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Description
What Babe?
One: In the Vents

"She in there?"

"Yeah, yeah!  Lady in there?"

"Shhhhh – stupids!  Remember what Kinga said!"

"King said check up on Lady."

"King said don't get caught."

"King said we gets bogged if we gets caught."

"King scary."

"King –"

"Shut up 'fores I bog you, stupids!"

Her eyes scrunch closed as the tiny voices – three of them – press in closer, grow louder.  There's a skritcha-skritcha-skracthing in the vents above her, one that makes her skin crawl as they must crawl through the ceilings.  She knows they're there.  She knows, and she hopes he bogs every last one of them for it.

"Sarah?"

An eye cracks open, her unwilling gaze sliding from the door, along the wall with the pictures so falsely cheery they make her stomach churn, finally landing on the Woman with the mousey hair and over-starched pencil skirt.  Dark stockings.  Shiny loafers that click-click-click against the linoleum.  Flowy yellow blouse, the kind she used to love before they said what she could and could not wear.  Large wire glasses that cover observant brown eyes.

She doesn't respond.  She rarely does.

"Sarah, can you hear them again?" the Woman asks.  Her eyes slide up to the vent set between them, where the scuffling has stopped and shadows play in the cracks.  She sees a glint – a helmet, perhaps, or a colander the tiny creature thought was one.

"Poor lady."

"Looks sad."

"When she coming home?  Miss Lady."

"Kinga miss her, too."

She screws her eyes shut, grits her teeth, and curls tighter in on herself.  Her bare toes curl around the edge of the plastic chair, and her arms hug her knees.

"How have you been sleeping, Sarah?" the Woman asks, and she barely raises her head to peek out over the baggy sleeve covering her arm.  Too thin, Irene had said last they visited.  That was too many too thins ago.  "Charlie tells me the medicine has been helping."

It doesn't.  It makes her sleep more, makes her remember more, and she relives it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over every night.  She hates them for it.  She hates him for it.  She hates herself for it.

"Sarah," the Woman sighs, tucking the pen in her chart and reaching up to remove her glasses.  She looks tired, she thinks.  Worn.  Frustrated.  Like…  "Sarah, I can't help you if you won't talk to me.  Why won't you tell me about the dreams, Sarah?  Charlie says you're still waking up screaming.  That you still cry in your sleep.  What do you dream about, Sarah?"

The laughter sounded like a scream when she twirled, looking like a wild creature as she danced among the goblins.  They tittered and cheered, laughing with her and racing along the backyard.  In the branches of the tree she saw the owl, watching with what looked like amusement – only that owl, the owl that wasn't, could look amused, she thought.  She waved, blew him a kiss; his feathers ruffled, his head shaking before looking away.

The little goblin on her shoulder cheered as Hoggle raced through the others; it was a game they liked to play, where instead of a baby it was a princess that needed rescuing, and they always had their Lady play their princess.  They took turns as the brave hero, and once even his Majesty had stepped in to rescue her.

More often than not their games were for their own amusement, but Toby was always on the sidelines, smiling and laughing at their goblin friends.  Most days she still had trouble believing they'd come to this point, where she felt Toby could be no safer than when with the goblins and where the Goblin King – Jareth – was…was…

She stopped mid-twirl, eyes widening as they landed on the empty blanket.

Toby?

She hates Charlie.  Hates him with everything she has, the dirty rotten tattler.  He tries to say he's her friend, that he wants to help, but he gives her the pills and then tells the Woman when they make her remember.  She wishes…

The thought turns her blood to ice that sluggishly draws to a halt in her veins.  The words die before the thought can complete – she won't let it.  She'll never utter those words again. Not after the last time.  Not after she…not after he…

"Forget about the baby, Sarah," he said.

"But I can't," she whispered, shaking.  "How could I?"

"You've lost him," his words lanced through her, sharp and unforgiving.  She realized his hands were on her arms again.  He seemed awfully preoccupied with touching her, that time 'round.

…that time?

"I can take the memories, precious thing.  Just say the right words.  One wish," he said, voice ghosting over her ear.  She shivered.  Was that what she wanted?  To forget?

"No," she choked on the words.  "You can't…I beat you!  I made it in time!  You have to give him back!"

"Why, precious thing?" he asked.  He was so close she could feel his lips curl into a smirk against her ear.  "Because I have no power over you?"

They are whispering, tittering again.  She glances at the vent, and the Woman sighs.

"Sarah, you were doing so well.  You know there's no such thing as goblins," she says, and when she looks back at her she's surprised to find her hand is on her arm.  She feels so numb.  She doesn't feel the sturdy grip she knows she must have on her.  "Say it with me, Sarah.  'There are no such things as goblins.'  There are no goblins in the vents, in the halls, in your room, or anywhere in this hospital.  You are safe, and they cannot hurt you because they are not real.  Say it with me, Sarah.  'There are no such things as goblins.'"

But there are, and she's not because they can.  So easy to get her, to take everything she holds dear.  A handful of words, carelessly tossed out – and then it's too late.  Goblin King, Goblin King, wherever you may be…

"…take this memory of mine far away from me."

Description
What Babe?
One: In the Vents

"She in there?"

"Yeah, yeah!  Lady in there?"

"Shhhhh – stupids!  Remember what Kinga said!"

"King said check up on Lady."

"King said don't get caught."

"King said we gets bogged if we gets caught."

"King scary."

"King –"

"Shut up 'fores I bog you, stupids!"

Her eyes scrunch closed as the tiny voices – three of them – press in closer, grow louder.  There's a skritcha-skritcha-skracthing in the vents above her, one that makes her skin crawl as they must crawl through the ceilings.  She knows they're there.  She knows, and she hopes he bogs every last one of them for it.

"Sarah?"

An eye cracks open, her unwilling gaze sliding from the door, along the wall with the pictures so falsely cheery they make her stomach churn, finally landing on the Woman with the mousey hair and over-starched pencil skirt.  Dark stockings.  Shiny loafers that click-click-click against the linoleum.  Flowy yellow blouse, the kind she used to love before they said what she could and could not wear.  Large wire glasses that cover observant brown eyes.

She doesn't respond.  She rarely does.

"Sarah, can you hear them again?" the Woman asks.  Her eyes slide up to the vent set between them, where the scuffling has stopped and shadows play in the cracks.  She sees a glint – a helmet, perhaps, or a colander the tiny creature thought was one.

"Poor lady."

"Looks sad."

"When she coming home?  Miss Lady."

"Kinga miss her, too."

She screws her eyes shut, grits her teeth, and curls tighter in on herself.  Her bare toes curl around the edge of the plastic chair, and her arms hug her knees.

"How have you been sleeping, Sarah?" the Woman asks, and she barely raises her head to peek out over the baggy sleeve covering her arm.  Too thin, Irene had said last they visited.  That was too many too thins ago.  "Charlie tells me the medicine has been helping."

It doesn't.  It makes her sleep more, makes her remember more, and she relives it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over every night.  She hates them for it.  She hates him for it.  She hates herself for it.

"Sarah," the Woman sighs, tucking the pen in her chart and reaching up to remove her glasses.  She looks tired, she thinks.  Worn.  Frustrated.  Like…  "Sarah, I can't help you if you won't talk to me.  Why won't you tell me about the dreams, Sarah?  Charlie says you're still waking up screaming.  That you still cry in your sleep.  What do you dream about, Sarah?"

The laughter sounded like a scream when she twirled, looking like a wild creature as she danced among the goblins.  They tittered and cheered, laughing with her and racing along the backyard.  In the branches of the tree she saw the owl, watching with what looked like amusement – only that owl, the owl that wasn't, could look amused, she thought.  She waved, blew him a kiss; his feathers ruffled, his head shaking before looking away.

The little goblin on her shoulder cheered as Hoggle raced through the others; it was a game they liked to play, where instead of a baby it was a princess that needed rescuing, and they always had their Lady play their princess.  They took turns as the brave hero, and once even his Majesty had stepped in to rescue her.

More often than not their games were for their own amusement, but Toby was always on the sidelines, smiling and laughing at their goblin friends.  Most days she still had trouble believing they'd come to this point, where she felt Toby could be no safer than when with the goblins and where the Goblin King – Jareth – was…was…

She stopped mid-twirl, eyes widening as they landed on the empty blanket.

Toby?

She hates Charlie.  Hates him with everything she has, the dirty rotten tattler.  He tries to say he's her friend, that he wants to help, but he gives her the pills and then tells the Woman when they make her remember.  She wishes…

The thought turns her blood to ice that sluggishly draws to a halt in her veins.  The words die before the thought can complete – she won't let it.  She'll never utter those words again. Not after the last time.  Not after she…not after he…

"Forget about the baby, Sarah," he said.

"But I can't," she whispered, shaking.  "How could I?"

"You've lost him," his words lanced through her, sharp and unforgiving.  She realized his hands were on her arms again.  He seemed awfully preoccupied with touching her, that time 'round.

…that time?

"I can take the memories, precious thing.  Just say the right words.  One wish," he said, voice ghosting over her ear.  She shivered.  Was that what she wanted?  To forget?

"No," she choked on the words.  "You can't…I beat you!  I made it in time!  You have to give him back!"

"Why, precious thing?" he asked.  He was so close she could feel his lips curl into a smirk against her ear.  "Because I have no power over you?"

They are whispering, tittering again.  She glances at the vent, and the Woman sighs.

"Sarah, you were doing so well.  You know there's no such thing as goblins," she says, and when she looks back at her she's surprised to find her hand is on her arm.  She feels so numb.  She doesn't feel the sturdy grip she knows she must have on her.  "Say it with me, Sarah.  'There are no such things as goblins.'  There are no goblins in the vents, in the halls, in your room, or anywhere in this hospital.  You are safe, and they cannot hurt you because they are not real.  Say it with me, Sarah.  'There are no such things as goblins.'"

But there are, and she's not because they can.  So easy to get her, to take everything she holds dear.  A handful of words, carelessly tossed out – and then it's too late.  Goblin King, Goblin King, wherever you may be…

"…take this memory of mine far away from me."