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eirian-houpe · 5 years ago

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The Library Beneath the Clock Tower - Chapter 25

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle/Gaston (Once Upon a Time)

Additional Tags: Bookshop On the Corner, slightly AU, Cursed Storybrooke (Once Upon a Time), Alternate Universe - In Storybrooke | Cursed (Once Upon a Time), Eventual Smut

Summary: Storybrooke has no library, and neither does Belle, not since the library where she worked in Boston discovered her past as an inpatient at a mental hospital. Taking her future into her own hands, Belle travels to Storybrooke where her intention is to open up the town library, but all does not go according to her plan. Obstacles and false starts, and diversion along very wrong pathways interrupt her journey toward fulfilling her dream, as well as taking her rightful place and becoming a part of the Storybrooke community.

Read Previous Chapters on AO3

Chapter 25 - Unexpected Ally

Once word got around that the library was open, up and running, Belle had a very busy few days almost rushed off her feet with the number of new subscribers she had registered. She had no idea there were even so many people in Storybrooke. For a sleepy little town in Maine, it certainly seemed to have a lot of residents. Not that she was complaining, not really. It helped to keep her mind off the still missing Mister Gold - being too busy to wonder very much.

It didn’t help her to avoid noticing that there were still far too many spaces on the selves, and that she didn’t have sufficient books in the library for her liking, so she spent one of her lunch breaks sitting at the computer in the library looking online and trying to source new books. She found another branch library in a rural town nearby was closing down due to lack of public funding, and though it saddened her more than she could say, it also filled her with a sense of hope and excitement, and she telephoned the head librarian there right away, securing the bulk of the books to fill the self spaces in Storybrooke’s repository of books.

And not a moment too soon, as it should happen, because while her landlord and secret benefactor - or so it seemed anyway - was still notably absent, the mayor, fast becoming her greatest nemesis, was not. Regina Mills breezed into the library with her nose in the air, practically sweeping her fingertips along surfaces like a mother-in-law checking for dust.

“Well, Miss Marchland,” the mayor said after turning to look at her. “You certainly seemed to have managed to liven the place up a little, if nothing else.”

“Yes,” Belle replied, trying to keep her voice light and polite, although Regina was like a dark cloud over a picnic. “I’ve had a lot of people come in to register.”

“And to borrow books, it would seem.”

“What do you mean?” Belle frowned, wondering what the comment was meant to be criticizing now - because she had no doubt it was.

“The selves are somewhat… sparse, dear,” she said. “We did give you a budget for the library. I distinctly remember signing off on it - against my better judgment, I might add.”

Belle had had enough and folding her arms across her chest demanded, “Then why did you?”

“Everything to do with library was voted on and approved by the town council. I told them they were wasting their time and Storybrooke’s budget, that this little… social experiment wouldn’t last, but… it appears you have some influential people in this town already on your side.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a need to take sides,” Belle grumbled under her breath.

“What was that, dear?” Even before Belle opened her mouth to answer, the mayor waved her away. “Never mind. As soon as people see how limited their choices are, they just won’t be coming any more, and we’ll be able to close this place down.”

She turned on her heel then and headed back toward the front door, but Belle hurried from behind the circulation desk and put herself firmly in the mayor’s path. Forcing her to stop walking or run into her.

“Why do you hate me so much?” she demanded, throwing up her hands, “What have I ever done to you?”

Regina laughed, which fueled Belle’s irritation, and she could feel her color rising in the wake of her irritation.

“My dear Miss Marchland,” the mayor said as her laughter subsided a little. “Hate you?” She shook her head. “It’s as I told you at the ball, and it’s as true now as it was then. It is most fitting that you should be in peasants clothing - as a servant.” She looked around, then looked down at her immaculately painted fingernails as she added, “It’s all you’ll ever amount to, anyway. Besides…” she reached out and pushed Belle aside with two fingers as though she were touching something distasteful before she started walking again toward the door, as she said, “…why waste time hating someone who’s going to do your work for you?”

It took everything that Belle was not to run out after her; to keep her calm and not call after her with words a lady should never use. What the hell did she mean? What was it that Regina Mills thought she was going to do to further her seemingly twisted plans for the townsfolk of Storybrooke. It seemed as though the mayor just wanted everyone to be miserable.

Deliberately, she returned to the circulation desk and engaged in a few mundane tasks to try and rid her mind of the unpleasantness of the visit. It didn’t work. All she could think about was the way the mayor seemed to think that the library would fail, that the people in town were not really interested in patronizing the establishment so close to Belle��s heart. She looked at the stack of registration cards off to the left of the desk - completed registration cards - that still needed to be filed, and it made her chuckle. The sight of the tall stack was a comfort, a reassurance that whatever Mayor Mills thought was refuted by the facts, and that so long as she kept the books well stocked - and she already had that in hand without delving into the actual library budget - then the people would keep on coming.

She smiled, and glanced at her watch. It was almost time for the first of her planned community activities: Storybrooke Story Time, and she wandered over to the area she had already set up that morning with a large area rug, many colorful scatter cushions, and a place for the story-teller - which today would be her - to sit. She’d tried to make sure people knew about it, and had even asked Mary Margaret to let the parents at the school know when it would be happening. Still, after her morning visitor, she worried just a little that no one would come.

She need not have. The moment that the appointed time came around, beginning as a little trickle, at first, and then many people arriving together, parents and children came and took spots on the cushions and on the carpet. Some parents asked if they could leave their little ones while they ran to the store, and although Belle was uncertain at first, the looks of desperation she saw in their eyes - the need for the chance to shop without having to field wheedling requests for cookies and candy, to actually buy their groceries and sundries in peace - made Belle agree, “So long as you’re back by the end,” she would add with a smile and a light touch to their arm.

While she was putting the finishing touches to the event, and setting out small cups of juice, and little containers each with a healthy snack for later, when she suspected the children, especially the younger ones, would need a break, one of the parent’s who had stayed hopped into the ‘Teller’s Chair’ and began leading the children in a song. Belle smiled, happy that things were going well.

Of course, the thought was an invitation for something to go wrong. Even so, she was surprised when she felt a light tap on her shoulder as she was filling the last of the juice cups, and straightened up, turning to see the Sheriff standing behind her.

“Sheriff Humbert,” she greeted him with a smile, “Can I help you?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Marchland,” he began, but she could tell that he felt… awkward, uncomfortable just by the look on his face. “Miss Marchland,” he said again, “I’m sorry to bust in on you like this, but, well, I was passing just now, and I saw some of the parents leave the building without their children.”

“Yes,” Belle said, with a frown, not quite understanding what the Sheriff was driving at. “They asked to run to the store while I was reading the story to the children.”

“See,” Graham Humbert ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “This is very awkward, but… they can’t actually do that. The town of Storybrooke - your employer you understand - doesn’t actually have a background check on file for you yet, so…”

“Oh my God!” Belle exclaimed perhaps a little too loudly, as some of the parents looked around. Belle lowered her voice and leaned closer to the sheriff, speaking confidentially despite her mounting irritation. “Oh my God,” she repeated. “Regina put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“We have to abide by the law, Miss Marchland. I’m sure you understand,” he said, and his non-answer led Belle to believe that she had been entirely right in her accusation.

“Yes, but—” Belle began, but the sheriff held up a hand.

“And the law says you can’t be left alone with children that aren’t your own without first receiving a satisfactory criminal background check,” he offered her a smile then, and with almost a cheeky twinkle in his eye added, “Just so happens that I’m due for a break now, so… if you don’t mind reading a story to a grown up boy…” he gesture toward the circulation desk, and to the new flat packed office chair that leaned against the side of it. “I could even put that together for you while I listen.”

Belle let out the breath she’d be holding, and smiled broadly, throwing a quick hug around the sheriff before she realized what she’d done.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” she said as she pulled back.

“Graham,” he told her. “I’m off the clock, remember? Go on, go read your story. I’ll try not to make too much noise.”

Story time, once it was underway, was a huge hit. Belle didn’t think she would ever get used to the sight of all the attentive faces, eyes wide, looking her way as she told the story as expressively as she could. Time flew past, and they even managed to get through snack time without too much of a mess or too many spills. One of the parents who had stayed through the whole thing volunteered to bring the juice and snacks for the next time, and all of the parents who had run their errands returned on time to collect their children.

“Seems like that was quite the success,” Graham said as he wheeled over the now constructed office chair, echoing Belle’s thoughts.

She smiled her thanks at him, and nodding at the chair, said, “And it looks like you were successful too.”

He chuckled, shaking his head and said, “Don’t say that until you’ve tried it out. If you want to come over to the office some time this week, I can take your fingerprints and get that background check done for you.”

“Thank you,” Belle said. “I’ll do that.”

“Not that I didn’t enjoy the story, by the way,” he added quickly.

“I understand,” she said, “and thank you for sticking your neck out for me.”

He shrugged as if to tell her that he didn’t see it that way, and he didn’t mind, but Belle knew, could sense that there was more to it than he was telling.

“I’d best be on my way,” he said.

Belle walked with him to the door, deciding to prop one of them open to let in some fresh air, and she noticed the same girl she had spotted on the day the library opened. The girl was hovering nearby, looking almost longingly at the library doors. Belle stepped outside and waved the sheriff off as he drove away, then as she turned she offered the girl a greeting.

“Hi,” she said, “have you been out here the whole time?” The girl shrugged, but this time didn’t run away, so Belle ventured, “Would you like to come in and have a look around?”

The girl was hesitant, but when Belle began to walk back toward the library doors, she followed and stepped inside. Belle didn’t want to spook her, or crowd her, because the girl seemed a little skittish, so she set about starting to clean up the discarded cups and paper plates, and after a while the girl moved to help.

“It’s lovely in here,” the girl said as she reached out to put some plates into the trash bag that Belle held open.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve tried to make it welcoming.”

The girl nodded, then asked, “What story did you read today?”

Belle paused in her tidying and picked up the book she had read from where she had set it on the Teller’s Chair. She held it out to the girl, who - still hesitantly at first - took it, and turned to settled on a cushion, and begin to read the book. Belle continued tidying, giving her time, and when the girl looked up Belle said, “You could have joined us, you know?” The girl shrugged, so Belle asked, “Do you like books?”

“I love books and stories,” the girl blurted out, then looked embarrassed as she handed back the book.

“You can borrow them, you know. That’s what the library is for after all,” Belle answered.

“But… I don’t have a card,”

“I can help you fill out a card, and then you can take it with you and get your parents to sign it.”

The girl shook her head, looking embarrassed. “Mother wouldn’t like it,” she said, and Belle frowned, but didn’t want to press the girl. It wasn’t her place to pry, after all. “Can I help you put the books away?”

“Of course,” Belle said, then after a moment’s thought she said, “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you stop by on your way home from school a few days a week, and you can help out with shelving the books and tidying up. It would be a great help for me, and if you wanted to read a little bit before you left for home…” she trailed off, letting the girl work things out for herself, then added, “My name’s Belle, by the way.”

“I’m Paige,” the girl answered. “And can you maybe help me with my homework sometimes?”

By the time Paige left, the library was practically spotless, and Belle was glad that she was able to help the girl, even though she still didn’t know very much about her. She liked her, and somehow she seemed strangely familiar, as if she’d seen her before, and not just in passing, or knew her parents even though she was certain that couldn’t be the case.

Though she was still trying to work out the library’s opening hours, Belle decided that she would close earlier than usual that day, posting a notice on the doors to the effect that library hours were under review. Then she headed upstairs, to the apartment, where she practically collided with Ruby who was coming out of the bathroom, in nothing but a robe, still toweling her hair dry.

“You’re early,” Ruby said.

“Yes,” Belle answered, “I thought we could maybe do something. We haven’t really had much time since you got here.”

Ruby’s face became a mask of regret. “I’m sorry, Belle,” she said, “I already have plans.”

“You have a date?” Belle asked, her tone one of surprise, though given what happened at the mayor’s ball it shouldn’t have been so unexpected.

“Sort of,” Ruby said, and Belle raised an eyebrow and said, “There are a bunch of us going to the Rabbit Hole. You should come. It’ll be fun.”

“No,” said Belle, rather more vehemently than she meant to, so trying again said more softly, “No thank you. It’s not really my cup of tea.”

“You sure?” Ruby looked guilty, and Belle didn’t want that. She wanted her friend to have fun.

“Yes, of course. You go, have a good time.” She told her. “It’ll give me a chance to try out that new cookie recipe that I found.”

“Belle—” Ruby started, but she cut her off.

“No, seriously, it’s fine.” Belle offered a smile, and then gave her friend a push toward the bedroom. “Get dressed, you don’t want to keep them waiting.” Ruby leaned down and kissed her cheek, and Belle gave her a tight hug in return, murmuring, “Knock ‘em dead.”

#rumbelle #AU (slight)#storybrooke au #cursed storybrooke #eventual smut

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wastinglittlemoments · 7 years ago

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i need to vent so if you don’t wanna read, skip it. if you wanna hear how being a young relatively-functional adult with severe mental illness sucks but is also definitely a doable thing (as I am doing it, apparently), here you go.

I’m 25 years old and doing Okay But Not Great. Okay in the sense that I’m supporting myself and not homeless or starving or still living in the abusive household I grew up in. Which is such a fucking low bar but god it’s the most important one to be able to reach. Not Great in the sense that my depression and anxiety have been absolutely fucking destroying me for the past several weeks.

I’m very lucky I was able to come out about my mental illness at my job, and set up accomodations. I left the house today for the first time in a week; it was just for an hour, and only because I had to go to the bank and pay some bills. I’m incredibly fortunate to be permitted to work from home when I need to. I’m fortunate to make enough money that I can order delivery as often as I do, because otherwise I probably would be starving to death. I am a very fortunate person.

I can’t remember the last time I hated myself this much, probably because whenever it gets this bad, it feels like I’ve always felt like this. I forget what it’s like to be happy. Any expression of emotion feels fake on my face. I’ve been self-isolating a lot and don’t really know how to stop, because I feel like I’ve forgotten how to talk to people without spreading the depression like a disease. My world’s coming down around my ears (both mentally and like.....actually, being that I live in the US. Fuck the Tax Bill, Fight for Net Neutrality) and I don’t have anything else to talk about; I am utterly bored and boring, a depressed downer who is prone to breaking out crying at any moment, and generally a burden in social situations.

I keep missing my therapy appointments because I can’t bring myself to go outside. I haven’t taken a shower in at least a week; I don’t know exactly how long it’s been. My hair is a giant knotted mess, and even thinking about trying to comb it out makes me want to give up and go to bed. I’m physically disgusting right now, my room is a trash heap of clothes I don’t have the energy to wash, bags of garbage and paper and plastic recycling I’m too ashamed and disgusted by to haul out to the curb (which I know is not rational, the rational way to look at the situation is that if I am ashamed and disgusted by it, then all the more reason to get rid of it, but it’s that short window of me publicly carrying bag after bag of garbage out of my living quarters that just.....paralyzes me).

I know I should probably go back on medication. But I was #blessed with a hyperactive gag reflex and the thought of trying to swallow numerous pills each morning makes me actually want to die. I’m never able to consistently take any kind of daily medication, because eventually, the gagging just becomes too much to bear and I just stop.

I could go on, but you get the gist. My head is in a very bad, very dark, very lonely place and everything that I could do to pull me out of it feels like a dead end. It’s the kind of situation where suicidal thoughts could really get a foothold if I’m not very careful.

But at the same time, I’m....doing it. I’m being an adult, I guess. I have a job, I pay rent, I have a very sparse (but still existent) social life, I pay my bills and can afford enough distractions from my own thoughts to keep me from having another meltdown and having to spend 10 hours per week at the psych hospital clinic again. In fact, it’s been almost two years since I “graduated” from that program.

It feels especially dumb to say it after just writing all that, but I’ve been plagued by thoughts that I’m just pitying myself, I’m being dramatic, my abuse wasn’t that bad, I’m being ridiculous, I must just Want To Be This Way. I must be missing work (aka working from home) because I’m Lazy. I must be ordering out for all my meals because I’m a Fat Pig and Have No Self Control.

The thoughts have been so bad that I’ve barely been sleeping, because I’ve been plunging into escapist games and TV shows and comics so much that I can’t stop. If I stop reading, then there will be nothing to fill up this gaping void of Judgement in my head. And it’s awful. I realized that I needed to be back on medication when I found myself physically shaking when I let myself think for too long. I start hyperventilating at random, feeling my gut seize up, feeling like I’m choking. And yet the thought persists: “God, what a faker.”

It feels....unbearable. And yet here I am, bearing it. It fucking sucks. Not gonna say it’s getting better, because it’s not. Right now, it’s getting worse. And while it may get better in the future, it will get worse again too. And I’ve been riding these waves long enough, through high school, through college, through my first real job, through living on my own, through my first unemployment, through my second job. The last time I made it to a therapy appointment, I knew this was coming. You can feel when the tide starts turning, when you’re about to be dragged under, and you can try to prepare yourself at least. Buy a bunch of microwaveable meals. Try to include some vegetables. Ask someone to check in on you once in a while. Stock up on juice and gummy vitamins.

The fact that I’m here, saying that it feels unbearable, means that I am currently bearing it. I am doing something that feels impossible, in this exact moment, and I’ve been doing it for a long time, on and off and on again. I don’t know how to articulate how I feel about that, but I feel like there has to be some kind of significance to that fact.

#depression #anxiety #mental illness #venting #tw suicidal thoughts #this is currently my best attempt at being positive #i did a post #text

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youmightaswell · 8 years ago

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LIVE

My First Foray Into Medical Marijuana

(This will be a two-part series)

Why did I want to try Medical Marijuana?

I have battled with Lyme Disease and co-infections for over five years. As a result I developed a painful auto-immune condition wherein my body attacks my nerves and brain instead of pathogens. I can’t rid myself of the co-infections because taking antibiotics makes auto-immune issues worse and the pain is severe. Recently the pain has become unbearable and nothing will quell it.

I have worked with two different hospital’s pain management teams trying everything from opiates and pain meds like Fentanyl, Methadone, Morphine and Dilaudid to nerve meds like Lyrica and Neurontin. I have tried anti-inflammatory drugs and even drugs in an off-use way like seizure meds and psychiatric drugs to no avail. Meditation? Ha! Tapping? Pure silliness! Mind over matter? Go fuck yourself.

So when my doctor recently got his license to prescribe medical marijuana he thought I should try it.

My friend concurred, sending me this video he recently watched by a Buzzfeed editor who suffers from a painful nerve condition and her attempt at trying MMJ to quell her pain.

Still I was reticent. I hated weed and always have. I first tried smoking a joint with my first boyfriend when I was a teen. It made me feel racy, my heart pound and all I could think about is how I could make the high end. I kept fixating on how if a fire started or my appendix burst I would be too high to coherently convey the issue and get help. I’m neurotic and weed makes me more so.

Add to that my ex-husband was a pot head which lead to our divorce and I was wary. My ex-boyfriend Amir has smoked weed everyday for the last 20+ years. I didn’t want to be tethered to anything in that way and be like Amir who furtively has dealers come to his house at 2am or who’d meet us on vacation to drop off weed. I didn’t want my apartment to smell like herb on the reg either.

Obviously I smoked weed a bunch of time over the years, never with good results. More recently I tried an edible. Made me feel a bit off and craving gummy bears. Not worth it.

A friend in Michigan relayed to me that she tried an edible from a dispensary recently and ended up in the ER thinking she was going to die.

My doctor assured me that he’d prescribe only the low-THC variety which would not make me high, but should have strong painkilling properties.

In the interim he sent me via mail a CBD oil to try out. (I haven’t done so yet.)

The application process:

My doctor filled out the application form online for me, stopping frequently in the process to lament how antiquated and wonky the DOH’s online application system was. The man who never gets flustered was audibly so throughout.

MMJ is only approved for a few conditions. Cancer is one as is nerve pain. PTSD is listed but way harder to prove.

Once the doctor’s application was sent I had to also log on and fill out a request form.

There is a question that asks if the applicant has any first degree family members who are schizophrenic. My mother is, so this gave me pause.

It required me to prove I lived in NY and provide a head shot. Because I do not know how to drive it was a bit troublesome. I tried to submit my IDNYC card, but it was not accepted. Thankfully I had a copy of my lease, passport and bank statement.

A thing to note: The Department of Health Medical Marijuana Program’s website is a nightmare. It is confusing and wonky. It takes a billion steps to do one thing and if you have to resubmit something there is no way to sign back in and edit your application. It just brings you to a page to start a new one but then notes you already have an application filed. It is a vicious, anxiety-inducing cycle. Calling isn’t much better. It is nearly impossible to get a real person to help you in real-time who knows how to navigate the online system. You can leave a message, but when the person returned my call she didn’t leave a name or extension so I had no way of reaching her back to submit what she requested. I found emailing was way more effective. Finally I sussed it all out.

Once submitted, my doctor quickly confirmed with the DOH that I was indeed his patient pictured.

I finally got my card in the mail -- took less than a month.

Setting up the appointment:

The next step was to go online and find a dispensary. Turns out there is only one in Manhattan. It is located in the East Village. Thankfully its website was easy to use. I filled out a medical history form and chose an appointment time. They were readily available. I chose 4:20pm for the following week because I am who I am. It’s important to have a sense of humor no matter how much pain or despair you have.

The Visit

On the day of my appointment I showed up to the East 14th Street office about 20 minutes early. On the corner were two junkies sprawled out on Third Avenue. I climbed over them and headed to the clinic.

I rang the bell and finally got buzzed in by a overly tanned, bouncer-looking guy with slicked back hair. His overly large gold insignia ring and Sopranos-esque demeanor was off-putting. Still, I soldiered on. I assumed his bravado was there to “weed” out fakers. (See what I did there?)

I went to the reception desk where a young guy with dyed platinum hair was commenting on the soundtrack the dispensary was playing.

The whole place with its weird characters and carnival-type music lent itself to a Lynchian vibe.

The clerk at the desk was telling the bouncer guy that the music was 1950��s novelty tunes. The song playing was actually called “The Purple People Eater Meets the Witch Doctor.” Trippy!

youtube

I took a seat and took in my environment.

The reception and waiting area was long and narrow; I’d estimate it is about 500 square feet. The sparse decor is mid-century modern meets bunker. There is a large screen monitor displaying information about the program, which made it seem more like a store than a medical clinic.

The other patients in the waiting area included an elderly couple and a young Asian mom with her two young kids. Later a man wearing aviators and camo shorts came in followed by a be-suited man.

At exactly 4:20pm (they are exact!) I was beckoned to the sealed off area. The pregnant pharmacist who tended to me was lovely and very thoroughly went over my medical history and concerns. She was familiar with my exact auto-immune condition (few people are) and was very encouraging. I shared my fears about feeling out of control or high, and she reiterated I would not be permitted to have any high-THC products anyway because my mother is schizophrenic and THC can cause some mental issues.

She said I would only be offered low THC products which are ideal for nerve pain.

Turns out there is no actual weed in the clinic anyway. There are three products: tinctures -- drops to be used under the tongue; pills; and vape pens -- to smoke oil.

She said that the first two were basically the same and the pen was to supplement each. So one would take two pills or use the tincture twice a day, and for added, more immediate relief, one could take a puff or two of the vape pen.

I asked about side effects and she said basically there aren’t any negative ones to worry about. Some people feel more alert and energetic.

I opted to buy a week’s supply of both the pills and tincture to ascertain which was most effective for me and one vape pen (90 puffs.) That came to over $200 and would last only roughly two weeks. So this is quite costly. A month’s supply of pain relief (if it works) would cost over $400. And of course insurance doesn’t cover any of this. I’m actually surprised in a city as moneyed and as big at Manhattan there is only one dispensary.

My friend in Michigan got to try out multiple locations and a far bigger array of products as did the woman in the video in Los Angeles.

I left with my bag of supplies, eager to try them.

The second part of this series will come in a week or two once I have had a chance to try each product, including the original CBD oil.

Stay turned.

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