. In Time .
He wasn’t sure how he got there, or what happened. Was it something he ate? Something he drank?
Memory blurred, thoughts clouded — too much was going on in his head. But, memory was a funny thing, wasn’t it? They thought he was insane; everyone telling him these memories of another life were a manifestation — must have been something? Stress? He had to let it go . . . Pretend to be n o r m a l . Pretend to not have remembered. Sometimes, that was fine. But others? Not so much. It was stressful. Putting up a false façade — and to please who? The townsfolk? No. The Queen.
And maybe, just maybe, the Sheriff starting drinking a touch more whiskey than per usual — than before. Just a little something to take the edge off. Just a little something to forget. Just a little something to get through those (now sparse) ‘meetings’ with the Mayor. Just a little something to get by. For now.
So maybe it was the alcohol that dulled his ever so good reaction time — regardless of how little he thought he had to drink. (Which he knew wasn’t a good idea, but when were the roads of Storybrooke ever busy?) And something, a silhouette in the road, caused the man to swerve the car, crashing into a ditch. To the smell of smoke and the air bag as a pillow, Graham has passed out.
Darkness. Vision obscured. Mouth dry. The taste of cloth polluted his mouth. Gagged deep, fabric locking all moist away. Shoulders rolled, arms straining against . . . something. Tied. Restrained. He grunted, giving up the fight. It was no use — someone was coming. Footfalls echoed against a hard floor.
@hatteir
