Script

Chapter 2: Empty Images

A mouse tail, a thing of twine, stale bread, a colorful array of buttons, and practically every useless item there was in the castle. Even a few sewing needles had been crammed into the small bag. The junk was like a trap, us maneuvering around it, careful of stepping on the horrendous items.

Eugene's eyes were wide and questioning. HIs bottom lip jutting out of his chubby face that matched his equally chubby frame. His hair stood straight and long, the limp browness seeping out like soft bendable twigs. His eyes were a nice brown-the same color of that his sister's eyes were. Though he portrayed a boyish look wit'h countered his twin's feminine features.

"Lizzie? Why is there a running boy on the floor?" He turned to us with his razzled, confused face. We shook our heads and rushed to the limp boy lying on the floor. Eugene put all the items back in the satchel and looked to us for another task.

"Ask someone for Lance's parents,"  I remembered the boy's name. Eugene scampered off into the hall, asking one of the servants for the means of contacting Lance's parents. Elizabeth tried to shake him awake but that didn't work. She slapped his face and he grumbled but still didn't open his eyes.And so with a devious smirk, Elizabeth sat on her knees, bended over close so her lips were near the boy's ear. She blew soflty before screaming, "WAKE UP PEASANT BOY!"

His eyes snapped open and he growled scarily, well, with as much fear a small four-year old child could muster. "My name is Lance," he sat defiantly and crossed his arms without so much as a blink towards the two girls sitting on either side of him. "And I am not a peasant boy, my father is a knight."

"Well, aren't knights supposed to be good boys?" I asked softly, enthralled with the fact that I had just stumbled upon a knight's son. I gave him his satchel and he snatched it from me.

"No," he said, "knights are supposed to have adventures. And I am."

His chin was in the air and he refused to lower his ego.

"Well then," I mumured, "Elizabeth, do you want to have an ad-ven-chure with him? We all can have one?"

"Maybe," she said smiling, "what's an ad-ven-chure?"

"Fun. Fun time."

And the four of us were inseperable since.

---{}---{}---{}---

"That was it," I finished, "that was my first memory. Dream actually, but...to me it's more a memory than anythinng else."

Dr. Fitzgerald nodded, completely enthralled by my narration. It looked as if he'd gobbled up every last detail that came spewing from my mouth. He wasn't laughing, he wasn't shaking his head and trying to convince me that none of it was ever real. He was nodding, as if he understood, as if he actually listened. And for that I was a bit happier than I was when I enetered this room.

He leaned back into his chair and grinned.

"I assume that was a brilliant life," he said matter-of-frankly. "It must've felt terrible waking up to this shitty place huh?"

"Yeah, kind of. I want to go back, but I can't unless...unless I fall back into a coma. But I don't know how to. And, if i do, I might permanently stay asleep. Which could...which could kill me."

"Yeah, that's no the best idea is it?" he mumbled shaking his head 'no'. "How about, you give this a month, okay? Next month, tell me a few things that took your attention. Positively, okay? No bad stuff. Even though this place is filled to the brim with bad stuff."

"Alright," I said.

"Alright," He said.

"Alright," I repeated.

"Give me one more and I'll believe you," he responded. "But unfortunately, our time today had ended. Your mother-Sandi should be waiting for you in the lobby."

I picked up my leather jacket and smiled at the man, who also stood when I did. I slipped the jacket on and pushed out a hand, waiting for a handshake. Fitzgerald took my hand in his and shook it once. Firm, soft.

"Wait," he stopped me, "take this. Write Leyla, be a scribe just like your father."

He handed me a worn notebook, leather bound, with an own imprinted on the front. The pages were yellow and musty with age. It felt nice in my hands, like it was one of the things that wasn't out of place when I held onto it.

"Thank you," I acccepted gracefully, "I'll see you next week Dr. Fritzgerald."

"No problem."

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The car was silent, ringing with the impending conversation. It was stale, like week-old bread, and cold, lke the winter months.

"How was it?" She asked somberly, shyly as if she was nervous talking to her own daughter. "The session I mean, do you-do you feel any better?"

"Yeah, Sandi, I feel fine. Thank you," abrupt and closed off was my answer. I didn't want the conversation to stretch out any more farther than it should. I didn't have it in me right now to...to just put up with this fast-paced, machine-like world.

"What did you guys talk about? How was Dr.-"

"Fitzgerald, and we talked about my...coma," I said. I wasn't lying, not really anyways, I was just giving her half of the truth. "And he-he gave me this book to write in."

I handed her the little old notebook. She weighed it in her hand, examining it as if were some sort of toxic item that would ruin me.

She gave it back to me and smiled. It was forced, which made me feel worse about how I'd been treating her lately.

"So, I was wondering," she started again, "the doctor said you should be able to go to school in another two or three weeks."

"Great," I said, remembering the brief eplaining conversation we'd had about what schooling here actualy meant, "what about it?"

"Well, we're going to have to see where you stand. Academically of course," she paused, "unless you want to be homeschooled. Which can be arranged, I can call a tutor or something-"

"Sandi it's okay, I'll take the test. I'll go to...school."

And that was it. We were home. The elevator music had become quite the pest, and it bothered me as to why they couldn't aford a nice violinist to stand in the corner while we made our journey between the different levels of the building. It almost made me miss the long winding stairs that exhausted me till no end bact at the castle.

Home was silent. My room had been set up already, so that provided me my escape. All my father's books were mine now, my mother not interested in the fantasy novels and much more engrossed in her collection of Stephen King writings. They were standing in the bookshelf, untouched for what almost seemed like a decade, though they weren't dusty.

I hadn't picked up any one of those books yet, afraid they might trigger another set of unwanted feelings. But now as I sat on my bed, bored for the life of me, I had no choice but to walk up to the shelf and reach for a story.

I took one unconciously, not bothered to read the spine. It was a surprise of sorts, like drawing names from a hat.

I turned the book in my palms gingerly. 101 Grimm Fairy Tales.

I flipped to the first page. Enjoying the crisp smell of an unopened book. The words flew through my mind like a soft wind. There, but barely. I could feel them, but just slightly.

In old times, when wishing still hellped one...