Again, from this story called “A Stitch in Time” there’s a speculative element, but… again…it’s not obvious here.

Sex abuse trigger warning, though.


This was the point of no return; you believed it.
You woke in the morning in the dark hour before the dawn, so worn out you could barely rise from your bed. You lay naked, bathed in sweat, a prey to the fevered dreams that had somehow caused you to rip off your clothes and bedcovers. The parting waves of the dream were still near, and you could feel it affecting you in every fibre of your being. Heather had been in your dreams, at her most beautiful, her most seductive, and spent the night with you, tantalizing you with the weakness, the glory of the flesh.

Closing your eyes now, you tried to picture once again her chestnut hair, Heather, Heather, hair light as a feather, dangling over you, fragrant with her favourite perfume, a perfume she wore just for you; you feel her touch, her naked warmth. Imagining yourself reaching up your hands, you sigh and part her tangled hair – and see your father’s face.

Your eyes fly open, a cry wrenching your throat apart, but you won’t let it out. You turn to your side on your bed and, denying the howl release, you beat at one of your forearms, the spot pulsing and livid, till the sensations inside, the feeling unclean, the all of it, passes, and you feel something close to normal once more.


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