Flauraan, Abigail is 22

I dream that I am in the woods near my home, in the clearing that I have often visited with Sophie, surrounded by flowers currently in bloom, blues and purples engulfing my vision. Ahead of me is the pond, and there is someone kneeling on one knee in front of it, peering into the water, hand resting on their leg. They have a relaxed curiosity to their posture, calm, as if they are looking at something remarkably mundane and eliciting little interest.

I float forward, feel instinctively that I need to know what is in the pond, what this person is so placidly observing.

My perspective shifts and it is as if the pond fills every corner of my vision, and there in the middle, surrounded by oval flowers and reeds, is me. I am not surprised to see her there, near submerged, staring blankly above her with her chin inclined pointedly, as if she has accepted her fate but wants to go out defiantly. Her long hair, so unlike mine, floats languidly around her. It is a curious sight. I know, as you know in dreams, that she is myself at 15 years old, and I feel an odd yearning for her. I was drowning then, but there was an innocence to it, I wish I could go back and let her know that I see her pain.

I reach out, hoping to touch her, to comfort her, and the other person looking into the pool grabs my arm, preventing me. I finally turn my gaze on this person and I realise that she is me too. She has shorter hair than mine, that must be freshly cut. It is me from those precious months prior to my involvement in the Weraynian War, and all that transpired within it. She has that dutiful and devoted gleam in her eyes, spurred on by fear, and an ignorance and patriotism that I have come to despise in my former self. I suppose I can’t blame her, really - I remember too well the terror that plagued me in anticipation of the Weraynian War, until I learnt just how ignorant I actually was. Yet the force with which she is stopping me, the cavalier way she is wanting to leave our younger self suffering, floating in that state, causes me to turn my ire on her.

“You coward.” I say with venom, throwing off her hand. She is immediately incensed, and rises to her feet, fists clenched.

“What did you say?” she asks, rhetorically. I square up against her.

“You’re a coward. You let her be like this, let us. We have spent so much of our life in limbo, and for what?”

“You tell me.” She spits at me. I find myself distracted by the solidity of her stance, her hands that show no sign of quaking, her focused eyes. I am so tired. “What have you amounted to? What have you done that’s made any difference at all?”

I almost want to tell her, to ruin her. Of what we did, and didn’t do. Of the pain we caused, the horrors we witnessed, the things that will haunt us forever. What difference did I make? To think that I was so focussed on that that I let myself be led into actions that I can’t ever take back.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Is what I say.

“You’re the one who’s the coward.” she tells me, and I clench my jaw. Feel my own fists tighten.

What the hell. How many chances does one get like this.

I unleash all the hurt and fury in me on this facsimile, this hated creature. She is taken aback by the intensity, is unprepared. Of course she is. I throw punch after punch and with every blow I land a bruise appears on my own body but this does little to stop me. I watch her crumple to the ground, and take pleasure in it. My skin feels like pulverised meat as I return to the pool, intend to complete my task, protect a version of me that deserves it. But it is too late.

It is too late for any version of me.