A/N *Princess S waves* Got a night when I don't actually have anything to do for uni so figured I would finish and upload this.
Disclaimer: Well lets see: I don't own the Worst Witch. I don't own the song 'Thinking of You' that's by the Fabulous Katy Perry. I don't own the definition of love, that's Collin's Dictionary, and I don't even own the Dictionary , that would be Mum's.
Bad times eh? :P
XXX
A/N: - Edited 2013- song lyrics removed. I've worried for some time about copyright laws and have thus made the decision to remove the lyrics from any writing I have done. :)
Thinking of You
Imogen Drill lay awake and watched her boyfriend Serge as he slept peacefully despite the storm that raged outside. He looked so happy and content as he dreamed; dreamed of her, and their future life together no doubt. He loved her with all his heart and she loved him too – but she wasn't in love with him. How could she be when he wasn't her?...
Constance Hardbroom: a woman of power; of mystery and of beauty. It didn't matter what Serge did he could never match up to her, in fact he would never even come close: he could climb the highest mountain, dive to the bottom of the deepest ocean, rescue her from the tallest tower, give her the sun, the moon, stars, heaven and earth and it still wouldn't be enough. On paper Serge and Imogen seemed like the perfect couple: they both had a love of adventure and shared the same sense of humour, but the spark was missing; that chemistry you feel you when you just know, the rush of excitement you get when you see that person, the hours you spend thinking about the one you love.
Love … the dictionary defined it as an intense emotion of affection, warmth, fondness and regard towards another.
Just thinking about her gave Imogen goose bumps; made her palms sweat and made her heart beat faster than she had ever thought was possible. She had never had feelings so strong. Yes she had experienced fantasy, lust and even infatuation but never love.
It would always have to remain her fantasy though, as it could never become a reality. Constance was like the forbidden fruit, and Imogen's feelings for her had been like the serpent whispering in her ear to act; to make her move; to confess her feelings to the witch. The thoughts and emotions had twisted and turned in her mind, like the waves of a rising sea crashing against the rocks, until suddenly she could take no more - she had to tell her.
And down by the river one day she had done just that. Whether it was in a moment of madness or for a false hope that she might feel the same way, Imogen didn't know; but she knew it felt right …
To say that Constance had been stunned was an understatement, in fact it was the first ( and only) time she had ever known the older woman to be speechless, totally unable to string a sentence together.
Imogen remembered standing next to her on the bridge overlooking the river bank, transfixed on her gaze. Barely a few minutes passed but to Imogen, it felt like a lifetime; the time passed by so slowly it was almost as though it had stopped completely; as though nothing or no one existed in the world apart from the two of them and the minutes that felt like an eternity.
Knowing deep down that her love could never be reciprocated she had prepared herself beforehand to deal with the rejection, cope with the pain and the humiliation and sworn not to cry, until later on when she was alone where, she could let her tears fall and mix with the water from the river destined to lie there forever. She had never understood that old quote before: I dropped a tear into the ocean, the day they find it is the day I stop loving you. Now it all made sense.
The intensity of the situation was too much for her and she felt a single tear droplet fall from her eye, she watched in slow motion as it hit the river , she turned away from Constance and went to wipe her eye before another fell, and then another and before she could stop herself she would be in drowning in her own tears. However before she had the chance she felt something soft brush against her cheek, looking up she saw Constance wiping away the tears with her handkerchief, her fingers lingering for a few seconds. Constance's touch felt so right against her skin and before she could stop herself she had leaned in to kiss her.
As expected Constance had pulled away from the kiss, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean, I mean I did but n-", Imogen had begun rambling her thoughts weren't connected to her head, only what was in her heart.
"I have to go" Constance said finally finding her voice, she had turned to leave when Imogen had grabbed her hand her eyes desperately pleading with the older woman "we can't" she practically whispered before she disappeared.
Things had become so awkward between them after that, Constance would deliberately try to avoid situations that meant the two of them had to be in the same room: if Imogen was in the staffroom alone, then Constance wouldn't go in, choosing instead to stay in the potions laboratory. And the times when the other staff were present, the conversation between the two was so stilted, the tension could be cut with a knife. And when it had came time for the half term trips, Constance had practically pleaded with the Headmistress to go with the other group (even at the risk of letting Mildred Hubble and company loose and having to sit up a tree with Miss Bat).
Imogen had stood listening outside the staffroom door, her ear pressed against the old grainy wood, her heart aching as it grew number with Constance's words. Miss Cackle hadn't agreed though and had insisted Constance accompanied Imogen and the girls to the Campsite. She thanked her lucky stars for that.
It was at Murdoch Mc Fee's Campsite, due to a bit of a mix up, that she had met Serge Dubois; he was everything Constance wasn't, everything she never wanted, but he had such kindness emanating from him and that was what she needed just now, she just needed to be held so she could forget, but she couldn't and that was the problem.
Constance was always in her thoughts, she reminded her of an Indian Summer : she was a rarity; a one off; there was no one else in the world like her, and there never would be.
Her shell was so hard and solid on the outside, but on occasion Imogen had gotten a glimpse of the vulnerability that lay behind the penetrating icy glares and the guarded walls, and that only made her love her more. They were as different as night and day, black and white, chalk and cheese. But it didn't matter to Imogen.
She was reminded of that expression her Grandma had always told her in her early years of dating when things hadn't worked out: there is plenty more fish in the sea … Her fish was Serge but where he was the goldfish – common and easy to replace, Constance was the unique fish type (she didn't know much about fish but figured there had to be one). She was the one that got away, even though she had never really had her.
She was pulled from her thoughts as Serge stirred next to her; he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him, kissing her gently behind the neck. Turning away from him she let the tears fall silently down her cheeks. She knew she would break his heart, she knew that her feelings were wrong, but she also knew that you can't choose who you fall in love with. And that sometimes the heart just wants what it wants.
Each time Serge kissed her, it was Constance's lips she dreamed would brush hers; it was her face she longed to gaze at, her eyes she longed to be staring into and her touch she longed to feel.
As she choked back her tears, she felt a lump form in the back of her throat. She should have never said anything to Constance, she should have just kept her mouth shut, kept her feelings to herself even if it made her die inside. The heartbreak of telling Constance she loved her and for her not to say it back was too much, it was too raw. It was better to have her in her life than to not, even if it wasn't in the way she wanted.
Oh how she dreamed that Constance would just burst in and rescue her, she watched the door hopeful that if she closed her eyes and wished hard enough it may happen, but it never did and it never would. And so like every night for the past few years she had fallen asleep and dreamed … dreamed of her and Constance as a couple.
Trouble was it was always just to remain a dream; a fantasy; an infatuation, a love.