Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch
A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys :)
I am going to try to update with the latest chapter of 'Goodbye Kiss' and 'I Thought I'd Come So Far' in the next few weeks. In theory… ;)
Love In The First 39 Degrees
Chapter 4
She didn't know why she was crying, but for some reason she couldn't stop. It made her feel vulnerable; exposed, even though there was nobody there to witness it. She hated being ill, it clouded her mind and left her unable to think logically, toying with her emotional state like a cat playing with a mouse.
The last time she had felt this bad, had been back in witch training college. She had been incredibly ill with a flu, just like this one, feeling so weak that even standing was a seemingly near impossible effort and all she had wanted was to pass out on the spot and to rest her aching limbs. Her head was pounding and the thought of sleep had never seemed like a more welcome notion. A notion was all it was to be though as Heckitty Broomhead hadn't been the least bit sympathetic.
In fact, she had made her practice her materialisation technique for eight solid hours.
"How do you ever expect to be a great witch if you can't even fight off a little cold, Constance?"
She didn't know at what point she had finally passed out, her body physically unable to withstand anymore, but when she had eventually came round in the cold, dark dungeon of a bedroom she was forced to reside in, her whole world was spinning. A series of hazy and grey images flickering before her eyes as her exhausted mind struggled to piece together the puzzle and process what had actually transpired. It was too much of an effort.
She winced as she moved her hand less than an inch across the floor, her every nerve-ending and muscles protesting against such a small movement. Pushing past the pain, knowing she needed help, she moved her hand an inch further, and instantly felt her fingers come into contact with a sticky substance.
Blood.
Wearily waving her hand, she summoned over the cup of tea the gym-mistress had brought her, despite knowing she really shouldn't be using her magic with the state she was in. As if confirming it for her, she instantly felt a wave of fatigue wash over her entire body, and closed her eyes gently for a few moments until it had passed: she couldn't remember the last time she had felt so tired. Taking a sip she felt the syrupiness of the honey slide down as it gently eased the rawness in her throat.
This situation was more or less her own doing.
She never had been great at taking care of her own well-being and growing up, other than the nanny, she had never really had anyone to do it for her.
The constant lack of sleep she suffered from did nothing to help matters and over the years, her insomnia had only worsened, if anything. Her insomnia was driven by her fear; it wasn't that she didn't want to sleep, there had been times, and indeed there still were, where she'd just wanted to curl up in her exhaustion and shut the world out for a few hours. It was that she was too afraid too.
If anyone were to find that out, ever, then they would find it ridiculous, and perhaps even laughable, that the formidable potions mistress was afraid. That the woman, who could reduce any of her students to a gibbering heap before her with a simple look, was too scared to shut her eyes and to relinquish control on her world for even a second.
Every single time she closed her eyes she was haunted beyond belief by nightmares of a past she had unsuccessfully tried to bury, repeatedly, but to no avail, it would just resurface; time and time again. Every time she thought she was safe, every time she felt like she was finally moving forwards, there it would be, slamming into her; reminding her that there was no escape.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever.
Basking in satisfaction as it dragged her into the depths of hell, memories circling her mind like a pack of vultures that had swooped down and were ready to tear their prey apart before devouring them.
The laugh.
There was always a laugh. A cold, calculated laugh; one devoid of emotion, devoid of feeling, a maniacal tune of triumph echoing in her ears as she tossed and turned, trying to block it out.
The discovery of Wide Awake Potion, years ago now, had been her saviour. As if being sent from above it could grant her peace of mind and salvation. Not only did it stop the torment of her nightmares, it prevented them altogether because, by taking it, she could eliminate the need for sleep. Of course, like many substances, it would only sustain her for so long.
On their own, the properties of the potion were considered relatively harmless but coupled together and they could be dangerous, addictive and potentially life threatening. For all her stances she held on rule breaking, surprisingly, she found that she didn't care: it was better than the alternative. For everybody's sake.
She didn't fear the addiction; it was too late to start worrying about it. She was long past the stage of addiction and over time, the toxins from the potion had begun to seep into her system and were now slowly poisoning her from within. She feared the day it stopped working because there was always the possibility: the more anything is used, the more the body becomes able to tolerate it, and as a result, its effectiveness lessens.
Wide Awake Potion was the only thing that was stopping her from falling off the cliff, and for so long she had been holding onto the precipice, her grip gradually starting to loosen and slip away. If it ever stopped working, she was done for.
She secretly hoped the potion would kill her long before the day ever came.
There was a gentle knock at the door and she knew that Imogen was outside again.
"Constance?"
She didn't answer; hoping the blonde would just go away and leave her alone.
It was the indignity of it all!
She had told them she didn't need a glorified babysitter, but Amelia was having none of it, telling her she wouldn't feel right leaving her on her own in case something happened. Constance knew, touching as that was, it formed only part of the reason. The other part being that she wasn't trusted to actually rest and recuperate. Though she was rather annoyed, given her workaholic tendencies, she couldn't fully blame them for appointing someone to keep watch.
Amelia?
Yes.
Davina?
…At a push.
Though it would no doubt increase the pain in her head ten-fold, especially if the chanting teacher attempted to sing the self-composed lullaby she had overheard her singing to some of the students, when they were ill.
But Imogen?
...
She couldn't help but wonder why the gym-mistress was here in the first place. If she had been Imogen and it had been a choice between going camping with her boyfriend or staying at the school and looking after a woman, she crossed swords with on a regular basis, she knew which she would choose, and it certainly was not the latter of the two.
She didn't know why her and Imogen didn't get along: they both wanted the best for the school and for the girls but she supposed that they were just too different to see eye-to-eye about anything. Different upbringings and different experiences had helped to shape them into who they were now. She would never admit it aloud, ever, but she sometimes envied the non-witch: her constantly sunny personality, her optimism, and the way she could talk to someone she didn't know and within 5 minutes it was like they had been best friends for years.
For all the great power and qualifications Constance had, she was lacking in that particular skill. She suspected that at school Imogen would have been the girl whom everyone wanted to be best friends. She would have been the one inventing all the playground games and encouraging them all to join in, whereas she had been the girl, who had sat alone with a book, pretending to read it, while trying to ignore the whispering behind her back coming from the other girls, as the tears streamed silently down her cheeks.
'Perfectly fine'
Who was she trying to kid?
Even without the blasted flu she was still so far removed from 'fine' that it wasn' t true.