Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.
A/N: Thanks for the reviews/follows, guys. I thought this was due an update (Seriously, how are we on August already?!) so here you go.
Thanks to typicalRAinbow for giving me some feedback. - More on the next chapter but thanks all the same dear.
:)
Love In The First 39 Degrees
Chapter 7
"CONSTANCE!?"
She all but screamed her name as she grabbed frantically for her wrist, in desperate search of a pulse, her panicked mind visualising having to explain to Amelia that the deputy headmistress of the school had died under her neglectful watch. Feeling the steady – albeit slower than normal – beat of a pulse, she let out the overwhelming sigh of relief she did not even realise she had been holding. The witch had simply fainted.
A large part of Imogen could not help but feel glad. It at least meant that Constance had escaped from the clutches of whatever terrifying ordeal she had been experiencing in her obviously-not-so-peaceful-slumber. Selfishly, she could not help feeling slightly relieved for her own benefit as well as that of Constance's well-being. The seriousness of the situation had been rising - rapidly- and she had quickly found herself out of her depth. If Constance hadn't of fainted when she had, there was no telling what could have happened next...
She shuddered even thinking about it.
Gently, she brushed a loose strand of hair from the brunette's face and adjusted the bedcovers that had become a tangled mess in the wake of her writhing. It wasn't much but she really didn't know what else to do; she wanted to help, but she did not know how. The whole situation was so absurd that it was almost laughable, but Imogen knew that it was no laughing matter, and it was certainly not something she was going to forget in a hurry.
For the most part, she was still in utter shock at what she had just witnessed. She had never ever expected to see such a sight - especially not from Constance Hardbroom.
It was as if she was a completely different person. Gone was the strict, imposing and confident witch with whom she crossed swords with nearly every other day and in her place was a terrified and vulnerable little girl.
"Ow! You're hurting me, Miss."
"It wasn't me, Mistress B- Brroomh-head. I didn- I swear. I had nothin-g-g to do with it."
"No! Please, p-p-pleassee, don't leave m-me in-n-n here."
Constance's whispers were getting louder by the minute, and though Imogen couldn't make full sense of what she was saying, her concern was starting to rise. The witch's fists uncurled themselves as she began to claw at the empty air, as if fighting off an invisible force. The tears were now spilling down her cheeks with an uncontrollable force, while a string of incoherent mumbles and hysterical screams fell from her lips, her throat becoming more and more hoarse by the second.
"DON'T LEAVE ME!"
"HELP ME!
...PLEASE!"
"Help me, please."
"Somebody."
"…anybody."
" …Mummy."
Imogen squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to block out the screams, visions and voices that were reverberating around her head as the scene from earlier found its way to the forefront of her mind, replaying again and again and gaining in vividty and clarity each time. She dug her palms into her head, desperately trying to drown it out and shift her focus onto something else; anything else. The weather, her PE lesson plans, her boyf-
Wait a minute...Broomhead?
Broomhead.
That was what Constance had called out in the midst of it all.
She didn't know exactly what had gone down between the former tutor and pupil all those years ago but she knew that even the mere mention of Heckitty Broomhead's name shook the very foundations of the strongest woman she knew to the core. Causing the façade and pretence Constance exercised to slip, it revealed a true glimpse at what lay underneath the carefully constructed mask of indifference.
Despite her best efforts, Imogen found herself unable to focus on anything else. A wave of nausea rose in her throat as she realised - with a sickening feeling - that whatever Constance had been dreaming about, had likely been less of a nightmare and more of a memory. Suppressing a shiver at the thought of a young Constance at the mercy of Heckitty Broomhead, she turned her attention back to the present Constance.
She looked so peaceful; so serene.
Looking at her now it was hard to believe such an out of control terror-driven outburst had ever taken place.
Looking down, Imogen realised that she was still holding onto Constance's wrist. Embarrassment washed over her but for some reason she could not bring herself to let go. It was as if she sensed the witch needed some comfort.
At that moment, the light seemed to change, shedding light on both the room and on her colleagues largely unknown past.
Imogen gasped, finally understanding the reason behind the long dresses that covered her entire frame.
Littered on Constance's delicate wrist - and subsequently working their way up her arm -was a spider web of scarring, seared deep into her flesh: the tainted -though faded- redness standing out against her porcelain skin. Dotted in between the scars were the odd few burn marks, from what Imogen recognised to be from a cigarette.
For a moment, she simply sat there, so many emotions filling her head: pity, anger, admiration.
Ever so slowly and ever so gently, almost as if she was scared of hurting her, she shakily traced the pattern of scars with her finger, barely able to believe that they were real. Bringing the witch's wrist to her mouth, she placed a soft kiss on one of the burn marks, as if it would ease the pain, while her mind went into overdrive as she wondered just what the woman before her had been through.
She was both tragically beautiful and beautifully tragic.
Dropping her wrist, Imogen took her hand instead and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her own eyes were now drifting shut and as they closed, she felt the briefest of movements as Constance returned the gesture.
It had been so brief; in fact, Imogen wondered whether she had simply imagined it.
