The coolness of Primrose Forest caressed my face as the earthy smell of moss tickled my nose. The stream lazily slapped along stones beside the small cottage. The long-forgotten child within me urged a mumbled 'once upon a time.'
"The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette." Her voice was higher, like a Disney princess.
I spun while also setting a defensive span. Even in this idyllic setting, with her sing-song voice, I knew not to trust her.
"Imagine how Annette felt, yet the entire tale focuses on Buttercup. Flawed, wouldn't you agree?" Cynthia cocked her head to the side, curious of my answer.
"You aren't real," I announced.
"What's real? Surely you remember this place and the countless stories of pirates, knights, and princesses?" She swooped nearer as her tulle skirt swooshed over the emerald moss. "And you... the hero of every tale. Come, come," she continued as she brushed past me. "Let's have a snack."
Resistance was futile. My feet followed her wake as a rumble rolled from my stomach.
The tiny cottage felt much larger inside. The damp dirt floor and crackling fire calmed me. "This can't be real," I murmured as my eyes settled on two mice struggling to make tea. "And helper mice are very unsettling," I added.
"Convinced yet?" Cynthia teased as she pinched the edges of a small blackberry pie.
"You're not real. You died in my arms and..." My words feel out as I remember the fire.
"And there was that time you left me in a burning building," she finished.
"Yes, but..."
"But what?" she prodded as she tucked the pie into the oven.
"But mice making tea aren't real. Scenic woods with tiny cottages and perfectly bubbling streams aren't real. Primrose Forest was a piece of my imagination better left in my youth," I argued.
"Too much imagination is left in youth. You told me that once," she reminded.
"I told you that in confidence; too much confidence," I murmured.
"Do you remember what you also told me?" She pressed.
"That I love you? I remember telling you that." I sighed.
She pursed her lips as a small, stifled laugh tickled my ears. "I love you too, my darling."
"Don't say that. Don't... you aren't real..." I stood with such force that the chair slid across the dirt floor. It froze awkwardly on one leg before it collapsed to the ground.
"You once said reality is what we choose. What reality do you choose?" She looked at me with a serene smile.
Again, Disney princesses flashed through my mind, but other images filtered in, villains.
"Oh my, you commit to fairy tales," she giggled as she floated to the doorway.
The door was flung open, and the familiar horns and pallid skin of Maleficent entered the clearing.
"What the..." Shock stole my words.
As she approached, she lifted her arm as her staff glowed brightly.
"I call on those who live in the shadows," Maleficent chanted.
"Oh, begone with you," Cynthia giggled. "It is far too sunny for shadows."
In a puff of purple smoke, Maleficent vanished.
"Not too strong with your imagination, are you?" Cynthia continued as she turned back to me.
"My imagination. This is a simulation, not imagination," I argued.
"Such a boring life when imagination is lost. Who stole it?" Cynthia asked as her brows furrowed.
"Did someone say, stole?" The Sheriff of Nottingham appears in the doorway behind Cynthia.
"Oh, why hello, sir," Cynthia curtseyed and bowed her head.
"Hello, fair maiden. Have you fallen victim to that dastardly rogue of the forest?" His voice bellowed around the small cottage. "I could help, for a small tax, of course. It appears some may already be due. I haven't seen you pay your fire tax in some time." A grimace filled his face as he spoke, showing far too many yellowed teeth.
"Why yes, it appears we have had something stolen," Cynthia agreed. "But I'm afraid we have no money left. Your deputies were here yesterday to collect taxes."
"Tsk, tsk," the Sheriff's tongue scolded.
"No, nothing has been stolen by anyone, but you," I declared. "You're the villain here. Robinhood is the protagonist."
"Robinhood? How do you know this?" The Sheriff demanded of me, as his rancid breath assaulted my nose.
"Oh, my. You're truly terrible at this," Cynthia declared.
I gazed at her as the Sheriff continued to bear down on me. It was as though he were waiting for my next line.
"Begone, you. We've paid our taxes and know nothing of this silly Robinhood," Cynthia directed.
"No, no!" The Sheriff screamed as he staggered away from me. "You haven't. More taxes, more gold. I need more..." But before he finished, he vanished in a puff of green smoke.
"Robinhood isn't the villain!" I argued.
Cynthia cocked her head again as though I had surprised her. "Who is the villain, Donovan? Have you figured out who the villain is?"
"The villain?" I asked myself. "Who's the villain?"
"Out of my way, wench." Another baritone voice ricocheted around the cottage, but this one wasn't new. This voice was familiar.
A feather tickled my face before I could push it out of my way.
"I know you're hiding them. Where are Peter and his band of tiny tyrants?" Captain Hook demanded.
"This is but a small cottage, and as you can see, there are no children," Cynthia cooed.
"I'll be the judge of that. Children are tiny and can squeeze in the most inconvenient places," Hook challenged as his feather twitched past my face again.
I fought a sneeze before I lifted my eyes to see him.
"Dr. Smyth" fell from my lips as horror rolled through my body and threatened to knock me to the ground.
"Smee? No, you foolish twit. I am Captain Hook. Smee is nothing more than my deckhand," Hook dismissed. He turned to continue his inspection of the cottage before a thought struck him. His face snapped back to me. "How did you know of Smee?"
"Because... because..." I looked around the room, trying to find a reason, but all I saw was Cynthia spin unnaturally. Curious, my eyes clung to her. When she came to a stop, she was no longer wearing the tulle and lace princess dress. Instead, she donned an icy blue Victorian nightgown. "I'm Peter," I murmured at the realization.
"Of course," Hook squinted at me. "I can see you now." As he spoke, the slice of his sword leaving its sheath stung my ears.
Instinctively, I clamored at my hip. A wooden sword had replaced my trusty gun. "Reality is what I believe."
"What are you prattling on about?" Hook grumbled.
"I'm Peter Pan, and this is my home. Now leave before I slice off your other hand and feed it to the croc!"
"What? How dare you?" But as he spoke, Hook cowered away before vanishing in a puff of smoke.
"Do you see now, Donovan?" Cynthia's voice grew distant as the cottage and Primrose Forest swirled around me. "Do you see?"
