Rapunzel: Fractured

Some nights, if she leans far enough over the edge of the open window in her tower, Rapunzel can see the smattering of stars in the sky that stretches for miles over the land of the kingdom.

The best part isn’t the sight of the bright specks illuminating the desolate land below, though. Rather, it’s the knowledge that if she wanted to, she could wish for those stars to dance across the sky, performing solely for her enjoyment, before bursting into a dazzling array of supernovas and shrouding the land below them in brilliant shards of light.

She hasn’t done so yet—prefers the quaint security of her tower far too much to risk it burning beneath the sheer volume of a supernova—but she could do it. She could burn thousands of acres; kill thousands of people, and she could do it with only her thoughts. She won’t, though; not yet.

It doesn’t scare her. Fear is the mind’s reaction to uncertainty—to something that can’t be controlled, and there’s nothing that Rapunzel can’t control.

One might argue that she fears Mother Gothel—the evil sorceress, that is, although she doesn’t suspect that Rapunzel knows of her true form—but a claim such as that would be nothing more than a foolish misinterpretation.

The witch has threatened her from the moment she captured her, from the first day she’d sentenced her to her desolate life in the tower. Day after day, she forces an obscure, foul-tasting concoction past her lips in order to weaken her, subordinate her. The witch is not one to underestimate how dangerous a girl Rapunzel truly is, and she knows down to her very core that if she fails to comply, the witch will kill her.

This is no surprise to her, though. She’s survived numerous attacks, has barely escaped with her life from flying creatures that prey on her from atop the forest trees’ canopy. Night and day, they’re waiting for her, searching for a pocket of weakness, and she refuses to be so naïve as to sabotage the greatest measure of protection she has from them. Between the dangers awaiting her on the ground and the demons hunting her in the sky, Rapunzel knows that she must do as the witch says if she’s to ever make it out of the tower alive.

· · ·

Prior to her residence at Brothers Grimm Psychiatric Hospital, Mila Gothel’s work experience had mainly consisted of adolescent youths who were hospitalized on behalf of their parents—the ones that found themselves severely unequipped to properly care for a child experiencing full-blown psychosis. Never before had she been assigned a patient who not only had no known caretakers or living relatives upon her admittance, but had no identification beyond her first name.

Rapunzel’s case was a first for many practitioners in Gothel’s division.

It was no small feat for her to learn the young woman’s name during their first encounter, either. Establishing a foundation of trust was a crucial part of getting through to any patient, but she knew almost instantly that building a bond with Rapunzel would be the cornerstone to gaining any stretch of insight about her identity.

After their first three sessions together, it became abundantly clear that her perception of reality was detrimentally warped. The intermittent periods in which her incoherent speech lapsed were filled with ramblings of devilish creatures, homicidal thoughts, and a barren tower in which she was held hostage. Everything and everyone around her existed in a world of her mind’s creation, as though the hospital itself had been plucked from their reality and stitched into the pages of Rapunzel’s very own fairytale.

Given the grave state of the woman’s delusional psychosis, Gothel had insisted that their sessions be frequent—four times per week, minimum, bar none. Nevertheless, there was still a major roadblock in the way of pursuing full recovery: the seventeen-year-old had no known relatives and, therefore, no legal guardian to sign off on any dosage of antipsychotic medication. The only leeway they were granted was with a mild sedative, but that was no more of a solution than a peeling band-aid.

Gothel feared that, for the foreseeable future, their therapy sessions might be her only chance at retracing the line between her delusions and reality.

· · ·

When Rapunzel had first woken up here, all she’d yearned for was a blank sheet of paper and a pencil.

Although the memories of her life before the tower have been blurred and distorted every time she’s attempted to recall them, she knows that she must’ve had a brilliant artistic affinity—there’s no other explanation for the surge of clarity and fulfillment she draws from putting pen to paper (or brush to canvas, for that matter). She’d taken to every medium of art made available to her as a means to claim even the smallest fraction of her identity.

The witch might’ve ripped her from her life and everyone she’d ever known, but she was easily swayed into providing Rapunzel with the means to clear her thoughts.

Now, sitting cross-legged on her bed with an ink pen in one hand and her worn sketchpad in the other, Rapunzel’s tepid sense of calm instantly shrivels when a rumbling voice calls out from somewhere just beyond the tower.

“Rapunzel? Are you awake?”

There’s a brief clatter as the sketchbook and pen both slip from Rapunzel’s grasp. She pays no mind to the scattered mess of her art supplies as she hastily flees from her bed, her attention fixed solely on the deafening rhythm of her racing heart as she scrambles onto all fours against the cold tiled floor. She pushes herself up against the side of her bed, yanking her knees up to her chest as she trembles slightly.

“Who’s out there? How did you find me?” She calls back meekly, loathing the way her voice cracks to reveal the fear coursing through it. She presses her cheek to the top of her leg, absently rocking against the tiles as her mind spins with apprehension.

Certainly, whoever the voice belongs to has been sent to kill her. One of the demons from the sky, perhaps, had made a deal with the witch whilst she’d been sleeping. Surely the witch has made a pact with the devil, but she’d always assumed that the witch would kill Rapunzel herself.

Foolish girl, she harps to herself, the devil can take any form it desires. You’ve been tricked. This is all your fault. You should’ve killed her when you had the chance.

The man’s voice threads itself through the ones in her head, spinning a vast web of madness.

“Rapunzel, my name is Doctor Princeton. I’m a friend of Miss Gothel.”

Doctor? Friend? Rapunzel practically hisses at the suggestion, the disdainful sound curling through the air like the slice of a blade.

“Mother Gothel, born in a brothel. Evil lives through the darkness she gives. No one is safe from the witch, ‘less we burn her at the stake. Steak is tough, I tear it with my teeth. I will tear you with my teeth, good prince, so you must be careful,” she maunders, her pitch heightening such as that of a cryptic fortune teller. A moment passes before she lets out a haughty giggle—she’s never torn into someone with her teeth, doesn’t think she truly wants to, but she can’t have any friend of the witch’s knowing that.

“I’m coming in now. I’m not going to hurt you, and I don’t believe you want to hurt me, either,” the voice replies—oddly calm, given the circumstance—and Rapunzel shrivels into herself, all of her previous bravado disappearing in a puff of smoke.

“You will put your kingdom in danger, good prince. This place is built on evil. I am evil. Here is nothing and I am nowhere, and nothing is nowhere to be,” she warns, voice trembling, her pulse thrumming like a live wire as electricity rushes through her veins.

“No one is in danger. We’re just going to talk, alright?”

Rapunzel’s gaze darts to the open window, scanning the brilliant canvas of stars beyond it. She knows there’s no escaping this—the drop is simply too high. Besides, the airborne demons will surely be waiting for her on the other side.

Her eyes seek out the closed door on the opposite side of the room as she returns her splintered attention to stranger—whom she presumes is awaiting her answer.

“Alright, starlight—the moon is none too bright. If you must come up, might you turn on the light? Company must be treated right and the lighting in this tower is slight. I will let down my hair now, good prince. Hold tight!”

· · ·

When Mila Gothel had first approached him about taking on a patient of hers for a trial session of psychoanalysis, Dr. Princeton had virtually no idea who she was referring to. Talk therapy is by no means the most effective treatment for thought disorders and prior to this week, he’d never heard mention of a patient named Rapunzel.

Now, standing opposite the door to her room and listening to her fantastic gibberish about a kingdom, a tower, and an evil witch, he receives an overt testimony as to why Gothel had sought out a more intense form of therapy for the girl.

Bracing one hand against the white door while the other twists at the knob, Princeton eases his way into the room, keeping is movements gradual and steady. He briskly scans the contents of the dull hospital room, his eyes skimming over an open window, some scattered art supplies, a twin-sized cot, and a discarded sketchbook before they settle on Rapunzel.

Thick blonde tresses frame either side of her pale face, her blue eyes wide with fear and shadowed by deep purple bags. She’s seated on the floor with her back to the bed, her knees pulled to her chest and arms roped around her legs in an upright fetal position. She cowers a bit as he slips through the door and shuts it softly behind him. She rocks slightly as soft, incoherent murmurs tumble from her lips, and he takes a tentative step forward before pausing to gauge her reaction. He maintains his distance for her sake, clutching his pad and folder to his chest in an attempt to appear non-threatening, but the way in which her wild gaze bores into him makes it abundantly clear that he is unwelcome.

“Do you mind if I take a seat, Rapunzel? I’m hoping that we can chat for a few minutes, if that’s alright with you,” Princeton says, sure to keep his tone gentle and placating, but Rapunzel just shakes her head vehemently.

“The witch hears everything, don’t you know? She goes during the night but returns with food and she captures my thoughts with her spoon as we eat stew. She wants to kill me, you know?” Rapunzel babbles, stalling the motion of her rocking as she delivers the last sentence with a convincing degree of ingenuity.

Princeton pulls the chair out from where it’s tucked into a desk in the corner, sliding it towards him and settling in a few feet away from her. She resumes her rhythmic rocking.

“You’re talking about Miss Gothel, right?” He prompts, deciding it’s as good a place as any to start. A beat or two of silence follow, and he briefly wonders if she’s registered his words.

Then: “Did she send you to kill me?”

Princeton shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other and settling his folder upon his lap before he fixes her with a considering gaze.

“What makes you ask that? Has she ever harmed you before?”

Rapunzel seems briefly taken aback, as if the question has stumped her. Another beat passes before she reluctantly shakes her head, her blonde sheet of hair gliding across her shoulders with the movement.

“Then why do you insist that she has any intention of doing so?” Princeton inquires gently, knitting his hands together and settling them on top of his folder. He watches on in covert intrigue as she stills, her gaze flitting up from the floor to meet his for the first time. Her brows furrow slightly like she’s struggling to understand the question, and she blinks rapidly for a few seconds before her gaze wanders to the right, lingering on the open window.

“Nowhere’s safe. Danger moves fast, closer, too close. Can’t you feel it, good prince? It’s all around us, tainting the air. Our breaths are pure evil and the devil is surely near,” she chatters, the volume of her voice dipping and cresting as her nerves bubble to the surface. Her head whips back in his direction to properly address him. “Do you have the time?”

Princeton keeps his eyes on her as he tilts his head in thought.

“It’s around six PM. Why do you ask?”

Rapunzel practically sags against the bed in relief when he says it. In an instant, her demeanor changes entirely—she releases her hold on her legs, dropping her arms to her sides, and crossing her legs beneath her. She suddenly looks much younger than seventeen as she regards him thoughtfully, the fear in her eyes marginally receding.

“The witch doesn’t come at nightfall. If you were going to kill me, I’m quite sure she would want to witness it,” she chirps matter-of-factly, her hands inching towards the abandoned sketchbook and pencil lying on the tiled floor next to her.

Switching tactics, Princeton replies, “Do you know why you’re here, Rapunzel?”

She glances up from her art supplies, her lips twisting as she considers it.

“Because of the witch. She stole me from my parents, though I’m not sure why. She must’ve seen the evil in me,” she answers with a shrug before returning her attention to her sketchbook.

Princeton’s brows furrow in confusion, though it’s not directed towards the delusional nature of her comment. He’d read up on what little information was in her file prior to this meeting and he’s certain that it gave no mention of any known relatives, let alone her parents.

“Do you remember anything about them? About your old home?” He asks, opening the folder on his lab and thumbing through a few pages until he lands on a blank one. He pulls a pen from the pocket of his lab coat and poises it at the top of the paper, his gaze settling expectantly back on Rapunzel. Another moment passes where the only sound to be heard in the room is the rustling of paper as she flips open the cover to her sketchbook. Then she shakes her head.

“The witch has been giving me this awful stuff since she brought me here. It messes with my head and weakens me. I only drink it because I know she’ll force me to if I don’t,” she explains, disinterested, her gaze fixed on the pages in her lap.

“Earlier, you said that here is nowhere. Where is here?” He asks slowly, his pen making a soft scratching noise as it moves across the page.

When he’s met by silence instead of a response, he raises his gaze from his lap to find Rapunzel thumbing through a few pages that are flush with detailed drawings. Given that they’re resting in her lap and, therefore, upside down, he can’t discern what she’s created on most of the pages, but one sketch catches his eye before she can flip past it.

It depicts a brick tower, the perimeter covered in dense foliage and the outer walls overgrown by intricate vines. In the center of the drawing, there’s a woman perched on the lone windowsill, her hair cascading down the side of the tower and stopping just short of the ground beneath it.

“Why, the tower, of course,” Rapunzel replies, her gaze finally lifting to find his. “You know that, good prince—you’re the one who climbed up it.”