Tap, tap, tap. The unconscious drumming of the branch tip against the window pane was slowly but successfully driving her insane. Flirting with the gentle nighttime breeze that danced through the streets of Storybrooke, the thin spiny finger of what had once been her favourite tree allowed itself to be picked up, then dropped back down again in a maddening, arrhythmic, monotonous melody that did nothing to calm the swirling distemper that was her permanent state of being.

Tap, tap, tap. She gazed up at the ceiling above her bed, eyes focused on a small spot of peeling paint that hung resolutely, refusing to separate itself. How long had she been staring at it? She didn't know. Couldn't remember. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Time was such a useless concept now, its constraints and regulations no longer relevant to her, the tick-tock of the hallway clock downstairs utterly futile, simply another annoying, jarring, constant reminder that she was no longer human.

Tap, tap, tap. Could she even remember what it was to sleep? To close her eyes and drift off into the nothingness, a black, inky refuge where pleasant dreams held out their arms to embrace her? Now there was no escape from the darkness, whether eyes open or shut. It held onto her soul, stroked her spirit, kissed her ego and stretched itself out across her bodily actions, spreading its evil mantle over every aspect of her existence. At times she hated it. At others she loved it, revelled in it, rejoiced. That scared her beyond words. If only she could shut it out, just for a moment, for a second, turn her back on it and gaze on life as it had been before. Feel the sun on her face, the genuine warmth of friendship, the fearless love of family. Or just fucking sleep! Tap, tap, tap. She growled with fury, scowling at the window. With a flick of the wrist and a wave of the hand, the infernal tree was gone.

Silence.

Was it golden? If anything it seemed louder than ever. The wind outside the window now picked up where the branch had left off, rustling leaves lying in the gutter, thudding against the creaking sign at Granny's, sliding itself through a hole in the woodwork with an insidious whistle. She rolled over on the bed, twisting herself in amongst the covers, slamming a plush pillow over her head and screaming soundlessly into the thick down. Was there no respite? No peace?

She sat up slowly, smoothing her palms over the white silk bedsheets with some degree of controlled restraint, blowing the air from her cheeks. She counted to ten, tensing her stomach muscles and pacing her breathing in an effort to quell the bubbling rage that churned inside her.

In the daytime, when the sun shone through the town, bouncing merrily off windows, glittering in small puddles at the side of the kerb, catching itself on the lake and tripping across the small waves that lapped against the shores, it was so much easier. In the daytime, when there were people about, people to play with, to torment, to watch, to study, to follow, to plot against and for; then her mind at least had something to consume itself with. When night fell, and the rest of this small town's inhabitants turned themselves in to slumber, she and she alone would remain, pacing, relentless, never ending, slowly but surely losing sight of her cherished humanity.

She sighed heavily, swinging her legs off the bed. Who was she trying to kid? She didn't know why she still insisted on turning in but every night without fail, when that damned library clock struck midnight, she would ascend the stairs and lie in the middle of this completely pointless bed like some fucking corpse, driving herself crazy until the first rays of light crept through the blinds, innocently giving her permission to rise. If nothing else, she supposed, the routine allowed her a smattering pretence of normality in the midst of this current maelstrom.

Giving up, she made her way downstairs, her fingers tracing idly on the wooden bannisters, small sparks of dark magic flickering out from them, briefly illuminating the dim surroundings. She squeezed her hands into fists. The energy running through her veins, through her twitching muscles, was absolutely intoxicating, ever ready to leave her being in a fiery flash of alchemy. She felt as if she were permanently vibrating, her body singing in unison with some ancient power, the melody shadowy, their harmony dangerously thrilling. She was constantly tuned in, dialled up, turned on… for want of a better word, Emma Swan was now permanently horny.