It's a strange thing to think yourself dreaming. It's an unusual thing to think you should know what it is that you dream. It's a cruel, heartless thing to not recognise the thoughts and the memories that linger and float just out of reach. And the feelings? The moments of laughter, the moments of calm and of frantic energy? All those things that you see far off in the distance seem to fade, seem to bend just that little bit too much, just enough to recede back into the haze that settles itself around you.
And It's too warm. And It's too bright. Your mind burns and writhes quietly. And as you reach out, as you try and take hold of what lingers before your gaze, you think it cold, you think a chill clenches softly and firmly around you.
You think your finger twitches listlessly.
You think it doesn't move.
You think your arm moves, reaches out, reaches forward in a desperate plea.
You think it moves for just a slight beat of time.
The swallow that comes next burns roughly and dry, and it scrapes down your throat.
The cough that whispers past your lips comes painful and ragged, a soft taunt from the yesterdays you can't quite recall.
You think you blink next, but perhaps your eyelids only twitch gently, if only because you still can't see. And so you try to open your eyes, try to see what you think has settled around you.
And it's strange. Your vision swims oddly as your eyes open just a fraction, the light too blinding, too searing in the empty of the room you find yourself in. And it's quiet, the gentle darkness that creeps in from what you think must be a window bathing the room in a soft glow. Your eyes wander across the ceiling above you and you think it plain. You think it simple and familiar. Your eyes travel carefully down to the far wall, and you see the plain white that stands before you and you think you've seen walls like this before, seen rooms like this before and so you try and remember. You try and grasp what must linger within your mind. But the thoughts and the memories and the moments dance just a step too far for your tired limbs to reach.
You see the careful arrangement of flowers that sits on a desk on the far wall and you think them kind and gentle, the soft reds and the tender yellows a soothing palette to your sore eyes.
And you think you feel a gentle weight in your hand. It's strange and familiar and constant. And so you let your gaze drift carefully to your side, and you squint for a moment as the light burns softly into your eyes for just a quiet ticking of time. You think what you see is strange. It's unfamiliar. It's comfortable.
You think she looks tired, the dark that rests under her eyes a lingering blemish across her face. Her hair falls carefully and neat across her shoulder and you let your eyes take in the the soft shirt that clings loosely around her shoulders. And as her chest rises slowly, as her breaths come even and tired you notice the hand that lies in your own, you notice the cool bite of metal that rests against your hand and you see the careful bands as they shine softly in the moonlight, quiet companions on her finger.
It's strange. It's confusing and perhaps you should wake her, let her know that she sleeps, a quiet vigil next to a stranger, her company wasted on a broken, forgetful thing. You think her older than yourself too from the way a careful crease lies in the corner of her eyes, the way a wrinkle graces just a careful touch across the corner of her mouth. But you think her tired and in need of rest so you let her be, you let the careful hold she has on your hand remain. If only because you think it strange that your limbs feel tired and weak.
And it's strange you think, as your eyes wander from where her hand lies in yours, that you find yourself on a bed, a tag wrapped around your wrist and you think you've seen so many before in your childhood. But what steals your attention, what scares you the most? What makes your breath hitch painfully in your chest and your lungs burn? Its the hand and the arm that you think must be yours. They're frail. And they're thin, skin and bone, and as you twitch your finger, as your brain screams out that it can't be yours you see the finger move, you see it lift cruelly.
And so you stare. Your eyes water and burn and scream as you continue to watch your finger move, and you can't help but think it deathly and wilted. And as you continue to move it, as you continue to stare you feel her move besides you, you see her head nod softly and you feel her hand grip yours just a bit tighter. And it hurts, just the smallest touch burns and feels heavy to you and so you try and move away, try and free your hand from hers.
And it's strange when she grips yours in turn. It's strange when her thumb rubs softly over your fingers. It's strange when her eyes open tiredly, when her gaze looks to yours gently. It's strange when she smiles, her lips twitching up for a moment. It's strange when you hear the whispered breath that escapes her mouth.
Clarke.
You think you must look at her in a stupor. You are sure it must be foreign and unfocused. And it must only exist for a still second. But you think you see the confusion set in, her eyes a far away dream. You think you see them narrow for a fraction. You know you see them widen, you think you see the thoughts that race across her face. Shock and disbelief. Surprise and relief.
Her mouth opens once, yet words don't escape, just a choked strangled noise that lives somewhere in the back of her throat. Her eyes scan frantic and desperate across your face and she sits up fully in her seat.
"Clarke?" it's broken and quiet when the sound reaches your ears.
You look around the room, your eyes searching for a familiar face, for your mother, your father.
"Clarke?" It comes out a hiss, a broken plea of denial and prayer.
Your eyes still search the room that you find yourself in.
But you think yourself alone.
"It's me, Clarke," you feel her tug desperately at your hand, you feel her lean closer to you, "I'm here," she leans over you, her face hovering above your vision. But you think you flinch away, you think your body flexes and turns and writhes where it lies.
"It's me," she whispers and you think you hear it broken. You think you hear the heartbreak and the shattering of a life and a severing of a memory.
"Who are you?"
You see the pain, you see the raging beast that lives in her eyes and you see the tears that fall unhindered and broken. And you think you shy away from her as they fall, as they land somewhere between you both and you think yourself lost when a sob wrecks through her chest.
You think it strange when she falls to her knees besides the bed, her shoulders shaking brutally.
You think it confusing when she clutches your hand tightly in hers and you think it unnerving as she shakes her head back and forth, her hair falling messily across her face.
You think it frightening when her lip quivers, when her chin trembled and her breath comes in painful gasps.
You think it anguished and miserable when she chokes out a broken, wretched sound.
And you think yourself alone when you hear the words that die somewhere between you both.
It's your Lexa,
Don't you remember me?
You aren't sure if it's the broken wails of the woman that draw the nurses frantically to your room, or if it's the machinery you only just notice that beeps steadily by your side, but you think it a relief when the door opens, when nurses rush in and quiet words are exchanged with the woman as she continues to call your name out to you as they push her from the room.
And you think it unnerves you when she is pushed out the door, her hand outstretched to you, her fingers clinging at the air that hangs between you both.
It's a strange thing to lie in a hospital bed for hours, nurses moving in and out, the woman still lingering just outside. It's a strange thing to not recognise the hands that lie before you, the muscle withered and weak. And you think it a strange thing when your mother walks into the room, when her eyes meet your and her face breaks. You think it strange and terrifying when she collapses in your arms and her chest heaves and her voice shatters in your ear, your name a repeated prayer that scolds your mind.
You think she must clutch you painfully to her for long moments before she eventually pulls away, her hands still digging painfully into your arms. And she's old, you think. Older than you've seen. Older than you remember. And as she looks into your eyes, as she scans your face you see the tears that well, you see the pain that lives and you feel the wracking of your own chest as you both cry into each other.
As your tears subside, as your thoughts slowly coalesce and sort, you find your voice, despite the scattered memories that flash through your mind, "Where am I?" and you lean into her touch as her hand brushes your cheek.
"You were in an accident, Clarke," and you think that you realised that much, and you see her lips tremble again, her tears beginning to fall once more.
You think of your arms, you think of how weak your grasp feels and the wilted fingers that cling to her, "I was in a coma, wasn't I?" and her head nods painfully, anguish bruising across her face, "How long?"
You think yourself afraid of the answer. You think yourself terrified of how long you've been asleep.
"Almost fourteen months," and it's whispered and broken. And it hurts. The words sink in and pull painfully at the corners of your mind, and as you try and collect the broken pieces, as you try and sort through the fragments you think they slip and fall from your grasp.
"Where's dad?" Your eyes look to the door then, halfway expecting him to rush through it, breathless from his rush to get to you. But your eyes only find the moon that still hangs high in the sky, "why didn't he come with you?" and you see her eyes close, you see her shoulders shake and her chest heave. And perhaps the silence that lingers, the painful hold she has on your hand scares you more than the answer that follows. If only because you could live in ignorance for a short, painful beating of your heart.
"He's not here anymore, Clarke."
You think yourself deconstruct and crumble when she holds you to her, you think yourself broken and ruined when she rocks you close to her chest and you think yourself helpless as your heart breaks. But perhaps you're lucky, if only because you don't notice the tears that fall from her aren't for the husband she lost years ago. If you weren't so decrepid in this moment then perhaps you'd hear the denial she sobs quietly out into the space that lingers upon your shoulders.
But maybe you aren't so lucky.
Doctors visit you soon, and as they enter and leave your room you still see the woman who slept by your side. You still see her standing just outside the door, her eyes never leaving yours when she glimpses you. And you think you see her eyes dart to Abby every so often, if only for a short moment, if only to ask a question.
The doctors ask you questions too, they ask you about the things you did, the things you remember doing and the events that you recall happening that were important. And they write down what you say, what you think and what you recall. And when you ask why they need to know, why they ask the questions they smiles softly at you, a quiet Just a routine check whispered back.
But you think they must be lying. If only because you feel your mother's hand grip yours ever so tightly with each response.
"Who's the woman outside?" your eyes linger on the door as it closes, and you think you see her fingers reach out to you briefly before the door steals her from your gaze. And so you pull your eyes away from where the door closes on her and you see the quiet breath that Abby holds. You think you can even see the stiffening in her shoulders for just a moment.
"She's family, Clarke," and you think it confusing, you think it strange when Abby wipes a tear from her eyes, when she turns her face from you for a moment's pause. And maybe it hurts, maybe it stings a little when Abby sniffles softly, when she closes her eyes, when she refuses to meet your gaze. "She's family," she finishes quietly again, her hand moving to take yours once more.
And the words hang heavy and dull in the space between you both.
And maybe you think you should feel something.
Shouldn't you?
"She's family?" You look at Abby, let your eyes rake over her face, the way it twists painfully, the way her eyes avert and the way she turns from you barely.
Eventually Abby looks to you, and you think you see the uncertainty that lies in her eyes. You think you feel the careful thoughts she must be constructing, must be building.
"You're together," and you think you look at her awkwardly, dumbly, full of confusion.
"Together?"
"Together," she repeats softly.
And maybe, just for a brief moment, you think a thought that would be funny, would be pathetic and worthy of a joke, if only it wasn't now, in this moment.
I like women?
But as the thought slowly winds its way through your mind, you think it leaves behind a trace of another thought. Of a realisation and a truth.
You don't remember.
You don't remember her.
"I—" and the words die in your mouth, they foul your breath and twist cruelly in your throat, "I don't remember…" and you think it comes out a barely there whisper, a soft truth that shatters your mind.
And perhaps you realise what it means, what that strange feeling is that wriggles somewhere in the corners of your mind when Abby holds your hand tighter, when she brings her chair closer to where you lie in the bed.
"You're almost 24, Clarke," and you know your eyes must be wide and fearful, must be shocked and pathetic and you think you feel the wetness pool and fall painfully down your cheek.
"No," you jerk your head painfully, if only in an attempt to shake the words from where they bury into your mind.
"No," you repeat, your eyes closing tightly.
"No," and you know you're crying when your chest burns painfully, when you hear the wretched sobs that leave your lips.
No
The water burns cold and unfamiliar across your face as you look into the stream. The beat of it a familiar, lost thing that doesn't quite warm you enough, and through the water that falls, your hand grips the rail, a constant companion that you find you need.
It's a cruel thing to step out of the shower then, to wrap yourself in a towel and to just look at yourself in the mirror. You don't think you recognise the woman who looks back. She's older, her face lacking the youthful roundness of childhood, careful lines etch themselves in the corner of her eyes and you see the faint scar that runs through her eyebrow. And perhaps you still deny it, still whisper that it's from being in a coma. That not having lived is the reason she is aged, is unrecognisable. You don't recognise her.
But you think it's a lie.
You see her eyes flicker up to yours quickly. You see the grimace and the emptiness that sits in the blue that looks back. And you turn your head, lift your chin for a moment and you let your eyes travel over the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck and you think she must look frail. Must look alien and lifeless. And maybe you feel the same.
You think you do.
Isn't she you?
Your limbs shake quietly as you dress, thoughts of the last week running through your mind. You'd seen Abby every day, had spent almost every waking moment with her by your side. You'd seen the woman — Lexa, occasionally, she'd looked broken, longing, her fingers always twitching out to you, if only to reach out and grasp what she longs for. And you'd given her awkward smiles, awkward bobs of your head, of recognition. But not the kind you think she longs for. Not the kind she needs. Not the kind you can remember.
You weren't to be overstressed, weren't even really supposed to be moving by yourself, but you had insisted, had demanded that you weren't to be coddled. And so the doctors had agreed to allow visitors. And as you pull your hair back, twisting it quickly, awkwardly and fumbling, your mind races with questions, with confusion and forgotten anguish.
You rest for a long moment by the bathroom door. Your head resting against the cool of the surface, your hand against the flat of the door, fingers splayed out, if only to steady the beating of your heart.
But you don't think it could work. You don't think it could ever work.
And so you turn the handle quietly, take a calming breath, and then you're moving painfully forward, your legs shaky. And you gasp quietly as you feel strong hands take you softly. You gasp an awkward breath as you feel a steady presence take your weight, support your body and help you to the bed.
"Thank you," you say once you find yourself lying in the bed, your eyes focused somewhere into your lap.
"You're welcome," you feel her hand linger carefully against yours, her fingers applying the barest of pressures.
You turn your gaze upwards then, let your eyes smooth over her face for a careful moment. You think she still looks tired. Her eyes red from lack of sleep and emotional strain that you pretend not to hear when the moon hangs high. Her eyes hold yours once they meet, and you see them swim back and forth between your own. And you try. You try to remember. You try to hold onto anything that could provide a guiding beacon, a warming light and a comforting presence. But what lingers and bends within your mind is a cruel nothingness that you think unfair. Unkind. Unknown.
You spend the next month in the hospital, doctors a frequent presence that steadies your mind. It wasn't until the second week that you discovered that your memories stop at 18, just before you graduate. And it's a shock, it's a broken curse and a tearful isolation when you realise you've lost six years. Six years of life, six years of living, six years of friends and six years of love.
Lexa sees you every day after work, she stops by, sometimes for hours, sometimes for only minutes, all that she can spare and you think you feel guilty, you think you feel ashamed that she chases after memories you no longer share with her. And when she holds your hand carefully in hers as you move from room to room you ignore the cool bite of the metal rings that grace her finger, you ignore the matching pair and you refuse to think of them, to face what you are sure they must mean.
Maybe you're a coward.
It must be two months by the time you're allowed home. Your old home. Not the one you realise you share with Lexa. If only because you can't remember where it is that you live. Where it is that your life exists. And it's pathetic when you think you'll cry later, when you're alone in your old room, at the realisation that you don't remember how to do taxes. How to walk into a bar without worrying about ID or how to even be an adult. You think yourself trapped. You think yourself in a cruel, mocking body, too old for your young thoughts and too broken and tired for your youthful mind.
And so when Abby guides you into your room, when Lexa whispers a pained see you soon, when your head falls against the pillow you think you shatter and break and deconstruct as the tears flow easily, as the pain rears willingly and as the memories remain forgotten.
You sit at the table, Abby in front of you, Lexa to your side, and it's quiet. It's awkward, as you think it must always be now. You hear the soft scraping of the cutlery, the careful thud of glasses being raised and placed down. And you're thankful when Abby breaks the silence, her eyes looking to you.
"Raven's coming tomorrow," and you smile softly, painfully. You'd spoken to her on the phone, she'd laughed and cried and screamed when she had heard your voice, had seen your face in the image you had sent her. And you had wept painfully when she told you of her leg, of how it had been crushed and broken in the accident, and how she wears a prosthetic. But you think you also break at how old she looks, how different, how much life she has lived without you. And maybe you're selfish, jealous of what she has had.
"That's good," you reply, your eyes darting carefully to Lexa, "do… Do you and raven know each other?" it comes awkwardly, stupidly, and you see Lexa grimace for a moment, you see her knuckles whiten around the knife she holds and you think you feel a stab of something that builds in your stomach at her reaction.
"Yeah," she looks to Abby quickly, pleadingly, painfully.
"You three shared an apartment," you think you're grateful for Abby's interruption. If only because you still don't feel at peace with what Lexa must be to you.
"Oh," perhaps you could have worded a response better than that. Or perhaps not.
Who knows?
You don't.
You think you hate this feeling. This raging uncertainty that seems to scream within you. You think you hate the way eyes dart to and from you, that avert quickly, and cruelly, never holding on long enough for you to reach out.
"Can I finish this in my room?" your hand takes hold of the plate before you, your eyes ignoring Lexa's. And Abby frowns for a moment,
"Yeah, Clarke. You don't have to ask," you see her smile softly then, "You're an adult." And you think she means well, maybe it's only a natural reaction, if only because you are an adult. But you don't remember and so you think you feel an anger that rises. An anger and a frustration and a desperation that claws into your mind. You hate it.
And so you slam your palm down, an anger seethes and rushes through your mind.
"I'm not!" you see their shocked expressions, you see Lexa flinch and Abby's eyes soften in understanding.
"I'm not!" you shout it louder.
"Baby—" you cut Abby off with a glare and a finger pointed her way,
"No!" your hand jerks back to your head, the pointed finger pressing against your temple
"In here?" your breaths come pained and frantic, your emotions freezing in your mind, "I'm fucking eighteen! I don't remember!"
And as you look down at them you realise you stand, you realise you lean angrily over the table. And you realise the anger has burned away, her fled and left you broken as quickly as it came.
"I—" you're left with your mouth opening once, twice, "I'm sorry," and you think it comes out rushed, comes out stupid and grotesque, "I'm so sorry," you whisper it again, and you think yourself incapable of facing their pity, their longing and their love, and so you flee.
You think you're a coward.
You hold your knees to your chest, your body rocking quietly back and forth, your mind a forgetful worry and you curse the thoughts that escape and drift too far out. You hear the quiet knock then, the careful shuffling of feet. And so you call out a quiet come in. You think you know who it will be, and so you don't look up when you feel her sit besides you, when you feel her hand reach out awkward and tentative.
"Can I touch you?" you let your eyes peer at her carefully then, her hand outstretched between you both, and maybe it'd be nice, it'd be different to feel a forgotten touch and so you nod your head slowly. You feel her hand rest gently against your shoulder, you feel her fingers soothe over the tightness of your muscle.
And you don't remember.
You think you must sit like this, in the centre of your room for hours, the moon tracing a quiet trail through the night sky, Lexa a quiet presence by your side. You think that Lexa must long for what had existed by her side. You know she must miss the memory of a Clarke long gone, older, wiser and of a life lived and experienced. But you don't think you're her anymore. You can't even remember meeting Lexa. You can't even remember your first date. You can't remember the first time that you shared a bed.
You don't remember her. You don't remember the loving embrace that she must have held you with. You don't remember the timber of her laugh or the creases in her eyes when she smiles.
You don't even remember yourself.
"I need time," you whisper it to her, and you are sure she hears it despite the quiet that hangs heavy around you both, "I need time." You repeat it, and you are sure you hear the quiet breath that chokes in her throat, the quiet sniffle that escapes her and the careful sob that leaves her lips.
"I'll wait for you," and it's a pained, quiet truth that bleed into the space between you both. But you don't think you deserve it. Don't deserve what she would endure for you. You think you aren't her Clarke anymore. And so you turn to her, your eyes holding her own for a painful moment.
And in this moment?
You're a coward.
You're afraid.
You're lost.
"Don't."
You see the tears that well in her eyes
"You shouldn't."
You see her head that shakes back and forth, you feel her fingers grip your shoulder tightly, and you hear the ruin of her breaking heart.
"I don't remember anything."
