she doesn't search for her in the dream. she doesn't search for anyone in the dream. those who happen upon her are far and few between and only two have managed to get close. the loneliness gnaws at her in ways it hasn't before.

it was this realization that had done her in: she'd come to rely on others, just as she'd always wanted to, and then she was faced with the impossibility that after all her work, she was simply right back where she started. touch. words. companionable silence. any of it seemed unbearable. all of it seemed so wasteful. 

she has failed and the reminder of her failure is with her every time she wakes up and that fog drains away, every time she remembers that she is a prisoner in her own body. how many times must she endure this same cruelty?

awake, she is happy, but she is wan. her cellmate fusses over her because she is unresponsive; she struggles to endure the hardship when she knows her perfect future is just out of arms reach. work hard enough and they will prevail. the part of her that is smothered, the part of her that screams into that voidless dream, is still there. 

it festers. it makes her callous. wordless. hopeless. 

look at what's promised to you. look what will be yours. remember, remember, remember.

she raises her head, arms still folded around her tucked knees, and says, "you're my cellmate, aren't you?"

Aurelie Lefevre

☉

red tresses, almost black now with all the dirt and grime, curl over her cellmate's shoulder. she remembers flickers of it when it was brighter, all the way to the weathered, limpid strands now. how long have they been here? how much longer must they wait until she can see king again?

her happy ending is coming. she swears she can taste it (and it tastes sweet, like rice and sugar and soft lavender dye). 

"we'll see our vision come to fruition soon," she promises. aurelie couldn't give her that. she can only gently guide her to the end. she does not know why it's so hard to remember the things she must do. her hands sometimes stop their working. her foot does not recall how to take its next step.

her eyes - she hadn't realized she'd closed them - crack back open and a sliver of fright snakes over gold. 

"to sleep? no, no, i don't like to sleep." it's a routine protest, though in the past it's been wordless. an internal scratching at the walls, buzzing in her brain, a clangorous chorus of screeching to stave off the inevitable. she must not remember. 

remembering hurts. 

her body betrays her, as it always does. it takes aurelie's hand and it follows her to the bed and when they curl together in a lover's embrace, no amount of internal wailing can stop her heavy lids from falling. 

dreams exist outside of time. it's never enough/always too much when she's here. she's here in her body and she is hugging herself as though she can cling to it forever. where it can be hers and hers alone and no one can take her away again because gods fuck she can't take it anymore she can't take any of this anymore please the lines are already so blurry and anymore and she might break she might break she might 

break.

they're not real, the slashed marks across her arms, but the dream still makes her bleed. it gives her that satisfaction, at least. she is still holding herself, tucked in a bed of overgrown grass, the rest of the arboretum empty. except then, quite suddenly, and like it had happened with elisabeth and penny, it's not.

her cellmate is here too. 

she does not lift her head. she wraps herself tighter and she says, "please, i can't help you here. you already do too much out there for me."

Aurelie Lefevre

☉