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.

Flauraan, Abigail is 20, Sophie is 21

Warmth envelops me. The flattened grass feels lightly moist against my bare skin, with the more persistent clovers brushing against the sides of my feet. Filtered light dances across my eyelids. My head is sheltered within Sophie’s thighs. It is enough sensory input for my body to become a separate entity from my mind for a blissful few minutes. It is akin to a pleasant daydream, and there is a fuzziness to my every nerve ending.

I keep my eyes closed for as long as I can, sustaining the spell, and when I open them there she is; fiddling with flowers and clovers and lost in her own thoughts. She is wearing a singlet and shorts; the back of my neck is pressed against the flesh of her legs, and her arms occasionally brush against me. It is warm, so very warm, or maybe it’s just me. A part of me is ashamed to acknowledge that I find myself in the throes of desire - for Sophie, for her body, for pleasure.

Suddenly I have the desperate desire that this was a dream, a fantasy of some sort. I indulge the line of thinking, follow it down its tracks. I imagine that we are totally alone. She is looking down at me, desiring me the way I do her, tracing my body with her eyes, mentally undressing me. Her hands reach for me, find their way beneath the slip I am wearing in the heat, cup each of my breasts. She leans down and kisses me. Heat rushes through me. I tremble, arch my back. She withdraws her hands and begins tugging at my trousers, delicately and seductively inching them lower, teasing me. The positioning is awkward but the idea only arouses me further. I push the vision, imagine myself moaning through the messy kisses. I reach up and tug at her hair. When the scenario has fully satisfied me I envision the subsequent escalation, the discarding of clothes. I lead her to the pond and we submerge ourselves, entwine our bodies. In the caress of the water I am able to feel every part of her that I have longed to for as long as I can remember. My hands are on her bare back and her mouth is on my breast and we are thrusting and we are suffocating but that only deepens the intensity. When we surface her hair plasters itself to her neck. I lie wet on the shore and she straddles me, eyes piercing me and-

“Watcha thinking about Abi?” Sophie asks oh so casually and I am ashamed again. Then I wonder why I feel bad about fantasising about my own girlfriend, but it feels like crossing some sort of threshold that we haven’t crossed yet, that I have been doing a good job at not thinking about crossing. Yet the truth is that I want her, and that I want her to want me, but I can’t even begin to broach the conversation. I feel somehow that there is some criteria that we have to meet, as a couple. I shamefully let my mind wander to my one night with Sierra, how effortless it was. But of course there’s no use comparing that to what I have with Sophie.

The light is dazzling my eyes. “Just… you.” I say, which isn’t of course a lie, and she smiles, unknowing, and then she does lean down and kiss me. Then her hair gets in the way and she laughs and apologises. I shift the scenario, sit up and turn and face her, hold her hands in mine. This makes more sense right? This is more natural, surely. The feel of her prosthetic against my skin makes my mind wander again, but I try to force myself to focus. She has been so good to me, so patient and kind and thoughtful. The desire still isn’t leaving me, I am eyeing her neckline, the exposed skin beneath her armpits. Why does this feel wrong? I wonder if she fantasises like this about me, dismiss the idea. It is so difficult to think of myself as an object of desire.

“Your hands are so warm.” She says after a second. All of me is, I think. I am trembling for real now. “Abi, is something wrong?” What am I waiting for? What is wrong with me? This should be so easy. Why am I letting myself overthink it?

The worst part is that I know that even if she did desire me in this way she would never act on it unless I was the one initiating it. She has made it a rule not to presume anything with me. Which is very selfless but I want her to be selfish. To slip up. To put her hands somewhere we haven't fully gone yet and gauge my reaction from there. I don't want to always be the one who has to act.

This is unfair. This whole line of thinking is unfair.

She is still looking at me with concern, and I go for another half truth. “I'm feeling a bit unwell. Maybe it's the heat.”

“Oh no, Abi, you wanna go home?”

Home. Our home. I nod and we collect everything and make our way out of the forest. I do feel sluggish but it's nothing but my own weakness.

She helps me into bed and asks if I want her with me, and the truth is I want to grab her and go clawing and grabbing and licking but instead I shake my head, turn my back to the door and listen to her footsteps receding from the room. Now I am alone with my desires, but there is nothing that can bring me any relief.