Ever since the wedding, she'd settled down in Scotland. It was the farthest she could get without ever really being too far away, and she was getting closer to 'happy'. Happy was still a far way away, she knew that, but she also knew that she would get there eventually.
But it was hard to achieve happy when her mind started to drift as she washed the dishes.
Every time she set foot into the kitchen, stood at a counter and did something like cooking or at the sink and cleaned the used utensils, she'd imagine a pair of arms snaking around her waist, kissing a small path from her shoulder up to her neck, and staying there, whispering some gibberish she'd laugh at before turning into the embrace and kissing the person she so desperately wished was there.
And she just couldn't help it sometimes. And nobody could blame her. She stilled loved Sophie, loved her with every ounce of her being, but she had broken her heart and that was still something she had to get over. She couldn't go crawling back to Manchester, begging for her to take her back, when for all she knew, Sophie was already off with someone else…
She realized she'd been scrubbing methodically at the same plate for about five minutes, and set it down to drip with the others. As she did, she gave a heavy sigh, and decided that dwelling on the past wasn't going to help her.
So she did what most people did, and suddenly started to imagine what her life could have been like, had none of that ever happened…
She was twenty-six and still rather pretty, as was her wife, who was sitting down on the sofa with their very young son (5 months, maybe?). He was gurgling at his mother in that way only babies could do, and reaching out to her with his hands to grab her hair or her cheeks. She yelled playfully every time he yanked on her hair, and smiled down at him, gently prying herself free.
"No, George, don't pull mummy's hair!"
(That was something that changed a lot, the name of their child. She could never tell what they'd have agreed to name him…or her. Sex was always something that changed for the baby too.)
She liked to think they'd be good with children, and that they'd grow them up to be smart and kind and thoughtful. With two mothers, they'd grow up to be pretty accepting of the world around them, that much she knew.
She also liked to think that they'd still love each other even after all these years; that waking up next to her would still give her butterflies, that sleeping with her every night would still give her chills, that they'd be happy…
She yelled out as the knife she'd been cleaning slipped in her hand and cut across her palm, blood spurting out unrelentlessly. She growled, mumbling to herself as she moved from the sink to the bathroom, right to the medicine cabinet.
"ShitshitshitshitshitshitSHIT!"
The bandage she wrapped stopped the blood flow, at least, and she returned to the kitchen. She didn't feel the need to clean up anymore, so she plonked down on a chair and stared at the bandage, slowly blooming red in the centre.
"Don't worry, love, it's just a scratch…" she heard whispered into her ear, a hand rest on her shoulder and the other snake up her arm and intertwine her fingers with the others. "You'll heal…"
She almost leaned backwards into the invisible touch, and then remembered, and banged her good hand onto the table, tears blinding her.
"Fuck!" she barked out, once and meaningful, and dried at her eyes.
Maybe she should just listen to the voice…She'd have to heal eventually.