Clock Chimes

Chapter Two

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK CITY, 2023.
One year after Emma's death.

Henry Mills sits uncomfortably on the thinly-carpeted floor of his apartment, feeling the vibration of the bass of his neighbor's much-too-loud music. He groans, annoyed; he reaches for his beer bottle beside him, accidentally pushing it over and soaking the few drops left into the already stained carpeting.

He curses venomously under his breath at the minor inconvenience, and wonders briefly when that had become his reflex response. He thinks he knows.

A loud, startling train horn blares just outside the window, worsening the slamming inside of his skull and making him twitch under his skin. It's far too small of a thing to startle him so badly; he knows this, but he has to take three calming breaths to slow his pounding heartbeat, and wonders when he'd become such a mess.

He runs a rough, dry palm over his face, pushing past his sleep-deprived eyes and rubbing at his so heavily-stubbled jaw, it's probably a beard by now. He doesn't know.

When was the last time he looked in a mirror, anyway?

This is ridiculous.

He finally brings himself to stand, watching his world swerve and spin at the movement. He almost feels sick for a moment, before placing a hand on the concrete wall beside him, closing his eyes to pause the merry-go-round. He's probably drunk. Or hungover. Or both.

When was the last time he wasn't either of those things?

Since she...

He shakes his head, trying to push the ever-present memory out of his mind. One with long, blonde hair, a shining smile and a contagious laugh. One who constantly cracks bad jokes and gives him noogies, and if he thinks hard enough and shuts his eyes, he can still feel her rub her fist vigorously on the top of his head. If he concentrates long enough, he can smell her flowery but slightly-spicy scent, can still see her bright green eyes that looked at him with nothing but love.

Emma.

God, freaking Emma, the woman who never leaves his mind and constantly haunts him. Because he can't unsee the blood--

He shakes his head again to clear his increasingly panicked mind, but it only makes him dizzier. He forces his tired eyelids open and walks towards the kitchen, where he swings open the door of his cheap, crappy fridge. Half of his takeout goes to shit in it because it barely goes cold enough to keep food, but he hasn't tossed it because he can't afford a better one. He squints against the flickering light in his fridge, scanning the shelves for another beer. He tosses two empty cardboard six-packs onto the floor, and shoves a jar of pickles aside--why does he have that?--to see one bottle left. He grabs that a box of Chinese takeout.

Thinks about how much Emma liked Chinese takeout.

The thought makes him sick and he finds he can't eat more than the first bite, and he's pretty sure the food's spoiled by now, anyway. The lo mein doesn't taste the same as it had several days ago, but he'd only had a few bites then, too. Lately, he can't bring himself to each much anymore.

Not for the first time, he reflects on how relieved he is that his mother--that Regina--can't see him like this. Christ, she'd be horrified. He's shocked by the tears that come so easily to his eyes when he thinks of her.

Every time he thinks of Regina, he's plagued with guilt; reminded of the countless promises he'd made her--promises that he'd broken, crushed and trampled into dust. A year ago, he'd held her hands in his own, looked into her eyes, vowing that he won't leave her; that Storybrooke is his home, and he has no plans of leaving her.