"Just go. Just GO!"

"I'm sorry..."

I didn't know what it meant. I didn't understand, then, what had happened. All I knew was that when I panicked and threw it—the second it smashed against the wall—all I knew was that something died in him. Some light, hellish and hunted as it might have been, went out in his eyes.

Defeated, the old man fell back. I saw devastation on his face, but I was too…I don't know what. Afraid. Afraid of…of everything, really. I didn't know where I was; I was alone; I couldn't remember anything and nothing made sense. No one would help me or explain anything to me. I guess I was wrapped up in myself, and in the one memory I had of this man: his hand on fire and wild, manic hatred scarring his face.

Maybe that's why I screamed when he kissed me—not because I didn't like the feel of his lips, but because when I looked at them I only saw the gritted teeth they masked.

Maybe that's why I broke the object he loved—not because I wanted to hurt him, but because I thought anything that he could love would be as terrifying as he was.

As he limped away, he paused for just a second to look at the ruins; then he passed on, his face numb with shock. That's when I grasped some sense of what I had done. I still didn't understand; I still didn't know why he would care so much about a stupid little teacup. But somehow I did see that I had hurt him.

I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to hurt anybody. I was confused and terrified and selfish, but I didn't really want to hurt anyone.

So when he had gone, and when I had calmed down a little, I climbed out of bed and crossed to where the shards of china lay on the ground. I found a bag, and I picked them up and put them in the bag, even though some of the pieces cut my fingers. Then I put the bag under my bed and tried to forget about it.

I heard that he had left town, that old man with the deadly glare and the gentle lips. I didn't know whether to be relieved because he wouldn't be coming anymore or sorry because I hadn't had the chance to apologise to him. When I realised that his leaving didn't mean the weird things stopped happening—people kept stopping by and asking me questions I couldn't answer and giving me things that were obviously supposed to mean something even though they didn't—I thought maybe I was a bit sorry.

It wasn't until the call came that I thought of anything else to do with the ruins of that poor little cup.

I was almost asleep when I heard my phone ringing. I answered it groggily, and heard what I knew to be his voice, even though it was hoarser than I remembered. He told me his name was Mr. Gold. He told me he was going to die. Then he told me…well, he didn't exactly tell me he loved me, but he might as well have. I'd never known love, but somehow it was as if I recognised the passion in his voice. And something made me think of that cup.

If I could break something that dear to him, and he still loved me…

He was trying to help when he gave me that cup. Maybe he was crazy, but that didn't matter, if his being crazy meant we had loved each other. I knew he did, and he said I had.

I fished around under my bed and pulled out the bag. The pieces were mostly big, so possibly I could glue them together again. I didn't know how to go about getting glue, though. I asked the nurse but she didn't seem very promising. I asked Ruby when she came in, and she said she would see what she could do, but I think she forgot about me. I think most people had forgotten about me; he was the only one that didn't, and now he was dying, and he would die without his stupid cup.

I started crying, thinking about that. He loved me and I couldn't even make sure he had his cup before he died. He loved me and I didn't even have the decency to remember whether I loved him or not.

No one ever told me how he was, or whether he was alive. I wanted to find him and give him what was left of his cup. The nurse didn't know how he was (she said she had "enough to do looking after you lot without getting involved in all the town gossip") and Ruby didn't come back. No one came.

He would have come, if he had still been alive. He wouldn't have left me alone—even if I had wanted him to, he probably wouldn't have left me alone; he was the pushy type. Then again, maybe I had killed something inside him when I smashed the cup. Maybe he wasn't dead, he was just afraid to come back because I might hurt him again, or because he didn't think I wanted to see him. I didn't really want to see him, other than to know he was okay. I really just wanted to see anyone.

In the middle of the night, once, I snuck out and went and got some glue, costing almost all the loose change I had in my purse. The guy behind the counter didn't know about Mr. Gold either.

I started to glue the cup together. It took me a really long time. I had to hide it anytime someone came in. I had to stop anytime I got cut, because otherwise the nurses would think I was cutting myself and then they would start sedating me again (God, I hated being sedated. You were forced into it; there was nothing you could do about it. Nothing but blackness and nightmares, until all of a sudden you woke up in a different place with different people and the lights all too bright and the colours all wrong).

I started to freak out once, putting it together to make sure it fit before applying glue, because I thought I was missing a piece. I had scoured the floor and was on my way to root through the dumpster before I remembered that it had had a chip already, and that he had seemed very fond of that chip.

The cup became very important to me. I didn't go outside anymore, or look at people. I ate, but only because they would have done things to make me if I hadn't, or sent people in to talk to me when all I wanted was to finish the cup. I felt like I knew the cup better than I knew anything in the world. If I could just finish it before he died. If I could just get it to him before he died.

It had been weeks, and he hadn't come, he hadn't called. Maybe he was dead. Maybe all this was for nothing.

Every piece I fit into place, I heard his voice.

You are a hero, who saved your people…

Time to put the cup away; nurse is coming. One more piece.

You are a beautiful woman who loved an ugly man…

He wasn't that ugly, I thought. A bit old—rather weathered—but he had a lovely sensitive mouth, and hair that looked soft. I wrapped the cup in the bag and tucked it carefully under my bed again, to be brought out in the morning.

…really, really loved me.

As I closed my eyes, I fancied I could still hear him, whispering, trying to get the words out, trying to make me understand. I did understand, a little, even without the words.

You find goodness in others, and when it's not there, you create it. You make me want to go back…back to the best version of me…and that never happened before…so when you look in the mirror, and you don't know who you are…

That's who you are.

Thank you…Belle. I had barely heard the last word—my name—the name he gave me—the name he always said with such tenderness.

I wanted to call him back, but I knew I wouldn't be able to tell him everything I wanted to say when I didn't even know what I wanted to say and my voice was all choked with tears anyway. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what to say as I patched the cup together. None of it made any sense: "Hi, Mr. Gold, it's me. I don't think I'm really I love with you, but I know you're in love with me, so I thought…" "Hey, Mr. Gold, I have something for you, but don't get your hopes up…" "So I don't remember you, but I thought…"

None of it came out right. I couldn't drop it off because I didn't know where he lived, and neither did the nurses, and Ruby didn't come and neither did he.

I finished the cup very late one night, after all the lights were turned out and I was working by the street lamp outside my window.

It didn't look great: it looked pretty sad, actually, with little cracks and all kinds of almost, but not quite, invisible chips, and inexpertly applied glue almost coating it. You couldn't drink anything out of it, not by a mile, but it was together again, and as long as you didn't touch it, hardly, it might be fine. I set it on the window sill to finish drying and sat on my bed, looking at it. From a distance, in the moonlight, it didn't look that bad…

I fell into a kind of doze. Pictures danced in front of my eyes of that stupid cup; I had dreams about it dropping and chipping, and then stepping on it and it smashing, and then his face, angry and hurt.

Because of these dreams, it took me a minute after I woke up to realise that he really was standing there.

I sat up quickly. "Mr. Gold!"

He took a few steps back. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you would be asleep. I didn't mean…"

"No, no, no, that's all right!" I stood up. "That's all right! I was hoping…I mean, you didn't call after…and I thought you were dead. I'm so glad you're alive."

Mr. Gold lifted his eyes to look at me, and his they glowed with love and something like…hope. He didn't say anything and he looked away, but not quickly enough for me to miss the strange beauty that expression gave his face.

I didn't want to say anything else, so I picked up the cup and thrust it out to him. "Here. I'm sorry I broke it. I know it's…important to you."

His hands trembled so much as he took it that I was afraid he was going to drop it, and he gripped it.

"You did that for me?" he whispered.

"Yeah."

Water filled his dark amber eyes.

"Why?"

"Why? Well, because…because I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I broke it. You can't drink out of it now, but I thought…I mean, I know it was sentimental."

"Thank you, sweetheart," he said.

Sweetheart.

Sweetheart, I'm dying…

I swallowed. The lump in my throat became tears and a sob. He looked helpless and loving at the same time, and as if he would like to take me in his arms.

"Why…why are you here?" I asked after a moment. "I'm really glad you came, because I didn't know how to find you. But why?"

"I came to see if I could talk to you, just for a minute," he said. "I've missed you. But I have to…I have to go."

"Will you come again?" I asked.

"If you want me to."

"I do. Please come. No one else does. I'm all alone here."

"I would have come, if I thought you wouldn't mind. I will, I'll come."

I hugged him quickly. "Thank you. I'm glad you're better."

He turned and began to make his way out of the room.

"Tomorrow?" I asked.

He paused and looked back at me. "Tomorrow."