She grows up knowing the stories; somewhere in between blooming fragile adolescence and the tempered fire of maturity Sarah gains an eye for the fantastical, an eye for just what while work. She knows where she got it, of course, but the Labyrinth is a dream not so much distant as too-vivid and carefully locked away. She finds jobs in the film industry; acting earns her praise and the spotlight, but she finds she enjoys spinning the stories as well as following the script, weaving the words that gain freedom or triumph.
Sometimes she whispers names into her mirror like a password to remember childhood; less often but more potent are the times she strays from the beaten path, down lonely halls and into neglected gardens and almost feels thorns at her shoulders and warm stone at her feet, almost hears the whisper of a cruel, beautiful laugh.
And sometimes her dreams take her where she decided long ago she would not go; to pale elegant hands and strange, elegant clothing. So pale mismatched eyes and too sharp teeth, and sometimes the dreams are filled with his hands on her thighs, his mouth hard and scorching and still-cruel on hers. She can dream of this--pinned under him, held still and full of him--but in the morning she rises and dresses and resolutely does not see any marks on her throat and breasts, or the heavy lidded shine of her eyes. She grew beyond surrender a long time ago.
Sarah's stories all have happy endings. Draw from that what you will.