “That’s also shitty.”

“No,” Mary Margaret objects lightly, tugging on the front of Emma’s shirt. It takes her a moment to realize it’s exactly where her ring would normally land. “That’s good. And that’s what you are, Emma, good. To the depths of your soul and the tips of your fingers. David is right, you saved all of us. It’s how we’re going to get home.” “Explain that.” “Belle thinks magic got....retracted,” David starts. “So, this is where it gets kind of confusing.” “Gets,” Emma echoes in disbelief.

He makes a noise in the back of her throat and her laugh is wrong. It’s scratchy and shaky, but it’s almost there and--

Sounds alright to me, love.

“Ok, so...here we go.” David nods once, which Emma will eventually think is kind of weird, but in the moment she’s very curious and a little exhausted and Mary Margaret’s nails are pinching her skin. “We were in Misthaven. There was the mob and the pitchforks and Regina--”

“--Refusing to believe in the sword,” Emma finishes.

Mary Margaret nudges in the side. It’s not subtle. “She thought the curse was a good idea.” “Yuh huh.” “She did,” David nods, and Emma gets the feeling she’s being grounded. These are not her parents. “Anyway, I’m going to start keeping track of your interruptions and tell Granny not to let you have any coffee or something.”

“If we don’t bring any coffee back to Misthaven, I’m telling you I’m not going. Whatever sludge we had there makes me want to gag.” “You’re a picture of refinement, princess.”

“Tell the goddamn story, David!”

He salutes, which is only a little ridiculous, but also entirely expected and Emma’s smile twists her mouth before she can think better of it. “You were gone,” he says simply. “We were fighting and I...turned around and nothing. And we know Ruby let you go, which, that’s a discussion for another day, but--” “--We also know you were doing what you thought was right,” Mary Margaret adds.

Emma widens her eyes. “Are you going to take away her coffee?” He doesn’t acknowledge her.

“The mob got bigger,” he continues, “but then it got...well, weird. It was as if the spell had been lifted and--” “--That was probably around the time I pulled the darkness out of Rumplestilskin.” “See, we weren’t aware of that.”

Emma’s shoulders drop. “Yeah, I know that. And, I um...I mean, I know I should have left, but I...it was wrong,” she admits, words she’s been trying not to voice for the last four days because she knows everything she’d done was selfish and a word far worse than that, but she couldn’t or wouldn’t and she’s going to scratch her neck if she keeps clawing at her own skin like that.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Emma whispers. “He didn’t want me to, said he wouldn’t be able to...it would have been too easy to give into the darkness.” “He didn’t entirely though,” Mary Margaret points out, a bit of unsurprising hope when a few clouds start to dot the sky. “Not really.” “The light in the dark,” David adds. “That was you, Em. For him.” “God, that’s sentimental.” “Yeah, that’s kind of True Love’s schtick, isn’t it?” “You guys would know.” He grimaces – not the response Emma expected and she still hasn’t gotten answers to any of her questions.

“See, that’s kind of the crux of why we’re here.” Emma blinks. “The giving me space wasn’t entirely giving me space, was it?” “We sound like assholes that way.” “Well…”

He barks out a laugh, shaking a few birds off a nearby power line and Emma is going to miss electricity too. Mary Margaret has to let go of her hand to wave her own, calming the birds and mumbling words under her breath.

David’s breath hitches.

“You said Belle believes magic kind of pulled in on itself,” Emma says slowly, as if taking time on each letter will make them easier to understand. “Was that...ok, so darkness got defeated and all the good magic--” “--Your magic,” Mary Margaret amends. “Savior magic?” David nods, mumbling something that sounds like keep going under his breath. “So, that um...that kind of yanked everything back here to Storybrooke because that’s where we landed after the curse and that was--what’s an appropriate cliché for that?” “Eye of the storm.” “Oh, that’s good, actually.” “Granny came up with that,” Mary Margaret mutters. “Don’t let him take credit for it.”

Emma scoffs, another slightly pitiful laugh. “Ok, ok, so we’re here and in the center of it all and that means the rest of this realm is...magicless? Again?” “Ding, ding, ding,” David says. “So, really, you don’t have to worry about any of the lackies you left behind in New York because they’re stuck. No magic, no nothing. You kind of yanked it with you when you got rid of the Dark One.” “Killian.” David shakes his head. “The Dark One.” “And its minions,” Emma adds, appreciating whatever his face does when he corrects him. Mary Margaret’s laughing. “We decided on minions and I don’t think it’s right, at this point in the story, to start calling them something different just because you can’t remember. I think that’s a sign of you age, o ye captain of the guard.”

He scowls, but there’s no frustration in it – just generic gratitude and that same sense of pride that Emma is very quickly starting to hoard and hold, a soft glow in the center of her that makes her remember good things and good moments and--

You’ve got to be able to let me go, love. You have to.

Emma exhales, far too much emotion. She’ll be damned if she cries again. “How did we get here, though?”

Mary Margaret stops laughing. Suddenly. Abruptly. And David’s whole body goes stiff, lips all but disappearing from his face, the top line of his teeth obvious as soon as he digs them far enough down that Emma is briefly worried about his chin.

She lowers her brows. “I just...I guess I’ve been wondering about that for a little while, why Regina would pick Maine and middle of nowhere Maine really, we’re not even near Boston or anything and--why did we remember that we had magic if we didn’t remember who we were and--you know, maybe I should just ask her, do you guys have paper or something? I should have a list of demands or whatever.”

Emma pushes up, wobbly, but incredibly determined legs, and she barely regains her center of balance before it’s threatened again, David’s fingers yanking at her wrist. She gapes at him, magic flaring in self-defense.

That’s weird.

She can see him swallow, a tension in his jaw and terror in his gaze and they’ve won. The minions are magicless. She could not possibly care less what happened to Rumplestilskin.

There should be no more terror.

There should be--

“It was us,” Mary Margaret whispers.

Emma’s lungs evaporate. It’s painful. And not. Which is also weird. It’s kind of...empty again, a return to husk form and that is another terrible word, but Emma’s body suddenly feels very brittle and incredibly fragile, like one good gust of wind or another secret could shatter her completely.

She lifts her eyebrows that time.

“What? What does that mean?” “Us,” Mary Margaret repeats, tears already streaming down her cheeks and David is going to have to look up spells on how to replace body parts. His lips are just...gone. “Us. Not Regina. The, um...the curse. We cast it.”

Emma is a little disappointed at her reaction. More specifically – her lack of reaction. She doesn’t move She doesn’t blink or open her mouth. She stares ahead at open water and choppy waves. She wishes she could do something.

She wants to do something.

Desperately.

She wants to scream and shout and he’d remembered her, even when they were cursed and after they were cursed and he kept trying to find a way back. Her magic had pulled her to him.

Emma doesn’t do any of those things.

She inhales, tongue swiping over the front of her teeth, and pulling her hand out of David’s grip. “How is that possible?” Emma asks, a picture of poise that is, very likely, the worst lie she’s ever told in her life.

Mary Margaret sniffles. “You said it yourself. When we were--in the throne room.” It’s strange that she can’t call Misthaven home anymore. “When Regina was talking about the curse, she said that the only way to enact it was to crush the heart of the thing you love the most. And she--well, there wasn’t really another option.” “Nope. Try that again. Because what you just told me doesn’t make any sense.” “It does,” Mary Margaret says, voice turning almost pleading. “It’s...ok, you said it, Emma! Regina didn’t have anyone. No one that she felt strongly enough about to send us here.” “Seems like a shitty curse to suggest then.” She resists the growing urge to pace, far too aware of the lack of sandals on her feet, opting, instead, to fist her hands at her side and whatever noise she makes doesn’t sound particularly human. “Ok, ok, ok,” Emma mumbles, a pitiful attempt at psyching herself up for the rest of this conversation. “So...how do you guys factor into this? I don’t--” Emma cuts herself off, nearly snapping her tongue in half in the process. Her magic flares, beams of light at the tips of her fingers and a circle around her right knee and it takes her one quick jerk of her arms and narrowed eyes for it to disappear.

She can still feel it, the pulse of it beating out a steady rhythm in her ears, but it’s the first time in...ever, maybe, that she’s been that controlled. She’s never felt that confident. Ever.

“Damn,” David breathes, a hand running through his hair and Emma can’t even bring herself to be annoyed by the glance he shoots Mary Margaret.

Mostly because Mary Margaret doesn’t react.

She’s staring at Emma – a mix of trepidation and regret and knowing about True Love before just about anyone else.

“You could feel David’s magic here,” Emma says. “That never happened in Misthaven. You told me that.”

Mary Margaret nods slowly, chewing on the side of her tongue. “I think that’s why this is...our fault. Kind of.” “Kind of?” “Entirely.” “Explain that,” Emma mutters, but the words sound more like a demand and Mary Margaret nods quicker that time.

“Regina couldn’t cast the curse. You were--we knew you’d gone to find the Dark One, but, like David said, the mob kind of lost its will at some point. And then it was...a disaster, honestly. It was people from town with magic and without magic and all of them questioning us and what we were going to do and where you had gone and the pirate threat.”

Emma scoffs at that, working half a smile out of Mary Margaret. David reaches for both of their hands. “So, we were trying to fix everything and we had no idea what had happened. We...we tried to find you, Emma. We couldn’t.” “What?” “We couldn’t,” David echoes. “Scoured the whole kingdom, even went towards that hill you had talked about, but there was no one there. It was--” He shakes his head at the memory, all teeth and obvious regret. “It was like we were being pushed away from it. I could barely keep my feet when I got there.” “Magic?” “Kind of makes it seem like it’s very possible that you could pull all the magic in this realm to Storybrooke, huh? And keep people from getting in.” “You think that was me?” Emma shouts, disbelief ringing in the suddenly-heavy air around them. David shrugs. “I wasn’t---I wasn’t trying to do that, though. Especially not here. That’s insane.” “A savior and the protector of magic,” David reasons. “It really makes sense, Em. It makes more sense at home. If you were...what were you waiting for?”

Emma doesn’t answer. Can’t. Won’t. The specifics really don’t matter, not when the questions sitting on the tip of her tongue are getting heavier the longer they stay there.

Mary Margaret winces. “We couldn’t find you,” she mutters. “But we were, well I was, hopeful, at least, that you were still in the kingdom and Regina was certain the curse would only pull in the people we wanted it to.” “That’s why Killian didn’t come with it. The darkness got in the way.” “I’m so sorry, Emma.” “I still don’t understand why.”

“I told you,” Mary Margaret murmurs, and it’s getting more and more difficult to understand her when her tears keep falling faster and faster. “It was us. We didn’t think we had any other options. We--the curse made sense, hiding in a different realm and even if the magic disappeared eventually, well...we’d be together, wouldn’t we?” “Not all of us.” “I know, I know, but we didn’t--” “--Know that Rumplestilskin had tried to kill Killian.” “Exactly.” “So…” “So. Regina said the only way to get here was to crush the heart, but there was no one. And Ruby wouldn’t do it, so that left--” “--Us,” David cuts in, the letters hard and defensive. “Hurt like hell.”

Emma’s left knee gives out. Only her left one. She’s worried she’s got splinters in her foot. “What, that’s--what?” she sputters, breathless and stunned and her head hurts. “How is that possible? Mary Margaret crushed your heart?” He hums. “Yeah, I’ll admit I was kind of selfish about it. I wasn’t all that interested in killing her and we weren’t sure if it would work, so…”

“What wouldn’t work?” “I couldn’t kill him,” Mary Margaret explains. “I--I can’t even think about doing that, even now, I...” “Yeah, I get that,” Emma mumbles, earning a soft smile and cool palm on her cheek.

“I know you do. And that’s why I am so sorry. I am...I won’t ever be able to tell you how sorry I am because I think that’s what messed it all up.” She swallows, a quick exhale that reeks of determination and Emma’s smile is very out of place. “I’d heard about it,” Mary Margaret adds, “the idea that one heart could exist in two bodies. Regina agreed that it should be possible.” “David’s not dead, though.” “Yeah, it worked out pretty well, huh?” he quips, and Emma doesn’t consider her feet before she kicks him in the shin.

“It all happened very quickly and so impossibly slowly,” Mary Margaret continues. “Regina took his heart and it--I’d forgotten....what it felt like, but as soon as the curse broke, that’s the first thing I remembered, the feel of it in my hand, not quite ash, but scratchier, like it was carving into me.

And he was dead. He was. Right in front of me. The magic was already starting to move, a sea of purple and a cloud of power and Regina’s hand in my chest.” “Shit,” Emma mumbles, Mary Margaret humming in agreement.

“That’s about the best way to describe it. I felt like I was getting ripped apart.” “You were.” Mary Margaret scrunches her nose. “Well, it hurt. And then Regina was snapping it in half and that hurt even more. The rest is all a little blurry, but I kind of remember her putting half of my heart into David. And I know, I think I know, at least, I heard him breathing again before the cloud touched us and then we were--” “--Here?” “Here,” Mary Margaret repeats. “Middle of nowhere Maine.” She lets out a watery laugh when Emma does the same and for a moment they’re not much more than twisted limbs and foreheads resting against each other. “I’m so sorry,” Mary Margaret says eventually. “For...for all of it. For not finding you and not knowing and--oh, he loved you more than anything, Emma.”

Emma isn’t sure there is a word in any language – English or Greek or Egyptian hieroglyphics – to describe whatever noise bubbles out of her, but it might be close to a whimper and it’s so goddamn depressing.

She is so goddamn depressing.

They have to get out of the middle of nowhere Maine.

They’ve still got a kingdom to save.

“So, let me get this straight,” she mutters. “You two have been sharing the same heart the entire time we’ve been here, but you didn’t remember it? That’s absolutely nuts, you realize that?” “You may have to reexamine your barometer for nuts, Em,” David says.

“That’s a fair point.” “We’ve been talking to Regina about that too,” Mary Margaret admits, eyeing Emma when her mouth drops. “Ok, we really weren’t avoiding you. Or this conversation. We just--” “Weren’t gunning for it either,” David interrupts. “Also, Mary Margaret is right. He would have done everything and then some for you, your highness. Willingly, even.” “I was never looking for him to play martyr,” Emma sneers.

Mary Margaret’s hand is still on her cheek. It must be hurting her arm. “And he wasn’t,” she guarantees, words Emma can’t bring herself to argue. “That’s not what it was, Emma. It was--ok, you want truth? Here’s truth. He shouldn’t have died. He shouldn’t have. Killian didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve that. The whole goddamn world deserved a better ending than anything that we’ve gotten so far, but we have made mistakes. All of us. We’ve been twisted and turned and thrown into a story that wasn’t really ours to begin with, falling into a prophecy that claimed us before we even knew what those words could possibly mean.

And it’s not fair. It’s the opposite of that. But we have fought and clawed for every bit of happiness we have gotten and Killian Jones loved you Emma Swan. More than anything else. Enough that anything else wasn’t even remotely important when it stacked up against you. He fought the darkness to get back to you. He could feel your magic, Emma. That kind of thing doesn’t happen every day.”

She’s crying again.

It’s patently stupid. And entirely expected.

“That doesn’t make it any easier,” Mary Margaret adds, another round of mind reading that Emma appreciates because she seems to have misplaced her ability to communicate. “I’m not sure it ever will.” “This is not one of your best speeches, M’s,” Emma grumbles.

Mary Margaret smiles. “Let me finish then. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. And I am sorry to have been even part of the cause of that. But we weren’t avoiding you, Emma. We would never do that. Because we love you too. And it shouldn’t have happened like this, but maybe, eventually, that pain can recede just a bit and you won’t hate the sun quite so much.” “Gods, how do you do that?” “Years of experience.” “I love you too, you know that?” “I do,” Mary Margaret nods, a quick kiss to the bridge of Emma’s nose. “Ask your last question.”

“Why didn’t we remember who we were?”

“All magic comes with a price,” David answers. “And we didn’t really pay it, did we?” Emma groans. “Are you fucking kidding me?” “Regina thinks it makes sense. We didn’t give into the rules of the curse or whatever, found a loophole and then magic was like--” “--Fuck you guys for doing that?” “You’re going to have to watch that mouth once we get back to court.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Emma mumbles, another huff of overly dramatic breathing. “Do you think there are still non-magic folk who didn’t get pulled with the curse? Killian said--” She grits her teeth, both Mary Margaret and David tensing at the name and the ease with which she says it. “He said that he’d been trying to get here for years. Both he and Rumplestilskin knew where we were, but I can’t imagine there would be many people in town who’d just have that kind of innate knowledge of other realms.” David practically beams. “A smart and concerned monarch.” “I’m going to curse you.” “We tried that already, didn’t take.” “Oh my God,” Mary Margaret mumbles, and it will be interesting to see how they fit back into their old lives, this mix of past and present and Emma’s going to bring leggings with her. Fuck court rules.

Maybe they can just burn down the wing of the castle George was in.

“Serious answer?” David asks, Emma making a ridiculous noise at the ridiculous question. There are more footsteps coming towards them. “I have no idea,” he admits. “It seems likely and, uh, that’s kind of why we want to get out of here as quickly as possible.” “Yuh huh.” “We don’t want to push though,” Mary Margaret adds quickly, sounding suspiciously like they rehearsed this part.

Emma hums. “I know you don’t. But I think--I think you might be right anyway. If Regina can get Isaac to not be a dick, then I think we’ll be able to do it right?” “In theory,” David answers. “That’s not helpful.” “That’s what I’ve got right now.” “Fair,” Emma mumbles, twisting a strand of hair around her fingers and the footsteps sound like they’re rocking back and forth now. Something about waves. Or...whatever. Emma’s too tired to come up with more metaphors. “If that’s anyone I don’t like I’m not going to be held responsible for my actions.” “Ah, that depends on the semantics of like I guess,” Will calls. Emma nearly falls over.

He grins when she spins, hand stuffed in his pockets and weight resting on his heels. “You got a second or you going to teleport back to your mythical kingdom, like, right now?” “I think I can hold off for a couple minutes.” “Ok, cool.” He doesn’t actually move though, and it takes a few moments for David and Mary Margaret to realize they’ve been effectively dismissed. “Oh,” Mary Margaret gaps, jerking her arm back to reach for David’s hand. “Right, right, we’ll, um...we were going to get some food at Granny’s later. If you want to--” Emma before she can keep rambling. “Thanks, M’s.” “Ok. C’mon, David, I bet Regina’s got more books we can stare at.” David clicks his tongue, gaze darting between Emma and Will and back to Emma again. She smiles. “Go ahead, your highness, I’m perfectly safe.”

“Yeah, if anything she’ll just totally fuck me up with her magic, so…” Will shrugs, head tilted and expression teasing. Emma laughs.

That’s weird.

“Ok,” David agrees. “If you’re not at Granny’s by seven, I’m going to send out something drastic I will think of eventually.” “You’re the most eloquent person I’ve ever met.” He kisses her hair. That’s less weird.

And it’s only a few moments before Mary Margaret and David disappear down the corner, Will taking slow steps towards the dock like he’s a little nervous it’s going to fall apart if he puts too much weight on the soles of his shoes.

“I’m not going to let you drown if that’s what you’re worried about,” Emma says, working an actual guffaw out of him. She’s claiming that as another victory.

“I’m not, really.” “Then…” “I’m kind of--I don’t know, if I tell you that I’m totally freaking out and having a very hard time believing any of this is real is that going to do irreparable damage to my rep?” “Only if you keep using the word rep in actual conversation.” He chuckles, fingers wrapping around the back of his neck. There’s something else in his pocket. Emma nods towards the end of the dock. “C’mon, sit, I don’t know how much longer how much I can stay upright.” “That’s not really sparking my confidence. Princess? God, do I call you princess?” “Please don’t.” Will groans, but he does sit down and that seems like a good start. “It’s so weird,” he mumbles. “The whole thing. I mean--I was almost cool with you having magic and Ruby being able to turn into a wolf and even the fucked up shit that happened at my bar.” “Was that expensive? I could, like, magic you money or something.” “Is that illegal?” “Is that your only caveat?” Emma asks, fingers already twisting and she wonders if she can fabricate a check out of mid-air. That’d be impressive. “Because, honestly, we’ve got like the whole treasury of Misthaven to work with here and I’m not entirely sure what the conversion rate is, but I bet we could just decide on that ourselves and--” “--Emma,” Will interrupts sharply. “That’s not why I’m here. Not really.” “No?” “No. Although maybe eventually we’ll circle back to the royal treasury.”

Her laugh wobbles out of her. “Deal,” Emma says. “Ok, so if you weren’t here to talk magical economics, what is it?” “I went through some of Killian’s stuff.” Emma knocks one of her sandals in the ocean. “Ah, goddamnit!” She waves her hand, far more force than is actually necessary because it only results in a wave cresting over both her and Will’s dangling feet and the water is freezing cold. “Oh my God,” she yelps. “Fuck the entire state of Maine, honestly!”

He throws his whole head back when he laughs. “Shit, you are the worst princess I have ever seen.” “Yeah, you are the not the first person who’s told me that, actually,” Emma mumbles. Her sandal lands next to her.

“Sorry for springing that on you,” Will adds. “That’s--I practiced like sixteen different ways to tell you that I did this on the way over here and even asked Belle for advice, but--” “--That’s actually really nice.” “Yeah, well, this whole thing is a festering piece of garbage, so I figured you could use a little bit of nice. He’s really...he’s really dead then?”

The words don’t quite cut through Emma, but they might stab at her and that is even worse. Her nod feels forced. “Yeah,” she says, short and succinct. It doesn’t help. “That was the only way to do it. To make sure the darkness didn’t stay or linger. If--if we hadn’t done that then it would have consumed him eventually. Taken over all the realms.” “That sounds less than ideal.” “It’s not great, no.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not your fault. None of it is really anybody’s fault. If anything, it’s...well, it’s me. I mean, we walked right into it. When we were--” “--In your fairy tale.” “It wasn’t a fairy tale,” Emma corrects lightly, and her fingers keep drifting up towards the collar of her shirt. There’s still nothing there. “It was our life and I was…oh, damn.” She lets out a shaky breath, tears stinging her eyes and she really thought she’d finished this. Her throat feels very tight. “There were moments here, though. Sometimes he’d say something or he’d look a certain way and I...I knew. It was exactly the same.” “You know, I’ve known him for years,” Will says, and Emma doesn’t miss that he keeps using present tense. “He hated that I never washed the dishes the same night I used them.” “Well, that’s gross, that’s why.” “I’m trying to set up an anecdote here.” “Right, right,” Emma mutters. “Don’t let me stop you.” “He folded everything perfectly, it was ridiculous. But he was kind of a dick too. In a nice way, you know. Like I knew he would have beat down for Belle in a second. He loved her. Not like--not like you, I mean--” “--I get what you’re saying, Scarlet.” Will nods, shifting so whatever is still stuck in his pocket doesn’t stab the side of his leg. “I’ve known him forever and I’ve never seen anything like that,” he says, voice dropping low with the weight of his emotion. “The way he was around you. It was like...watching the moon or something. Ah, that’s a shit way of explaining it.” “I’ll take the sentiment of it.” “Generous of you.” He runs a hand over his face, exhale loud even over the waves and the water and whatever birds are still in the sky. “It was like something switched for him. Like someone turned him back on or got him to full power. It was like a fairy tale.”

Emma whimpers again. God, that’s so lame. “Yeah,” she agrees softly. “I guess it might have been, actually.”

“I know I’m kind of on the outside looking in here and you guys have to go back where you came from, but I just...I thought I’d throw my two cents in for whatever it’s worth.” “At least a quarter.” “See,” Will crows. “You’re funny. No wonder he loved you.”

Emma brushes away tears and her smile doesn't settle perfectly on her face. It’s there though. And she gives herself this – this moment and the relative silence, a bit of normal and hint of easy, nothing more than the smell of saltwater to keep her grounded.

It doesn’t last as long as she hopes.

She’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

“I’ve never seen him like that,” Will murmurs, twisting again and the scratch of the box on his jeans is far too loud. “So, I know I’m making assumptions, but--” He flips the top of the box open with his thumb, and Emma refuses to be held accountable for that noise either. It’s a ring. Not her ring, but maybe the ring and--

“Oh fucking hell,” Emma breathes, Will chuckling lightly when he bumps his shoulder against hers.

“Were you not expecting that wherever you’re from?”

She shakes her head slowly, not a disagreement, but not entirely an agreement either, because--”He said he wanted to be the one to ask. That, um...well, the pirate was real, you know?” Will widens his eyes, a sarcastic hum low in his throat. Emma presses her fingers into her cheek, scratching at skin and brushing away even more tears. “He did that for me. Or because of me. And I---it was never a normal kingdom, but there were still traditions, courting and balls and--” Her eyes fall shut, a breath of feeling and could have been. “He would have looked incredibly dashing at an engagement ball.” Will’s laugh isn’t sarcastic. It’s pure and loud and it warms Emma from the inside out when she reaches for the ring, shaky fingers and cool metal and the light reflects off the stone there.

And it happens suddenly, but these things always seem to, a flash on the edge of her vision and a surge of power that races up her spine and latches on the back of her brain, a push and a want and she can’t seem to catch her breath.

Her whole being soars with the rush of it, magic and emotion and most of it is just love because she knows, she’s always known and--

“He had it before then,” Emma whispers, Will’s quiet noise of confusion hardly making it to her ears. She grins. “He had it before. Before the ship and before we--it all happened after that. There was no time after, not...you don’t buy a ring for the person who cursed you, right?” “Probably not,” Will nods, and Emma knows he’s only agreeing because she’s kind of freaking him out. The muscles in her face ache.

She ducks down, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to act like I know what you’re talking about.” “That’s probably for the best.”

She twists her wrist, leaving her sandals and a stunned Will Scarlet in her wake, a cloud of magic and another bust of heat and Emma’s feet land with practiced ease in the middle of her bedroom. She glances around, certain she’ll find it immediately and it’s not quite that perfect, but it’s pretty damn close.

Her eyes fall on her bed, a slightly lopsided pillow that wasn’t that way when she crawled out from under the blankets that morning.

It’s still on the chain.

Emma doesn’t stumble. She walks, slow and certain and magical, flush with all of it and maybe True Love itself, fingers curling around the ring that has suddenly appeared on her slightly disgusting pillows. It’s heavier than she remembers, lowering her head to let the chain drape over her neck, but the weight only lasts a moment before it seems to settle, like it’s fitting back where it belongs and that’s more sentimental than anything else.

Emma presses her palm against it, pushing it back against her chest. And, she’s never really sure what happens next, can never explain the tug of the magic or the feel in the very center of her, as if something is just a bit off kilter and she tilts her head at the feel of it, a bit of déjà vu and desperation and she doesn’t use magic that time.

She runs.

Barefoot.

Across the entire goddamn town to a makeshift graveyard and a stone with nothing underneath it, pulse racing and hope flying, as if that’s something that hope is capable of doing and--

“Damn,” Emma breathes, mostly because she is out of breath. And disappointed. At the mess of nothing in front of her.

There’s a stick in between her toes.

“What the fuck,” she grumbles, twisting her head and glancing around and still nothing. That’s not right. She’d felt it. Something. Everything. Him. It had to be, the ring and the magic and--”Idiot,” Emma sighs, leaning forward to rest her hand on the stone in front of her.

Someone’s magic’ed his name there.

As if that makes it better.

“That’s really not fair,” Emma grumbles, and she’s back to talking to herself. Cyclical, or whatever.

She lets her head drop, hair falling over her shoulders and every breath is a very specific type of challenge. Her other hand tugs on her ring. “I miss you,” she whispers to nothing and no one. “I thought--ah, it doesn’t matter, I guess. I just--” Emma doesn’t finish. The light that radiates around her makes sure of that, another burst that she’s certain rattles the entire planet or, at least, her knees, the joints knocking together and nails digging into her palm.

Her mouth goes dry.

And she doesn’t dare look.

Until.

“Swan?”

#cs ff #captain swan #cs fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #all was golden in the sky #that stupid witch fic #this is genuinely the only chapter left in this story #where there is no kissing

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afinepricklypear · 5 years ago

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Mother’s Day and Mental Health Awareness Month

**Warning - This post talks about depression, mental disorder, and an attempted suicide. Please do not read if you are sensitive to these topics. The events described here are real and true to the best of my memory.**

I went to make a post May 1st and Tumblr was kind enough to inform me that May is Mental Health Awareness month. It isn’t without irony for me that Mental Health Awareness month occurs the same month as Mother’s Day.

My relationship with my mother is a difficult topic, it’s usually only one I can talk about with my sisters, but it’s this time of year that people most want to talk about moms. When I was younger, I didn’t know what to say when people brought up their moms and mom-like behavior in general, mostly foreign concepts to me. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned I don’t have to say anything at all, like in my work meeting this morning when our supervisor reminded us all to call our mom’s this weekend, you know, “if they’re still alive”, since most of our department are near retiring age, but I don’t always know how to feel. Here comes the guilt: do I call, do I text, do I take the risk that she’ll be in a good mood or will she turn it around, again, like the year I sent her a gift and she used my gesture as ammo to attack my “ungrateful” older sister that’s still trying to untangle her own complicated relationship with our mother. I’m ten again, twelve again, sixteen again, walking on eggshells around a house where the air is so thick with the constant fog of her misery, I can’t see farther than a minute into my future.

There were good moments, of course, like any home. She was always the more encouraging parent when it came to my writing, my father would pick it all apart – in the long run, both approaches helped me become a better writer. There was the time she was given two tickets to see Mama Mia at the casino where she dealt, and she chose to take me. We got dressed up, she leant me this white faux fur jacket and some of her jewelry, curled my hair and did my make-up, she was riding high on her emotions. She took me to a fancy dinner at the Hard Rock Café before the show. We didn’t get spoiled often, and to this day, Mama Mia and ABBA hold a special place in my heart. I always think of her singing along to the radio in the car, she has a nice voice, and maybe in another life, she could’ve been a singer.

There were moments when she was trying to be sweet and it still leaves me with conflicted emotions. Like the time the German shepherd she took off the hands of a coworker who was afraid of him violently attacked me. She bandaged me up, laid in bed with me and comforted me, it’s the most motherly I ever remember her being. She kept the dog for a while after that, I still have scars on both my arms from the attack, I’ll have them the rest of my life, just like my little sister will still have her scars from when it attacked her, and my friend who came to visit will still have the scar it gave her…my older sister was only lucky that it was muzzled when it went for her face. My mother was convinced she had a special connection with this dog, that in his heart of hearts he believed he was protecting her, so I get it, she didn’t want to get rid of something that she felt loved her unconditionally.

Sometimes it’s hard to conjure these kinder memories, they become overwhelmed with the harder, darker ones that feel infinitely more numerous. There are the moments that seem innocuous, when you could say I was acting a spoiled child, like the time I was in middle school and I wanted to keep my hair long, but my mother decided I needed bangs. My dad tried to stop it, but she had made up her mind. I cried and pleaded with her but she commanded the reluctant stylist to chop the hair off. Armed with a brush and blow-dryer, she attempted to show me “it was cute” that night and things escalated to the point my dad and older sister were stepping in, arguing with my mom to let me be. I went back to that same hair stylist with my friend who was getting her hair cut the next day, and the stylist apologized, confessed that she didn’t want to cut my hair, told me it was so healthy and beautiful too, and she felt terrible doing it. Years later, when I was an adult and decided to cut my hair short with sideswept bangs, my mother would throw this memory back in my face, “sure, now you want bangs”, still incapable of understanding that it wasn’t about her, but about me wanting to define my own body and style. She did the same to my older sister in high school, dyed her hair blonde – it took so much bleach to lighten her naturally dark hair color that the hair looked fried afterwards and we were all amazed it didn’t fall out. Never mind that my older sister never wanted blonde hair to begin with, it was antithetical to her personality, and she won’t even go near the hair dye aisle now.

There are the moments where my mom was so unreasonable that everyone felt helpless, like the day I was alone in my room, my sisters in the living room talking and watching television – doing I don’t know what – and my mom was sleeping in her room because she worked graveyard shift at this time. Suddenly, inexplicably, my mom came into my room in a rage, “how dare you call your little sister stupid,” she scolded me, she continued to berate me for being cruel and mean, even as I told her, baffled, I didn’t know what she was talking about, even as my sisters argued with her, “no one called anyone stupid. She wasn’t even in the room with us.” My mother wouldn’t listen, she knew what she heard, she grounded me and, matter settled, left back to bed. My dad got home from work not long after, and I was in my room still bawling, inconsolable and unable to work out what I’d done wrong. He asked my sisters why I was crying and they explained, and, again, my mom comes storming in my room yelling, “how dare you tattle on me to your dad!” I don’t remember much of what happened from there, my dad stepped in, they argued the rest of the night, and he would later assure me I wasn’t grounded. It was the only thing he could undo from that day.

There are other, harder to define moments. The nights my mom would argue with my dad, we’d be in bed, school in the morning, and she’d turn on all our bedroom lights, rip the covers off our beds, and scream at us to get out of her house, that she was putting us all out on the streets and it was our father’s fault. I remember vividly the fight between my parents that happened in the day, everyone awake in the house, I collapsed in the kitchen as my mother ranted that we all hated her so she should leave and we won’t have to deal with her anymore, and I cried and trembled, overwhelmed with the thought, I don’t want anyone to leave, I don’t want to lose my family. I had to get out, so I did, walked right out of the house, not sure where I’d go, and my mother panicked and raced after me, put an arm over my shoulders, coaxed me back to the house. The moment the door closed; she was yelling at us again for not loving her enough and I realized I couldn’t leave, I was trapped. There was the gambling addiction, every Christmas we would be prepared, “mom lost a lot of money at the casino last night, we might not have a Christmas this year” – we had learned not to expect anything anyways and that every gift came with a quid pro quo and years of ‘remember I did this for you’. My older sister and her then-boyfriend, now-husband, watched my mom gamble away more than a month’s mortgage and spend the entire night chasing it back.

I’m thinking about all of this more recently, I think, since I started writing some fanfics for the Bungou Stray Dogs community. One of the main characters of the show is named after and inspired by author, Dazai Osamu, a man that died prematurely from a double suicide. This is treated tongue-and-cheek by the anime and its original manga through Dazai’s many failed suicide attempts and his odd flirtation strategy of asking ladies to commit double suicide with him. I kind of like this approach to the topic, it might on the surface seem insensitive to make a joke of something so serious as depression, but humor can be therapeutic and give us an easier way to broach otherwise difficult subjects.

I was in high school when my older sister and I were allowed to be in on the conversations about my mother’s mental disorder, both undiagnosed and untreated. We’d all speculate, my father and his sister, my mother’s sister, my sisters and I, the favorite theory was bipolar disorder, but we may never know. My mom refused then and refuses to this day to seek help. There were little things about her past before marrying my dad that we were allowed to know as we got older, too. Like, how she’d been put in a hospital that wanted to keep her there for further treatment – they knew something was wrong but didn’t know what, this was during a time when bipolar disorder was unheard of and they called similar diagnoses ‘manic depression’ – and she had to threaten legal action to get released. When she was eighteen, she had married a man knowing he had a terminal illness in order to help him get his green card, he died two years later, and she still considers him the great love of her life. We’re told by the media, movies like A Walk to Remember, that this is romantic, but in reality, it’s an unhealthy fixation on a relationship that was doomed from the start. She idolizes the memory of it, puts it on a pedestal as the standard for all of her other relationships to compare to, but it isn’t realistic. It was a relationship with a known expiration date, it wasn’t a real commitment, nothing had to matter because it would all come to an end soon, and they never reached the hard parts of a marriage – children, growing old, changing bodies, financial struggles, loss and disagreement. She went through a deep depression after he died and it reached a point that her sister had her placed on a suicide watch and thus began her long and sordid history of depression.

There are a lot of fanfics in the BSD community that explore a darker tone to Dazai’s depression, to varying degrees of accuracy. I mostly steer clear of them. There is one writer in the community that I won’t name, they’re an amazing writer with beautiful technical skill, and they do an impeccable job of showing depression exactly as it is for those who live it and those who live with a person that suffers from it. I left a one-word comment on one of their stories, the only positive thing I could say, and I couldn’t write anymore without the comment turning into an emotional lecture, I don’t know that author’s personal emotional state, but I also won’t read any more from them. It wasn’t the accurate depiction of depression that turned me off from the story, but the depiction of Dazai’s depression being known by all the characters in the story, including himself, but he won’t seek treatment for it, and all of the characters are shown to enable his depression and put up with his abuses that stem from his disorder. In the story he was placed in an intimate relationship with the character, Chuuya, and Chuuya is painted as the patron saint of boyfriends, willing to overlook Dazai’s every episode, draw him back from the ledge and bandage up his scars with an endless patience and gentleness. I couldn’t move passed the romanticizing of this relationship dynamic. Chuuya is shown to be noble and celebrated for his self-sacrifice and unconditional love that compels him to stay beside Dazai despite everything Dazai inflicts upon himself and Chuuya, and more importantly, despite Dazai’s refusal to get treatment.

My mother’s emotional state was constantly our responsibility growing up. She was sad because we didn’t love her. She was angry because we were ungrateful. She was miserable because we couldn’t see all that she did for us. If she hurt us with her words, if she lashed out at us irrationally, it was our fault, because we didn’t do everything right. Never mind that what was right could change within a minute in a day. Too often when someone in your life is suffering from a mental disorder, you’re made to shoulder the blame, either unintentionally by them as they suffer from their illness or intentionally by well-meaning individuals outside of the situation that don’t know better: you just need to give them love. If they take their own life, it’s your fault, you didn’t love them enough.

It was the Friday before Mother’s Day, I was in my early twenties, finishing up my degree in Anthropology (after changing my major, I don’t know how many times). My parents were long since divorced and my mom lived alone in the house where I grew up, still shrouded in all of those dark memories. My mother’s sister had recently left town after a short visit, she had called me a few days earlier to let me know my mother lost her job that week and was struggling to get out of the depression. In retrospect, she’d been sinking for a while now, after the violent dog and so many other incidents like it left us all with too many scars to overlook and we didn’t know how to walk back into that house, how to feel safe there. She’d covered herself in tattoos, cut her hair short, wore different wigs to work every day, she’d gained a lot of weight and was chain smoking so much there was a permanent haze in the house. None of these things should be thought of as red flags for everyone, it should be taken on an individual basis, but for my mother they were all signs that she was spiraling. She didn’t like who she saw in the mirror and was desperately trying to cover it up, find someone she did like. I had promised her I would come over, make her a dinner for Mother’s Day, and I would take her to see a movie. I was on my phone with my aunt when I pulled up, snowballing ideas for what to do if things got serious and if we needed to think about placing her on a suicide watch, how that would work. I rang the doorbell; it was outside of the gate she put around the front yard for her dogs to go in the front yard.

No answer.

Rang it again.

Still no answer.

She knew I was coming over.

I opened the gate, went to the door, the door was cracked open, my aunt was on the phone in my ear, “what’s going on?” I opened the door fully and my mom’s dogs came to greet me. The house was in disarray, furniture toppled over, papers scattered across the floor, so many of the details are blurred out of memory, I remember distinctly a ceramic statue broken on the floor but I couldn’t tell you what it was a statue of. I could hear a low intermittent moan coming from farther in the house. I followed it down the hall to my mother’s room, into her bathroom, where she was collapsed, naked, on the floor of her shower.

I told my aunt I had to go, I hung up and dialed 911. In the moment, I didn’t know how panicked I really was, my voice unnaturally high, my body warm and shaking and electric with adrenaline. That feeling hits me again, sometimes, when I don’t expect it. There was white like foam around my mother’s mouth, her eyes stared wide and blank at the ceiling, her every breath was that guttural moan as she attempted to draw air in, an autonomic action, she was completely unresponsive. Her body was on autopilot, and so was mine. I’d been rehearsing for a long time what to do in that situation, it’s the only way I made it through everything that needed to be done. I gave the dispatcher the address, answered her questions, “I think she did something to herself but I don’t know what…no, there’s no pills nearby…no, I don’t see anything in the trash…she’s been severely depressed…she has a history of depression…”, between pleading with my mom, “please don’t leave me, please stay with me, mom,” and wrestling her dogs into the front yard and out of the house. The dispatcher told me the ambulance was on its way and asked if I wanted her to stay on the line and I begged her not to hang up, not to leave me with nothing but the moans of my dying mother, she didn’t say anything during that time, was just silently present as I talked to my mom and waited for the paramedics. They couldn’t come in until I got the dogs out back, I cursed and screamed at the unruly mongrels and felt an irrational anger that my mom never got them properly trained.

I took a seat in the kitchen, let the paramedics work and my brain shut down. I called my aunt back, told her what happened. The paramedics came to ask me questions, I tried to answer them but I didn’t know and my aunt was correcting me over the phone, so I handed her over and let her talk to them. They took my mother away to the hospital and I was alone, in that childhood house, that held so many horrible memories of my mother’s untreated disorder, and every aspect of our lives that it colored and perverted. Every Mother’s Day was always fraught with anxiety, I think it was my mother’s least favorite day, her mood was always sour, and no matter what we gave her or tried to do for her, it wasn’t enough. Even the year before, the Mother’s Day when she told us exactly what to get her. She was so happy with her present, a sterling silver ring with our birthstones imbedded that cost us all a pretty penny – I was paying my own way through college, my older sister was paying rent on a Starbucks salary, and my little sister didn’t have a job – but a week later we were ungrateful brats again. There was one Mother’s Day when I was maybe ten or eleven, we’d set her up roses and two cards – one from my father and one from her daughters. I was watching television and waiting for her to come home from work to wish her a happy Mother’s Day. She came in and years of practice had taught me to recognize she was in a dark mood, a cigarette on her lip, her posture tense, muttering under her breath about how nobody loved her, nobody cared. She stalked to the desk, ripped the cards in half without opening them and threw them on the ground in front of me without sparing me one glance or word, and stormed to her room, slammed the door behind her.

We would later find out that my mother drank antifreeze, a method that has about a 5% survival rate. She was in a coma for about a month. It was another few weeks before they took the respirator tube out and her throat recovered enough that she could talk in small sentences, and not without effort and pain. She told us she filled a cup with the antifreeze, showed us with her fingers set apart how high she’d put it in the glass, when she finished, she washed the cup and stuck it in the dishwasher, hiding the evidence. She’d always heard antifreeze was flavorless but it tasted awful – they add flavoring to antifreeze to deter people from accidentally ingesting it. She’d thought it would be quick, but it’s really an excruciatingly painful and long, drawn out way to die. She’d stripped in her deliria and taken a shower because her body felt so awful, feverish and almost on fire, as it was shutting down and her nerves fried from the chemical reaction. I wrestled for a long time with the ethical delimma of my choices in that moment after finding her, and there was a thought that stuck with me through it all: What did I get my mother for Mother’s Day? I saved her life, and it was still the wrong gift.

It isn’t noble or romantic to stay with someone who refuses to get professional treatment for their mental disorder. There is no amount of love or patience or understanding that will heal them. In most situations, the harder and braver thing to do is walk away. None of us is a perfect person and none of us should have to bear the burden of another person’s unwillingness to get help when they need it. It took me a long time to come to terms with the notion that there is no one to blame in this situation. It isn’t my fault that I can’t give my mother the love she craves. It isn’t my mother’s fault that she can’t see the love that her daughters wanted to give her. But it is her responsibility to get help. If she refuses help, no one can force it on her.

It’s been years now since this happened. My mother is now as recovered as she’ll ever be. Her mind isn’t as sharp, and she struggles with controlling her muscles and the devastating damage to her nervous system that will never fully heal. She remains undiagnosed and is not receiving any kind of professional guidance or treatment. There have been new, dark memories, added to the old ones, in those times when we tried to be supportive and “there for her” during her recovery. Episodes that remind us she doesn’t want to change and she never will. So, we keep our interactions to a minimum, answer when she texts, try to help her when she asks for it, check in every so often. She lives on the other side of the country with two cats and goes regularly to the neighborhood karaoke bar. In a weird way, she seems happier with this set up, this distance between her and all of the pain that my sisters and I seemed to bring her, that constant demand for love that we couldn’t fulfill, maybe it really was all our fault and we were the ones to blame, or maybe it’s because I’m not living with her depression anymore.

I don’t know if I’ll call my mother on Mother’s Day, but for anyone else out there with a complicated relationship with their mother, it’s okay if you decide not to call your mother either.

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