Chapter Text
Imogen glanced over at Constance, who had her head resting against the window in the passenger seat as they sped through winding country lanes. Midnight had passed long ago, and she'd been driving for almost an hour, silently damning the remote village she lived in outside of term time. There wasn't a hospital for miles, and with no phone to call for an ambulance, she was on her own.
Constance felt Imogen's eyes burning into her skull. She tilted her head, feeling her neck crack painfully. "Focus on the road, Im. I didn't murder someone for you to go and get us both killed by a hedge."
"Just... Just keep talking to me, okay?" Imogen shook her head, baring an anxious expression. "I don't like how dark it is... and I want to know you haven't dropped dead."
Constance let out a shaky laugh before she gazed across at her, longingly. Even when Imogen was covered in splotches of crimson blood, she felt her stomach flutter at the sight of her. It made her feel fuzzy, the fact Imogen cared enough to worry about her.
Imogen continued to fuss over Constance until they rounded a sharp corner, tyres screeching in protest. With one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other holding Constance steady by the upper arm, her car skidded into a dimly lit driveway before coming to an abrupt halt.
"Sorry... panicked..." Imogen hopped out the car, slamming her door with unprecedented force as she darted over to the passenger side. She wrenched open the handle and held out her arms, pulling Constance into them.
"Don't fuss... m'fine..." Constance's voice was hoarse as she slumped against Imogen's side. She draped an arm over her shoulder while Imogen supported her around the waist.
Together, they limped over to the cottage's front door with considerable effort. Imogen thrust her key into the lock, swearing loudly as it jammed. Constance tried to reassure Imogen by squeezing her shoulder, but the door flew open at that moment and they both stumbled into the hallway, Constance wincing from pain.
Without warning, Imogen scooped her into a bridal carry—surprisingly strong for her small stature—and carried her up the stairs. She rounded the bannister, nudged the bathroom door open with her foot, and gently lowered Constance onto the tiled floor. After fumbling through the cupboard, she grabbed a pair of scissors and frantically cut open her long dress, gathering the fabric around her hips, just enough to expose Constance's right thigh.
Imogen unravelled the fabric she'd tightened around Constance's skin, before she grimaced at the injury. She must be in so much pain.
"Am I going to die?" Constance asked, struggling to conceal the shake in her voice.
"It's okay, you're okay..." Imogen stood up, quickly filling a bowl with warm water before she sat back down beside Constance. "I worked in the RAF for a five years before I became a teacher. I'll look after you."
"But how bad is it? Be honest," Constance looked up at her with fearful eyes.
Imogen soaked a clean flannel in the soapy water, then began gently wiping away the dried blood around the wound. Constance winced as her fingers brushed over it, but said nothing.
"If you want honesty, I think you're incredibly lucky to be alive. A couple centimetres to the left and that blade could have hit your femoral artery. You'd have bled out in minutes."
"Is it still bleeding now?" Constance craned her head to get a closer look.
"It's bleeding a little, but not too heavily. I can't tell how deep the wound is, but as long as you can still feel your leg..." Imogen fingered the wound again. "It also looks deeper at the top and shallower at the bottom, like it's gone in at a sidewards angle. How did it happen? Do you think it was an accident?"
"It happened when you showed up. He was going for my throat, but he spun around so fast he must've stumbled and drove it into my thigh instead. I could still see the blade sticking out, so I don't think it went all the way in... but I don't really know... is that better or worse?"
"I don't think there's going to be any internal haemorrhaging, but the real risk will come over the next few days. Puncture wounds are prone to infection. We also don't know where that knife has been..."
Constance relaxed slightly. "There are five variants of an anti-septic potion that I keep at the Academy. I started brewing them regularly after Mildred burned her wrist in her second year—they help prevent serious infection. You can't heal a wound with magic, but you can definitely keep it clean."
Imogen shifted uncomfortably. "If you can't heal a wound with magic, that means I'll have to stitch your leg up tonight instead."
"Stitch?" Constance shrieked, looking horrified.
"I can either give you stitches or I can drive you to the nearest hospital, where they'll be able to—"
"Jesus Christ, have you lost your mind?" Constance spat. "Do you think I can leave this house anytime soon? There's going to be a search warrant out for me with ten thousand pounds on my head if Mistress Broomhead discovers the bloodbath in that cell. She'll tell the whole world, and I'll have to stay in hiding for the rest of my life. I can't risk anyone finding out where I am."
"I thought you might say that, which is why I suggested I sort you out," Imogen frowned at her, sadly. "I promise I know what I'm doing, but do you have any potions or sedatives on you? Anything at all for pain relief?"
"Yes, Mistress Broomhead's squadron picked up my essential oils before they lured me into a torture chamber and tried to murder me. It was really chivalrous of them, wasn't it?"
"Oh, shut up," Imogen hissed, though she couldn't suppress a smirk. Relief flooded her now Constance was back to being sharp and sarky. For a moment, she thought she'd never see this side to her again. It was a sign she wasn't about to die in the next five minutes, at least.
But her relief was short lived. "It's going to hurt, my dear," she stated softly.
"I'll be okay," Constance picked at her skin. "I mean, it can't be any worse than getting stabbed, surely?"
Imogen shifted anxiously. "Constance, it probably will. You're not fighting against an immediate threat right now. Without the adrenaline, I'm afraid it's going to hurt like a bitch."
"You could always try to kill me, that might help," Constance's lips curled into a half-hearted smirk, and Imogen was overcome with the sudden urge to kiss them in that moment.
"Just bite down on this," she removed her belt, handing Constance the leather strap. "I don't know how true it is, but apparently it's supposed to stimulate your brain into focusing on something else, other than the pain."
Constance raised a goading eyebrow at her. "You want me to bite down on your belt, mhm?"
"Gods, stop being so proud. You're probably going to cry your eyes out and I can't have you clutching onto my hand. Not when I'm driving a needle and thread into your injured flesh."
"Do you really have to?" Constance asked, looking suddenly frightened.
"If you don't want to bleed to death or perish from sepsis, then yes! Yes, I do."
"But—"
"Look, I promise I'll take good care of you afterwards. You can have a long shower, a hot water bottle, and I'll even light the fire in my bedroom for you," Imogen sighed at her crestfallen expression. "Cons, you've been so brave tonight. I promise, this is the last I'll ask of you."
"Fine, if my survival really means that much to you" Constance huffed indignantly.
Imogen nodded before she scarpered down the stairs, the old wood creaking beneath her feet. After rummaging around in a dusty cupboard under the sink, she snatched a large sewing needle and some nylon thread from a wooden basket.
"I can't believe I'm about to let you sew me," Constance eyed Imogen skeptically as she reappeared through the door.
Imogen sat down, resting her back against a cabinet, before she spread her legs and pattered at the floor between them. "Lean back against my chest and keep your leg straight. I'll have to lean over your shoulder so I can see properly."
Constance, sweating slightly, shuffled to sit in front of Imogen with the belt in her hand. She lowered herself backwards, her right leg lying flat on the floor. Imogen noticed her subtly shaking, and gave her upper-arm a reassuring squeeze.
"Just stay still for me. If you need a minute, all you have to do is ask," she said softly against Constance's ear.
Constance made a small, non-committal noise. Imogen threaded the string through her needle, trying to conceal it from Constance's view. Then, without warning, she pierced her skin and tied it into a knot, just above the head of the wound.
Constance whimpered, turning her head sideways to press her cheek against Imogen's chest. The pain sharpened with each stitch as Imogen worked along the laceration, drawing the inflamed skin back together. Her eyes stung as Constance balled her fist and pounded it into the floor, trying to cope. Watching her suffer was unbearable, but knowing she'd caused the pain was far worse.
"I'm almost done. You're doing so well my dear," Imogen's hands trembled, causing her to accidentally drive the needle in at an awkward angle.
"Fucking hell," Constance sobbed as she snatched Imogen's belt and thrust it between her teeth.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Imogen wiped a lone tear from her cheek, before Constance could sense she was crying too. "Only a few more left now."
Imogen pulled the thread taut, tightening the stitches. Constance screamed into the leather as her skin drew together, but she forced herself to stay still. With one final knot, Imogen cut the thread, tied a gauze around the skin, and pulled back to eye her handiwork. Constance didn't seem to realise she'd finished, so Imogen let the needle fall with a soft clatter and wrapped her arms around her, drawing her close.
Constance jolted violently, hissing through her teeth.
"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Imogen pulled back, her eyes scanning Constance over.
"Sorry... I think my ribs are broken, that's all," Constance sniffed, averting her gaze.
"Let me take a look then," Imogen shifted to unzip her dress.
Constance shook her head, pushing her hands away. "You've done enough, I'm fine. But I need to get all this blood off me, it feels horrible."
Imogen eyed Constance with suspicion. She'd seen her lying half-conscious on the ground after being kicked and beaten, yet she was still insisting she was fine.
Maybe she was embarrassed, or ashamed. She wouldn't meet Imogen’s eyes, and whatever the reason, she clearly didn't want her to see her body. Imogen respected that. So, after pressing a few more questions about whether she could breathe properly, she helped Constance to her feet, handed her a silk night robe and a towel, then left her to undress alone.
Still, walking away for even for five minutes left Imogen with a hollow ache in her chest. It was as if she weren't entirely whole, as though part of her was now missing every time Constance left a room.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Imogen pushed her bedroom door ajar, carrying two mugs of steaming tea into the room. She traipsed over to Constance who was leaning against the headboard, her clean hair rolling over her shoulders as she eyed her closely.
Imogen handed her the tea—which Constance took gratefully—before she lowered herself onto the edge of the mattress, trying not to let it dip too much under her weight.
They stared at each other over the rim of their drinks, a heavy silence settling across the room. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, there was nothing left to distract them from each other, or from the unspoken feelings that had clearly settled between them. Imogen had so much she wanted to ask; Constance had so much she needed to say. But neither of them was brave enough to talk about what they were, what had happened, or what they were going to do next.
Imogen picked guiltily at the frayed sleeve on her oversized nightshirt—a gift from Serge, but the only clean garment she could find after showering herself.
Constance set her mug down onto the bedside table, unable to bear the tension any longer. "I'll let you ask me anything you want, as long as I can ask a few questions in return."
Imogen looked startled, unaware that she had been wearing her thoughts so openly. "You don't owe me anything. It's okay if you're not ready to talk yet, I'll still answer whatever I can."
"No, I'd quite like the structure," Constance insisted. "I've never opened up to anyone about this before. If you lead the conversation, I think it'll help me."
"Okay. Who was that man you killed tonight?" Constance opened her mouth, but Imogen cut her off, "And don't say you don't know him, because he told me you were his daughter."
"Well, you just answered your own question then. He was my father," Constance sulked, the lie dying in her mouth.
"You know what I meant. Why did he hurt you? What's your history?" Imogen didn't relent.
"Fine," Constance steeled herself. "My father was a purity maniac, like the rest of those who follow Arethusa's legend. My mother was forced into marrying him on her eighteenth birthday. Their union was arranged by my grandparents, who were also fuelled by pure-blooded mania. Marraige completes some women, because they've been brainwashed into thinking that their blood status makes them superior, but I don't know if my mother felt that way. I don't think was ever truly happy, because she died three years after I was born. My father found her in their wardrobe, after she hanged herself."
Imogen gasped, but Constance was rambling, barely pausing for breath.
"My father… changed after her death. He couldn't grieve because he couldn't love, but he was certainly angry. He wanted my mother around so she could give him a son. But now, she was dead, and he was left to raise a daughter he'd never truly wanted—one who couldn't carry on his name. So one night, when I was six, I wouldn't stop crying and instead of comforting me, he told me how she died. He said that it was my fault she'd killed herself. He told me that I was so wretched it drove her to misery; to madness. Of course, when you're told this for fifteen years, you slowly start to believe it. And when you start to believe you are wretched, you become wretched."
"Oh, but you were a child—"
"There's still an element of truth to it. After all, I don't know how my mother could stand the sight of me. I don't think I could stand to look at a living, breathing reminder of all the abuse I'd faced either," Constance appreciated. "But what does it matter? What's done is done. My mother was still dead, and my father grew neglectful over the years, whether I was responsible for her death or not. I was never showered with gifts, love, or praise. I was left to fend for myself while he drowned his sorrows in alcohol. I dreamt about someone coming to save me, about being told I was loved, but no one ever came. I started to accept it, but when I turned thirteen, everything changed. He drank himself silly one night, and I was headed to the bathroom as he stormed up the stairs. I don't know how it happened—it was dark—but I stood on his foot. Then, he threw me against the wall, and beat me black and blue."
Imogen clasped a hand over her mouth, her fingers shaking. "Dear God, Cons..."
"The abuse occurred regularly over the next five years," Constance continued, ignoring her. "I thought it was justified, that perhaps I deserved it because he was hurting inside. But as I grew older, I realised he never loved my mother, given the way he spoke about her. I understood that what he was doing to me wasn't normal, so at sixteen, I fought back for the first time. That's why he sent me away to Mistress Broomhead's training college. We were both growing older and he was struggling to control me, so he wanted me to marry a suitable man—a man who'd break me down and keep my temper in check, because he no longer could."
Constance drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.
"I managed to stay at college for two years, but I was hated by the other girls. While they swooned over potential suitors at balls and dinners, I became distant and defiant, terrified that I was headed in the same direction as my mother. Eventually, Mistress Broomhead wrote to my father. She told him that she couldn't help me, because I rejected everyone who walked through the door. Hecketty had a reputation for moulding young witches into suitable women, but she said I was a lost cause, and she asked him to withdraw me before I could damage her track record."
Imogen went sheet-white, dread gripping her. "I bet he was furious with you..."
"Yes," Constance pursed her lips. "He locked me inside the house for six months. I barely ate, I barely slept, and I never saw daylight. After I returned from college, the abuse also... worsened, to say the least. It reached a point where I was actively dying. I stood before my mother's wardrobe most nights, battling with myself as she had. I even tried a few times, and given a few more weeks, I probably would have succeeded. But then, he came home one night and told me I was to marry someone from another coven in exchange for money. He essentially sold me, but he said I could return to him after I birthed a boy. In that moment, I realised I was going to end up dying either way. So, as we were fighting, I picked up a knife, intending to slit my own throat... end everything on my own terms, you know? But something took over, and I... I slit his instead."
"You what?" Imogen shrieked, caught by surprise.
Constance started to sweat. "I know I'm going to hell, but I had no choice. I couldn't live while he survived. It was so bad, Imogen... I had to kill, or I'd be killed."
"Hell doesn't exist," Imogen shook her head. "What happened afterwards?"
Constance eyed her speculatively for a moment. She couldn't work out whether or not Imogen was appalled.
"I panicked and ran away. I ran for days through heavy rain and snow, until I stumbled across a castle, shrouded in mist at the top of a hill. I hammered on the gate, and just when I thought no one was coming, it flew open. I toppled into the arms of the first person who I thought might be able to help me—might even care about me," Constance felt a prickle at the backs of her eyes. "That leads me onto my question for you. I was wrong to think Amelia Cackle ever cared about me, wasn't I? I was so desperate to feel loved that I became blinded by it."
Imogen pondered Constance's question before she moved from the bed, fumbling around in the laundry basket. She pulled out a crumpled, bloodied piece of parchment before she walked back over and handed it to her.
"Serge wrote this letter. Obviously, nothing he said is true, but Amelia didn't know that at the time. I'm not excusing what she did at all, but I think you deserve to read this, even if it hurts."
Constance scanned the letter over several times. Imogen shuffled closer, placing a hand over her knee.
"I'm sorry it's so awful, please don't think you abused me for one second. I defended you to Amelia. I might have lost my temper with her, and I'm not sure if I still have a job, but you are not your father, and that's all that matters."
"I don't know how to feel..." Constance muttered dejectedly. "I can see how it might look to an outsider, but she didn't even try to talk about it with me. On the one hand, I should hate her for being such a poor headmistress. On the other... I know that the only alternative to fear is often anger, and that can trick anyone into making bad decisions."
"Well, I can't answer that for you. It's your life she could have ruined, so only you can decide whether you want to forgive her or not. I certainly gave her a piece of my own mind, but I think you two need to have a conversation, because I don't have an unbiased answer," Imogen justified.
"I'd like to talk to Amelia," Constance agreed. "I'd like it if you could be there too. I don't think I want to face her own my own, but I want her to know what happened to me. I want her to understand how serious her misjudgment was."
"Of course, I'll be there. I'll write to her; ask her to stop by and bring that potion you need too. I don't think she'll tell anyone where you are. I think my conversation with her was rather... convincing," Imogen scowled.
"Thank you," Constance breathed, touched.
Imogen's eyes drifted over to the window, lost in thought for a moment until her stomach jolted, remembering what Constance's father had tried to do to her.
"I don't know whether to believe a word Amelia says anymore, but she told me about the lengths some families have gone to protect their blood status—things I'd never have thought about if it weren't for her. I'm sorry if this is invasive, but you did your father abuse you in more than one way after college? Did he perhaps—"
"No." Constance snapped quickly; too quickly. "Who do you take me for? I was eighteen by that point, and I'd have fought to the death before I let that happen to me. I have some level of self-respect, after all."
Imogen exhaled, her shoulders slackening. In that moment, her relief was so strong that she failed to comprehend anything beyond Constance's denial, let alone challenge the responsibility she was so convinced she held.
Constance felt deflated, Imogen's relief filling her with dread. She felt disgusted with herself for lying. He didn't deserve to be protected, but if Imogen knew about the way she'd given in and taken it, she'd surely be disgusted with her too.
Overwhelmed, Constance changed course. "Why did you really pull away after I kissed you all those weeks ago? You said it was a mistake, but you've made the same mistake twice now. What do I really mean to you, Imogen?"
"I didn't want to take advantage of you when you were already vulnerable," Imogen began, skirting around the heart of it. It would have been simpler to leave it there, but Constance's earlier bravery compelled her to speak the full truth.
"That wasn't the only reason though. I pulled away because I've been trying to deny how I feel about you for a long time, and if I had kissed you back, I wouldn't have been able to keep pretending. It all felt too real, too raw," she elaborated. "But tonight, when I almost lost you for good, I realised that the only thing more terrifying than feeling this way about you is the thought of you dying before I ever got the chance to admit it."
"What fuels your fear?" Constance questioned, before shirking at the irony.
"Acceptance," Imogen replied sullenly. "I lost my mother too, when I was eighteen. I had a complicated relationship with her. I loved her, but sometimes I feel as though my life only began the day she died. She was a conservative, utterly obsessed with religion—both my parents were. They were so driven by the prospect of reaching heaven that they failed to see they were putting me through hell."
"Did they hurt you too?" Constance replied, almost wistfully.
"Yes, but in a different way. They never laid a finger on me, but they didn't know how to love without condition. Every time I cried, every time I reached out for attention, my mother never comforted me. She said I had to seek solace in God. I spent hours in the confessional box, but his forgiveness meant nothing when all I wanted was hers."
"What about your father?" Constance pried gently.
"I hardly speak to Dad these days. You'd think losing Mum so young might have shaken his faith, but it pushed him into something like psychosis instead. He became even more consumed by worship, convinced he had to devote his entire life to it and nothing else, or else he'd burn. He truly believed he was destined to spread the gospel to as many people as possible, or he'd risk never seeing Mum again in heaven. He opened a church to preach against homosexuality, abortion, suicide, the supernatural—you name it. Those who follow religion in such a controlling sense claim it's all in the name of purity, of goodness, of righteousness. But really, it's just disgust dressed as devotion; hatred, disguised as love."
Constance's eyes widened. She thought Imogen's upbringing had been perfect. It was one of the many reasons why she'd pushed her support away, because she'd never understand.
"You were right, Constance. You've always been right. I was just too scared to see it," Imogen scowled. "Religion, myths and legends, they're all based on the same thing—fear. Notice how most only pray when they want or dread something? Notice how witching legend oppressed you? It's all man-made, it's all about control. They prey on those who suffer, on those who fear what they can't understand, on those who can't accept that nothing happens after death. And I was one of them. I was so terrified of being abandoned, disowned, or condemned to burn—just like I'd always been told—that I never dared to question any of it."
"You felt safer to follow the crowd, to sacrifice your own happiness for their approval?" Constance asked.
"Yes. And that's why I pulled away, because my family would ruin my life if they ever found out about you," Imogen elaborated. "But there was a time, years ago, when I thought about you constantly. Then, Serge came into my life, and I settled for the first man who I thought loved me. Because, like you, I don't think I've ever really known what love is supposed to look like."
"I'll never know love," Constance averted her gaze. "How did you cope with all that? How are you still so hopeful, so defiant? How do you know your suffering will end?"
"I don't," Imogen replied. "And sometimes it drives me mad, knowing my mother has the answer to what comes after death and I don't. It terrifies me, that small chance she was right all along, and I was wrong. I wonder if she's looking down on me right now, laughing at my defiance, because she knows hell is waiting for me on the other side. But then I think, what if it's the other way around? What if I'm the one looking down on her? Or what if death really does divide us? What if it is final? What if we never have to look at each other again? That possibility is so freeing, I find the terror can't touch me, because it can't keep up."
Imogen's words seized Constance with unexpected power. It's now or never.
"Have you ever thought about how similar we are? Your parents followed religion, mine followed legend—but in the end, we were both hurt by those who were meant to protect us, all in the name of the greater good. Have you ever noticed how we mirror each other, how our pasts run in parallel? I can't believe how desperately I tried to push you away, when maybe you're the only person who could ever begin to understand. When perhaps... you've been my answer all along."
"I am?" Imogen furrowed her brow.
"Yes, and I think I've known for a while now," Constance fidgeted with her fingers. "I tried to deny it, but when Serge came into your life, all the feelings I'd been trying to suppress came surging back. I let the bitterness burn through me like wildfire, because it felt safer to be feared than loved, safer to be miserable than vulnerable. I lashed out at you, belittled you in front of the girls. I couldn't even look at you, because it was easier to make you hurt than face the fact that I was hurting. But the truth is, nothing made a difference. It didn't matter how many snarky comments I threw your way, or how many petty arguments I started, because at the end of every day, I'd still lie awake, dreaming about you. I'd watch you in every assembly. I'd take the long way through the corridors, just for the chance to pass you. I always chose the seat next to yours in the staffroom. I noticed how you took your tea. When it rained and you were teaching in the courtyard, I'd leave a dry jumper on the back of the armchair. And, well... before I could stop myself, I was thinking about you more often than not."
Constance took a deep breath. Imogen reached forwards, gently taking her hands.
"I can't hide how I feel about you anymore, not when it's eating away at me, not when it's knocking me sick. I love you, Imogen. I have for a long while. And I'm sorry for loving you, because in doing so, I damn you at the same time."
Imogen inched closer to the headboard, before taking Constance's head in her hands. "Cons, you were brave enough to defy your father, and that gives me the strength to defy mine. Life's too short to settle for someone who doesn't make you happy. No matter what faith you follow, nothing can disguise the truth, that this life is the only one we're guaranteed. The odds of being here at all are so impossibly small, yet people waste it, waiting for the next. So, to answer your question, I used to think it was a mistake to kiss you. But now I know, the only real mistake was how much time I wasted trying to find the courage to do it."
Constance nodded slowly against her palm. When Imogen tilted her chin up until their eyes met, her nodding quickened, growing frantic, as if her desperation alone might prevent Imogen from leaving; might somehow make her stay despite her many flaws.
Sensing her fears, Imogen crawled into her lap, swinging her legs from the mattress and wrapping them around Constance's hips, careful to avoid her thigh. She rested her forehead against hers and they stayed like that for a while—Imogen threading her arms around Constance's neck, both breathing softly against each other's skin.
"What do I have to say, Constance? What will it take for you to believe me, when I say I'm not just another person who's going to leave when things get tough? What do I have to give, to make you see I'm not someone else who's out to get you?"
"A choice," Constance whispered. Imogen pulled back slightly to look at her, bewildered.
"I want you to give me the choice to trust you. I've never had that before. I've been forced my whole life—told what to say, what to wear, what to do. I've never been allowed to make my own decisions, to trust people, to figure things out for myself," Constance worried her bottom lip. "Do you understand? I don't need you to say anything right now. All I need is a voice of my own, and somewhere safe to use it."
"Constance... you don't have to ask for that. Consent isn't something that has to be earned. You do know that, right?" Imogen lowered her gaze, "I would do anything for you. Is that really all?"
"Please, listen to me. It's too soon for you to understand, but I really don't need anything else," Constance whispered determinedly, though her eyes were bloodshot.
"Then use your words," Imogen nodded. "Use your words, and I promise I'll hear them."
"I want..." Constance swallowed thickly. "I want you to look after me. To keep me close. I don't want you to pull away this time. I want to know that you don't want to pull away."
"Keep you close?" Imogen asked.
Constance nodded, but didn't elaborate.
"What do you mean by close?" Imogen pried carefully.
Constance flushed, but she wasn't pressured into answering. Imogen gave her time—choice—and that seemed to help a little.
Constance simply sat and studied her for a while, the tension so thick she ironically wished she had a knife to cut through it. Then, slowly—deliberately—she laced her fingers through Imogen's.
She held her gaze. Neither of them spoke.
"What are—"
Constance pressed a finger to Imogen's lips, before she used her free hand to guide Imogen's down to her lower abdomen, her fingers brushing the hem of her shirt.
Oh.
Imogen's heart rate spiked. "Do you want me to touch you?"
"Please," Constance breathes, "All I want is to feel loved. I want it so badly, more than anything else."
Imogen doesn't need to be told twice. The thought of pleasuring Constance—taking care of her, making her forget all her worries, even if just for one evening—floods her with reckless ecstasy.
She closes the space between them, feeling the softness of Constance's full lips as they brush against hers. She allows herself to smile against them for a moment, awed by the situation, until she takes control. After threading fingers through her onyx hair, she strokes the bare skin on her shoulder, where the soft material has already slipped away.
Constance sighs softly, spurring her on. Imogen runs her tongue over Constance's parted lips, tracing their outline before she allows herself to slide further in, the angle deepening, her kisses now hotter, hungrier—bruising, even. And when she feels Constance's slender fingers slide under her own shirt, Imogen moves away from her mouth, instead planting wet kisses along her jaw, all the way up to the sensitive skin beneath her earlobe. She's desperate to weave her way closer, to leave her mark, to reassure Constance that she's here for the long run this time.
It seems to be working as Constance shakes beneath her, and Imogen sees the flush rising in her cheeks. She tries to give her the same treatment, but Imogen's hands—immensely distracting—are all over her. She feels them grip tightly at her hips, her shoulders, and her hair. The contact sends shivers along her spine.
Then, she practically dissolves into the headboard as Imogen starts to devour the fragile skin on her neck, nipping all the way down to her collarbone, stripping her composure.
"You're so beautiful, it almost hurts to look at you," Imogen worships, the words rolling from her tongue before she can think twice—words she's already thought about for for many years, but buried deep beneath denial and repentance.
Constance throws her head back at Imogen's words, accompanied by the feeling of her teeth and tongue as they bite and suckle against her skin. She knows she'll feel like a teenager tomorrow morning, covered in a dark constellation of hickeys, but it's almost serene to have someone finally explore her body with adoration, rather than lust. She's never experienced it before—another person actually taking the time to turn her on with praise and worship. Perhaps even love.
For a brief second, she's overpowered with the sudden urge to cry. But as Imogen's hand slides underneath the fabric covering her chest to gently cup her breasts, Constance lets out a throaty moan. It becomes harder to concentrate on anything other than how gorgeous it feels to be touched. All the overwhelming thoughts grow hazier as she feels tentative fingers brush over her nipple, possessively stroking and massaging at the sensitive skin.
Imogen pinches her slightly, and enjoys the resulting gasp. She watches closely as Constance's eyelashes flutter shut. Then, she shifts in her lap, grinding against her pelvis as she tries to bury herself closer. Though she doesn't think anything could ever be close enough—not when she wants to crawl inside Constance's skin and merge their souls together at that given point in time—she can compromise.
She pauses to look at Constance with a mixture of awe and gratitude for a moment, before she places both hands at the tie on her robe and moves to undo it.
Constance's eyes fly open. Her hands shoot up to catch Imogen's, halting her.
Imogen pulls back, catching a flicker of anxiety in her expression. It's subtle, almost hidden beneath the healthy flush in her cheeks, but Imogen knows her well enough by now to sense that something's not right.
She strokes Constance's cheeks with the pads of her thumbs, before speaking very quietly. "You know, we can stop at any time. You always have that choice with me, remember?"
Constance leans in and presses a kiss to Imogen's collarbone, then lets her forehead rest against her shoulder.
Imogen tangles a hand in her hair again. Though Constance doesn’t speak, Imogen can tell she's worrying about something. She can feel it in the way Constance hides her face; seeks safety in her own skin.
"Do you want to stop, my dear?" Imogen strokes her upper back.
To her surprise, Constance shakes her head and mumbles against her chest, "It's just my arm... I don't want you to change your mind again."
"That's not why I pulled away last time. I've seen your arm before, those scars don't change you as a person. If anything, they make me want to protect you even more," Imogen's gaze is so tender, and that alone threatens to break Constance.
She looks away and down at the bedsheets. "I'm not talking about those ones..."
Imogen furrows her brows, and notices the tears brimming in her eyes. "After everything we've been through, I promise I'm not leaving you this time. You can show me, Constance. I want to see every inch of you, you're gorgeous."
Constance sighs, before slowly meeting Imogen's gaze. She smiles slightly, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Before she can second guess herself, she holds out her forearm and lets Imogen take control. Imogen looks at her wearily before taking her wrist in her fingers. With great care, she ruches up the sleeve and feels her stomach twist. Her eyes trace the slur branded into Constance's skin as well as the vertical cut down her wrist, the angry red welts stark against the partially healed scars beneath.
"Did you do this to yourself?" Imogen asks calmly.
Constance looks at her, her lip quivering. "No... he did it to me."
Imogen forces herself to take a deep breath, biting back the urge to scream—not at Constance, but at whoever wanted to hurt her this fucking much.
"See, I told you—"
But Imogen doesn't seem to hear her. She's already moving—slipping off Constance's lap, shifting backwards across the bedsheets until a wide gap opens between them. Constance feels hollow, as if something vital has been pulled from her, driven mad by the lingering tension. She's furious at Imogen for pulling away. She's even more frustrated at herself for pushing her, for putting her off, for—
"Come here," Imogen practically growls, her voice laced with something primal.
Constance's eyes widen and goosebumps erupt across her skin, whether from arousal or dread, she can't quite tell as Imogen’s eyes pierce through her, their glint almost predatory.
"But I don't..."
"Sit."
A wave of heat crashes through Constance. She obeys; Imogen's tone leaves no room for hesitation. Inch by inch, she moves towards her, closing in on the foot of the bed where Imogen waits. Her thigh still aches, but she can hardly feel it because Imogen's there, steadying her as she limps over. A hand finds her waist, guiding her gently into her lap until their lips hover, just inches apart.
Constance leans in to kiss her, but Imogen pulls away. Her gaze flickers between Constance's eyes and lips, but she doesn't touch her, not yet. She has bigger plans—things Constance needs to see, to know, to believe—before she can go any further.
"Turn around."
Constance stills, her lips slightly parted, just a breath away from Imogen's. For a moment, she can't think. Imogen's words echo in her head, dizzying in their intensity.
"You can't see how beautiful you are," Imogen whispers. "But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, because I'm here to see it all for you."
"I don't understand," Constance wraps her arms around Imogen's neck, holding her tighter.
"If you'll let me..." Imogen leans forward, lowering her lips to Constance's earlobe. "I want you to see what I see."
Constance stared at Imogen in disbelief, and feels her heart race. "What do you see?"
Imogen considers her next move, invigorated by the question. There's so much she sees in Constance, so many things she's imagined doing to her that she can hardly understand why she doesn't see it in herself, nor where she should even start.
All those nights she's lain awake, sleep evading her, with Constance consuming her every thought. Lying there, with her legs crossed, just picturing what it might be like to hold her, to touch her, to slip her fingers inside her. She's thought about it so much it's distracted her from almost everything else—distracted her from how wrong it really is as she lies beneath Serge, picturing Constance's face between her legs—her flesh and blood more scared than anything else that's ever been preached to her. But now, after everything they've been through, she can hardly believe she's actually here with Constance, who's straddling her hips, who's letting her guard down, who's letting herself feel.
Who's chosen to do it all with her.
In that moment, Imogen loves her so much it's physically painful. The realisation aches her chest, and before she can overthink it—allow it to really scare her—her fingers fly to Constance's waist again, both hands gripping her hips. Then, she twists Constance in her lap, until she's sat over one knee with her back to her, leaning against her own chest.
"Just look at you," Imogen's eyes linger on her jawline.
Constance tilts her chin slightly, gazing down at Imogen. It's only when Imogen leans forwards that she finally understands.
A soft, involuntary gasp escapes her, quickly masked into a sigh as her eyes land on her reflection in the large, floor-length mirror. She sees herself, flushed and breathless, sat on Imogen's lap at the foot of the bed.
"Look at your porcelain skin and your defined cheekbones. Look at the way that pretty rose colour contrasts against them when you let yourself feel things," Imogen begins, tracing her fingers along Constance's facial bones, placing another kiss at the nape of her neck.
"And your eyes, so deep brown and doe-like. The way you look at others sometimes, the way they hold so much intensity, so much raw emotion, even when you can't find the words to say how you feel. I wish you could see those lovely, long eyelashes—the way they flutter shut, ever so softly, each time you close your eyes. Especially when you're sleepy or relaxed, they just seem that little bit softer. I could look into them forever, lose myself in their depth."
Constance studies herself, her gaze fixed on Imogen's fingers as they run along her stomach and spine. It's the first time she's been able to properly look at herself in months; the first time she hasn't felt dirty, disgusted, or ashamed at what she sees.
"And Gods, your hair," Imogen's wrist moves to thread through it, softly stroking Constance's forehead every now and then. "The colour, the length, the feel of it between my fingers. See how it sticks to your skin, framing all your curves? Do you see the way it pools around your shoulders, your breasts, and your waist, protecting every inch of you? I think about pulling it back sometimes, bundling it in my fists, just so I can see you properly."
Constance is growing more vocal at her words. Imogen knows it's almost time to take her apart as she feels Constance melt in her arms. She just wants to make sure she feels safe enough first.
"You are so fucking beautiful. I would kill to look like you," Imogen strokes her back.
Constance sighs and gasps, Imogen's name occasionally slipping from her tongue as she continues to watch her in the reflection. She feels her fingers dipping under the robe to caress her stomach, her hips, her thighs—everything she can get—until she runs out of room and her fingers clasp at the fabric once more.
Imogen slows, waiting for permission. Her eyes lock with Constance's in the mirror, and they stay there for a minute: Constance panting slightly, Imogen placing tentative kisses along her the back of her neck and shoulder, simply waiting, patiently observing—always giving Constance a choice.
Then, very slowly, Constance nods and Imogen begins. Her hands are everywhere, steadily working their way through the fabric until more of Constance's chest comes into view. She continues to caress her breasts until the robe falls down completely, and Constance is now sitting there, elegant and lithe in her arms. Her eyes even widen with wonder as she examines her own nudity in the mirror, baring everything she's always been too scared to show.
"So, Constance, this is partly what I see," Imogen murmurs as she pulls her own nightshirt over her head. "But most of all—more than your eyes, your hair, or your skin—I want you to see everything that moves beyond the physical. I want you to feel. I want you to enjoy how you feel."
"I'll do anything, I promise," Constance pleads, wanting more.
"Good, because no matter what you've been taught, you are worth so much more than your body. You always have been. So just watch—watch what I do to you, and let yourself enjoy it. Let yourself see what I see, until you believe it. Do you promise?"
Constance tries to glance back at Imogen, but a hand catches her chin, turning her face forwards, forcing her to look at herself in the mirror again.
Imogen holds her chin still with one hand, and Constance watches as she slides her free one down her stomach until she settles between her legs. Imogen spreads them further apart with one gentle touch, as she finally brushes a thumb against her clitoris.
The whimper Constance lets out is other-worldly, and Imogen can't resist anymore.
"I said do you promise?"
"I... I promise..." Constance moans, "Please..."
Imogen smirks, and Constance looks at her longingly. It's perhaps the most erotic thing she's ever seen, watching herself in the mirror as Imogen's fingers finally disappear inside her. She doesn't care how needy she looks. She can't stop herself as she lets out a cry that is loud, wanton and desperate.
Imogen supports her waist and fucks her gently, slowly pushing her fingers in and out. She watches Constance's reflection as her mouth falls open unceremoniously, and even pauses every now and then to tease her. She enjoys seeing her posture become sloppier by the second; she's throwing her head backwards, one hand is gripping the knee she's balanced on, the other is wrapped around Imogen's forearm, and her eyes remain fixed on the knuckles buried inside her. Imogen can tell she's enjoying every second, based on the obscenities she's gasping. She feels proud for thinking of this—for giving Constance more control than she ever thought possible, for letting her see exactly what's happening to her, as and when it happens.
"Look at me," Imogen purrs.
It takes everything Constance has to do it. Reluctantly, she wrenches her gaze from Imogen's wrist, letting her eyes trace the length of her own body in the mirror, all the way up to hers.
"Good girl," Imogen curls her fingers, like a reward, as Constance finally locks eyes with her. "Look how well you're taking it."
At this, Constance sobs. Imogen savours the effect, watching as her eyes begin to roll back despite how hard she's fighting to keep looking at her. The speed at which Imogen has her shaking and tightening around her probing fingers is astonishing.
"Can't finish what you started?" Imogen teases. "Do you need me to take care of you?"
Constance can't speak, buts she nods frantically. Imogen slows to let her twist in her grasp, turning away from the mirror until she's sat facing her again. She wraps her arms around Imogen's neck and kisses her fiercely for a few seconds, until Imogen pushes her knuckles inside her again. She moves faster this time, deeper, and tugs Constance's hair from behind.
"Gods... th-thank you..."
Imogen hears her heart pounding as she feels Constance pant and moan into her mouth, unable to form a coherent sentence. She tries to kiss Imogen back, but she physically can't anymore—so distracted by the feeling of her fingers as they slide in and out of her that she almost forgets how to breathe. But Imogen doesn't care; she only smiles every time Constance misses her mouth. The swelling in her heart overpowers the aching in her wrist as she watches closely, taking in the bliss on her features despite the fact her eyes now remain firmly shut.
"You're doing so well," Imogen slows slightly to whisper against her lips. "I'm so proud of you."
Constance's doesn't seem to hear. She's struggling to remain upright, her fingers falling from Imogen's neck to claw at her back, raking across her skin. Her nails scratch against her, leaving bright red marks, digging in deeper with every thrust, brush, and whimper.
"Don't stop. Don't stop," Constance cries, the words tumbling out as her head collapses forwards into Imogen's neck.
Imogen slows for a beat, thinking, before she pulls her hand away completely. She can feel Constance's hips as they roll against hers and Imogen moans too, almost giving in until she sees Constance's eyes flicker open frustratedly—desperate for more friction, desperate for more contact.
"No... I didn't... I meant... I meant please don't stop," Constance practically begs, before she snatches Imogen's wrist and yanks it back towards her legs. "Don't you dare stop."
Imogen doesn't give in as she looks down in wonder at her swollen lips. She can feel the way Constance is trying to subtly grind against her thigh, and the desire that's burning across her wild-eyes. In that sense, she already knows what Constance is asking for, but she wants to see how badly she needs it.
"What did I say about using your words?" Imogen murmurs. "You will use them properly, because you're the only one who gets to tell me what you want. Isn't that right?"
"I just want you..." Constance pleads, Imogen's words undoing her. "I've wanted you for so long..."
"Then prove it," Imogen's mouth curls wickedly. "Tell me, with words, exactly what you want me to do to you."
"I don't... I don't want you... I need you..."
Imogen smiles as she watches Constance fall apart, so focused on how good everything feels that she can't even think straight.
"Whatever you need, I'll be whatever you need," she kisses her softly.
"I need to feel you inside me," Constance practically begs. "I want to forget everything but you."
She opens her mouth again, but Imogen can't take it any longer. Their lips connect again with hot, open-mouthed kisses, and this time she's slowly lowering her backwards until Constance is lying, propped against the headboard, with Imogen's body pressed against her, their breasts touching.
Constance hooks a leg around Imogen's hip, instinctively. She feels soaked fingers trace against her jawline, neck and collarbone. When she starts to squirm from frustration, Imogen makes her way down to her breasts, her tongue rolling over her nipples, and then down the length of her stomach. Constance's hips buck into the air as Imogen continues suckling, nipping, and teasing with her sinful mouth until she runs out of skin to devour.
Finally, she sits backwards on her heels, spreading Constance's legs and settling herself between them. She eyes her hungrily from her new vantage point, but before Constance can sit up, or shift, or beg for mercy, Imogen crouches down, wraps her hands around Constance's thighs, and and hoists her legs over her shoulders.
Constance shivers, the sensation of Imogen supporting her so undeniably erotic that she feels herself clench. She manages to look down at the mane of blonde hair between her raised legs and catches the knowing glint in Imogen's eye, but the words die in her mouth as Imogen buries her head between her them. Constance feels her tongue as it slides and then sucks, and it's unlike anything she's ever experienced before; like pure relief condensed into a physical feeling.
"Fuck—yes—"
Imogen continues to ravish Constance, before she slides two fingers in, this time working in time with her tongue as she buries it inside her. She feels her stomach flutter as she glances up in time to see Constance clasp a hand over her mouth, biting down hard on her palm to keep herself from screaming. Her back arches and her moans spill out uncontrollably. Imogen feels her legs start to tremble on either side of her face, and notes, with satisfaction, that her wrist is completely drenched.
"You taste so good," Imogen praises. Her breath tickles Constance's clit and she suspects she's close, given the way her hips are jerking violently and her heels are digging into her upper-back. "Keep going, I've got you."
Constance tries to writhe away, overcome with pleasure. Imogen laughs, but holds her still. Her heart swells with pride as she watches her composure crumble, letting down all the defences she's been trying to protect herself with for so long. In that moment, Imogen is overcome with a fierce, possessive tenderness, and she realises she could stay like this forever. Not only is fucking Constance hot, it's also the closest she can get to her soul. The feelings in her chest run so deep, so certain, that she wonders if maybe she's wanted this all along. Perhaps she's even destined for it—while she's been working towards avoiding hell all her life, she's failed to see she already has heaven in her hands.
Imogen crawls upwards again, seizing Constance's wrists and pinning them against the headboard. Constance swears as Imogen slides three fingers in her this time. She's truly pounding into her now. Her thrusts are slamming the bed into the wall, and Constance's head is banging against the frame.
"You don't know how long I've thought about doing this to you," Imogen mutters, curling her fingers upwards again. "Every time we argue, every time you cry, I think about burying my fist inside you and fucking you senseless."
"Do it," Constance sounds utterly desperate.
"I touch myself at night sometimes. I get off to the thought of taking all your pain away, at giving you such an intense orgasm that you can't even think about anything else, let alone find the time to cry about it. I think about fucking the grief out of you until all you can think about is how good you feel. Does it feel good, Con?"
"It does... It feels so good... please... just fuck me senseless," Constance gasps for breath, her ears are now ringing.
"Then prove it."
Imogen grips Constance by the chin and seizes her upwards until she's falls into her lap again. She's being rough now, and she knows it, but Constance is so worked up that she doesn't seem to care. She rides up and down on Imogen's thigh and fingers. She grinds against her palm, her breasts bounce lightly, her cries are now so free they reverberate from the walls. She's feeling everything so intensely that tears have even started to steam down her cheeks.
"You're in control now. Show me how good it feels."
With her free wrist, Imogen laces her fingers with Constance's before slowly guiding their hands down between her legs.
"Touch yourself," Imogen orders.
Constance's eyes roll backwards, and Imogen can actually feel Constance dripping down onto her thigh now, but she does as she's told, desperate for more praise. They work together, Imogen's fingers circling on the inside, Constance's on the out—and then, Imogen feels her walls tighten around her fingers, and hears Constance cry out her name when she truly can't take anymore.
"There you go, sweetheart. You can let it all go now."
Constance's forehead collapses again Imogen's as she rides out her orgasm—she spasms against her fingers once, twice, maybe even three times—utterly soaking the bedsheets beneath them. It takes several minutes; Constance gasping against Imogen's lips, Imogen holding her steady. She thinks her wrist might snap, given the way Constance is moving against her, but she can also feel the pleasure radiating from her, and there's nothing else that matters more in the world than taking her pain away.
"I can't... I can't keep going," Constance eventually sways, her eyes half-closed, before she slumps against Imogen's chest and a tremor racks her body.
"You did so well," Imogen praises, gently withdrawing her wrist before she wraps both arms around Constance, holding her tightly against her own skin. "I'm so proud of you, for everything."
Constance continues to cry against her chest and Imogen places gentle kisses against her temple. She wraps her in a soft blanket, before lowering them both under the duvet. Constance curls into her side and starts to sob harder. It doesn't seem to be from pleasure anymore, Imogen notes, but she strokes her forehead until Constance succumbs to exhaustion.
She doesn't really understand why she's still crying, and she worries she never will, but giving her the choice to share things in her own time matters more than Imogen's need to understand.
She gets that now, at least.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Imogen sat bolt upright, sweat dripping down her neck. She couldn't remember what she'd been dreaming about, but the bottomless pit at the end of her stomach reiterated that it hadn't been pleasant.
Calm down. She's safe now.
Imogen yawned loudly, before burying her head in her hands. She'd never felt this exhausted, but rest evaded her. It was proving impossible to stay asleep for more than an hour while she was tortured by distorted images of Constance, playing through her mind like a broken film reel. Images where she lay on the floor, lifeless, with a large slash across her throat.
She's safe from him, but will she ever be safe from herself?
Imogen continued to stare at the wall but subconsciously reached for the pillow beside her. Her fingers fumbled around blindly until her brain caught up with her body and she spun around at lightening speed.
Her subconscious had been feeling for Constance, but she wasn't there.
Imogen started to panic. She shot from the bed and pulled a robe around her shoulders, her heart thumping against her ribs. It wasn't until she patted at the sheets frantically that she felt a crushing sense of relief. The bottom one was still warm, so Constance must have been there a few minutes prior.
She killed someone a few hours ago. She can handle the bathroom. You think too much, Imogen chastised herself.
But a clatter from the said bathroom didn't stop her from thinking. It only left her feeling horribly conflicted as she stood in the centre of the room, stuck in limbo. She wanted to respect Constance's privacy—after all, she'd already laid herself bare that evening—but the memory of the last time she'd found her in a bathroom was still fresh, stirring a fierce need to protect her, to make sure she was safe.
Concern won out as Imogen edged closer and peered through a narrow gap in the door. She felt her lower lip tremble as she took in the sight. The intimacy she had shared with Constance just hours ago had felt blissful, but now—watching her lean over the sink, sniffling softly as she gripped a nail brush and furiously scrubbed at the skin on her forearm—Imogen was overwhelmed by a sinking sense of guilt.
She still doesn't feel safe. She finds you repulsive. Your love for her is wrong.
"I'm sorry, Constance," Imogen pushed the door open, cringing inwardly as it creaked. "Please don't hurt yourself because of me."
Repent.
"I'm not hurting myself," Constance responded flatly. She didn't look up, but Imogen saw the pained expression contorting her features.
"Then what do you think you're doing?" Imogen goaded. "You're making yourself bleed, Constance."
"I'm not trying to hurt myself," Constance exclaimed theatrically, throwing her head back.
"But you are," Imogen insisted, growing impatient. "Please, put it down."
Constance shook her head vehemently and exhaled a shuddering breath. She ignored Imogen, thrusting the brush into the soapy water with such force that it slopped over the edge of the porcelain, pooling at her feet. Imogen stared at her in disbelief, wondering if Constance was even lucid, if perhaps she was still half asleep.
"Don't make me take it from you," Imogen inched closer. "Just come back to bed. It's late. You might feel okay now, but the pain will catch up to you soon."
"I can't," Constance's shoulders shook as she twisted the tap handle, water spurting out quicker than she'd intended, soaking her robe through.
"Why not?" Imogen implored, the edge to her voice rising.
"I feel dirty," Constance said quickly, still facing the sink.
"Then shower?" Imogen deadpanned. She mentally kicked herself, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She'd meant them as a genuine suggestion, but brittle with exhaustion, they landed more like a taunt.
Constance caught the agitation in Imogen's tone and felt her eyes burn. She forced herself to spin around.
"It's not enough," she said in a strained voice. "It will never be enough. Go find someone else to shower with the obvious. I must be really pathetic, really pitiful, if you think I need to be told that."
"I'm not playing that game. I refuse to match your wrath with my rage..." Imogen paused to consider her for a moment. "You can push me away all you want, but you know you'll only make yourself feel worse, like you have for the last hundred times."
Constance opened her mouth to retaliate but Imogen lunged forwards and snatched the brush. Constance stumbled backwards as though she'd been burned, a shooting pain searing through her her shoulder as she slammed into a cabinet.
Imogen crossed her arms, a mockery of Constance's defensive posture.
"You know, it's okay to want sex. It's okay to trust someone enough to even enjoy it. I thought you agreed that wanting something natural doesn't make you dirty, so I don't understand why you're so intent on punishing yourself for it," Imogen groaned, irritated.
"You should be thankful you don't understand," Constance snapped, advancing on her, her fingers clawing to snatch the brush back. "Do you think I can fucking help it? Do you think I enjoy feeling filthy all the time?"
"I never said—"
"You don't know anything," Constance's voice cracked. "It was a mistake. I shouldn't have let you... I shouldn't have asked for it, like I always do..."
"Really? Using my own excuses against me, are you?" Imogen didn't rise to the bait. "I know a whole lot more than you think I do."
"Then do enlighten me," Constance threw her arms skywards, her face beet-red.
Imogen grit her teeth. "I know that I love you, Constance. I know that there's nothing wrong with you for letting me love you."
Constance stilled, her hands slumping to her side, her angry expression faltering. Imogen had actually said it back—the words she ached to hear and had dreamt about for so long. The terrifying, unpredictable tenderness overpowered her. The weight of letting herself be seen like this, the rawness of allowing someone to love her without condition, without shame...
But with the absence of shame came fear—fear of being abandoned, of being undeserving, of losing her love faster than she'd earned it, for being too much, too little, too much to cope with.
It overwhelmed her, the need to push Imogen away. The urge to leave her behind, before she could leave her first.
Imogen watched as Constance turned away, pressing herself against the cabinet. She folded her arms up onto the wood, and then buried her face in them. A muffled sob broke from her chest as she dissolved into tears, her shoulders jerking with each breath she tried to swallow.
"Oh, sweetheart..." Imogen moved forwards to rub a hand along her back.
"It's—It's all my fault," Constance hiccuped. "He's right... he's always been right," she clutched at her arms, like hiding her face could hide the truth. "I asked for it—I brought it on myself because I'm so desperate—so fucking desperate—to feel loved that I keep giving myself away," her voice cracked with disgust. "I trade my body for scraps of affection because it's all I'm worth."
"Don't talk about yourself like that. You're so much more than—"
Constance shook her head violently. "I am dirty. I'm a slut, and I'm ashamed. I should be ashamed," her voice dropped to a whisper, as though she couldn't bear to hear herself. "I deserved everything that happened to me."
"Why?!" Imogen shouted. "You deserved to be loved, he was supposed to protect you. All that talk about mirroring me... do you think I deserved everything that happened to me too?"
"Oh, Imogen, I can't... I won't," Constance gasped, "You can't love me, because if you love me, that means I have to tell you the full truth. And if you don't think I'm filthy now, you will when you find out what I've done—and then you'll leave, and you'll—"
"I won't let him stop me from loving you," Imogen murmured, determinedly.
Constance turned to face her, her eyes raw and swollen. A heavy silence fell between them, in which she didn't know what else to say. Everyone else left when she lashed out, but Imogen seemed adamant on staying, and she couldn't understand why. She couldn't understand how it benefited her in the slightest, to stay here, trying to protect someone so explosive.
She was at a loss. She didn't know how to make her leave. She didn't even know if she wanted her to leave. Just when she thought she'd reached a conclusion, her own brain decided to work against her again.
Imogen took Constance by the hand and gently guided her back to bed, but her reassurance was impenetrable to the burning inferno, raging inside her mind.
"You can't love me, Imogen. I won't let you. You deserve someone who knows how to love," Constance whispered as she lay against Imogen's chest a while later.
Imogen threaded her fingers through Constance's hair; she didn't say anything. She tried to blame it on the lack of sleep, but the dread ran deeper than the pounding in her head. Trepidation settled in her chest, heavy with the inkling that this is all life will ever be for her now. An endless cycle of fierce attachment and quiet abandonment; of reaching out and pulling away, of clinging and retreating, loving and losing, over and over again.
She loves Constance—she really does—but she doesn't know if love is enough anymore. The bible has been drilled into her since birth, that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to conquer love. But as Imogen looks back at Constance and sees how tragic she truly is, she knows that these are just empty words, broken promises, and that's all they'll ever be to her now. It's almost insulting to believe otherwise, to try and convince Constance that love is invincible, when it's been crafted into a weapon and shot against her so many times.
Imogen's eyes burn as she counts the vertebrae on Constance's back. She knows there isn't really an answer to this—to any of it. And while she wants to help her, they both understand that even if Constance found the words to explain it, even if she poured every part of herself out, Imogen would never truly get it. After all, it's not possible to heal a wound one has never bared.
Deep down, Imogen knows she'll stay, but she doesn't know if either of them will ever be truly happy together. It's not fair to seek happiness in Constance. Not when suffering is all she's ever known.
They say I cannot love her
for it is a sin.
But I will walk into hell gladly
knowing I've held heaven in my hands.