A/N: Swan Queen. Combatting a massive writer's block. Drabble. Short. Brief sentences. (I mean more than usual.) Probably impossible to comprehend. (Just like usual.) 15 minutes. You get the point.

Everyone I've ever known blames her even though an infant who still thinks everything outside of its line of sight doesn't exist would understand their ignorance, except me. I feel like that infant. I feel like our baby; like I speak a different language or am still learning theirs. I wish I could be him because the downside to all this is that I only get the misunderstanding, the errors in communication beyond repair, instead of at least being given the luxury of a toddler's blissful ignorance. I've done nothing to earn that, I know; but what I can afford is the knowledge that she was not the witch they all treated her as.

There is only one person standing by my side, and that person is Mary; but her point of view is all screwed up too. She's putting her on a pedestal, a stage she never belonged to. Then again, she was quite an actress. There is a speck of truth to every confident lie.

No, I know the real truth; I've seen the pain and I've seen the adversities of her upbringing, and I stood witness to the birth of her reasons in a horrible déja vu. I've seen what made them blame her and I know what made Mary not to. The memories fit in my mind like pieces of a long lost puzzle; like I'm one of the pieces. And all this time, I've been lying in the drawer without purpose while dust was piling up on top of me until she found me, and for that I am grateful.

They blame her for all the wrong reasons. I blame her for the truth. I blame her for not even attempting to fight her blindness. I blame her for not seeing the heart I held in my hand in front of her; not as a sacrifice - I like to think of it as a gift. I blame her because she was so focused on taking she forgot to receive and rejected the love I was trying to make her feel. They will learn to live with the damage and their anger will soon be diminished, but my scars will never heal. I will never forgive nor forget her; her voice, her deeds, her sins, her laugh, her pain, her love, her tears — what little I remember will always be etched into my ribs.

There is only one person standing by my side at Regina's grave, and that person is Mary. She puts her on a pedestal because she knows that in the book, the princess loved the witch, and the witch, desperate and longing for release, took her own happiness two times in a row. Unbeknownst to her, she took the princess's with her, two times in a row.

It's not necessary, really. I'm too worn to believe in fairytales.