"I don't date, how would I explain myself without dying of embarrassment? Bonus, I might still die." - Pansy, age 24, to her bodyguard Mattie over two scones, a jar of jam, and a bucket of glass shards.
Pansy rolled over, sweaty and uncomfortably warm, a pillow between her legs. Kind of feeling mad. The sunlight filtered in through the stained glass window above her bed, making the cream of her sheets dance with a river of greens.
Pretty, as always, but not pretty enough to keep her from kicking those sheets off with a frustrated grunt. What the hell was that? Another sex dream?
What was she? A horny 16 year old again? It was fading with every passing second, but Pansy couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity. Old familiarity, as if she'd done the same exact thing before. But that was impossible.
She'd never done… anything of the sort… with anyone before.
It's been 50 years, she thought to herself, and that made even less sense than the heady, intimate dreams keeping her up all night and forcing her to change her sheets daily. Chalking it up to lack of any real sleep, the night spent tossing and turning, she rolled out of bed and stumbled haphazardly to her bathroom.
The anger not fading as the dream did, for it wasn't the first time that week she had such a dream. In fact, nearly every night since she made saffron sauce for Gerry she dreamt of a man she called husband.
Nearly three weeks ago!
Husband, who whispered words both sweet and dirty into her ear, who touched with confident, calloused hands that knew her far better than anyone did. But she could never catch a glimpse of his face, despite their intimacy, despite their closeness. She couldn't see the face of the man who made her feel things she knew she had no business feeling.
No precedence for feeling.
And that, that made her downright pissed off. She had the right to experience such things for the first time. On her own terms. Instead, her overactive imagination and unconscious mind had her body tingling as if she spent the night in the arms of a perfect lover, one made especially for her and only her.
Her thighs felt… but it was impossible, surely. She curiously checked the skin on her inner thighs, finding it rubbed raw and rough. Anger turned to fear in a flash, her head spinning at the implications.
Frantically, she rechecked the skin, running her fingers over the skin and finding it smooth and unblemished. She stepped her opposite foot up onto the edge of her bathroom counter, checking the mirror. Milky white skin unmarked by anything except her red colored birthmark she had for as long as she could remember.
The fear faded. Her mind was messing with her big time.
Pansy decided right then she would take the morning off and brew up some Dreamless Sleep Potions. She hadn't brewed in sometime and the prospect of doing something new, something proactive, finally eased the anger from her face.
She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror as she made her decision, looking as tired as she felt, paler than she should be, her dark hair hanging limp by her shoulders. A little voice in her head whispered, Honey, you look deader than I do.
"I'm going nuts," she shook her head as if it would rid her mind of the strange thought. And admitted the real problem.
Stir crazy. How long had it been since she left her home? Weeks.
No.
Months. A couple of them at the very least.
She would have to leave the house to get the necessary potion ingredients, and Pansy wasn't sure she could.