A/N: I had a previous version of this posted months ago but took it down to rework it, then forgot about it. Oops. So, here's the longer version 2.0 (about 250+ words more) It's based on the Magna version of Labyrinth. For those who've read it, you'll understand the character I'm referring to in this short one-shot. And I always love reviews and comments - *bats eyelashes*
He Tells Me My Name is Sarah
He tells me my name is Sarah, but I have no memory of such an appellation; whether it is true or false is his secret to horde or share.
He tells me my home is with him, it has always been so; but my recollections start a few days ago, before ... nothingness—I am blank to myself.
He tells me I am his dream, he sought and waited all his years to find me; yet my dreams are filled with disjointed gray, pain and confusion.
He tells me we are meant to be together, as one, the grand romance; and while I somehow understand the concept of romance, how can we be legendary if I recall no history?
He tells me no other knows me as he does, his is my shining one, my savior; I feel the weight of my salvation compounding upon my narrow shoulders.
He tells me the scars are normal, old and insignificant; but a niggling refuses to die with my memory, it burrows deeper each day.
He tells me the outside is dangerous, when I ask, when I question; I feel the tug of unrestraint calling me beyond the walls of my room, craving the natural world and its light.
He tells me he loves me, yet keeps me locked in a perfect princess' room filled with froth and whimsy; my freshly active mind spins incessantly, turning upon itself and relentlessly devouring.
He tells me all surrounding me within my cage is mine; why then, when I touch my possessions—filigree music box, exquisite jewelry, books of poems and fairytales—do my emotions leap while my rational mind remains devoid of the slimmest of reminiscences?
He tells me I will adjust, it is temporary, fleeting; but I feel wrong, like a jigsaw puzzle with the last piece missing, and somehow I comprehend I will never locate the lost, best part of me.
He tells me I will be happy here, with him, in time; I ask him was I happy before-he doesn't answer.
He tells me not to worry, he will care for me ... forever; I begin to suspect otherwise when I question too often; when he silently frowns, mismatched eyes pinched and scorching, and he locks the door to my royal prison behind him, leaving me alone for days, returning later as if nothing occurred.
He tells me to comply with his wishes, his desires, his every whim; I try, at first, but soon find myself unable, a core of rebellion blooming brighter with each of his demands.
He tells me to obey him, if I submit he will be my slave; I state I don't want a slave nor do I want to be one; I want to remember who I am, before his perfect room he locks me away in every day.
He tells me I was supposed to love him; why can't I just love him like he loves me?
I tell him—how can I love him when I don't remember how to love, but only the dream of love?