A Kiss Never Changed

Prologue

It was quiet. It was always quiet of course. Nothing changed. Does anything ever? I suppose. Nothing massive usually, not for her. Never for her.
It's always the same. Wake up, stare off into - well I'm not sure where she stares off to - but she stares, watches a few shows, glances outside the window, takes care of a few things then sleeps.

The only thing really changing around her were the seasons, the weather, the way the breeze felt chilly or nipped at her beige skin, or if it felt warm and humid, making her feel like she would melt.

She always hated that kind of weather. I would know. I would always know.
You know, now that I mention it. Something did change. Something massive changed, and that change? It was me.

Her window fogged up from the cold rain outside. Not heavy enough to pound but just enough so she could hear it whispering to her outside. Her own emotions stormed as her stomach tied in knots at the thought of us dancing. We kissed in the rain and smiled as the raindrops fell from my locked hair. The thought caused her throat to barricade, making walls to cover the pain, failing of course as her warm tears fell down on the screen of her phone. Her hands grasped tightly around it.

Her soft hands. I missed those, if I try to get too close they always seem to freeze me. It's been a few months, I can't seem to grasp why. Why does she care? Why she still wants me? Was I really that important?

I feel guilty. I always feel guilty, one of the many unchanging parts of me. One of her unchanging parts of her own. Guilt.
Three months. It happened so quickly, I was there, I was smiling down at something stupid she had written me. I remember it like it was yesterday, just as she drifted off to sleep reading it today.

I wish I could help, give her a reason, or a way to know that I'm there. I'm always there, how could I not be? This happens every time we're reborn.

We age until we reach 17. We fall in love, find our future, and then I pass. Always something traumatic. Just enough of a push to either get herself to death or find meaning in the world she has. A sort of message, a meaning? A story to tell to future generations so they learn from it. That's what storybooks and fairytales are for aren't they?

Britannia doesn't seem to remember her past lives. It's a miracle and a curse. I remember her. I always remember her, no matter what.

We're born with the same names, and the same look over the generations and even end up with the same stupid birthmarks. Is the only thing different? After every life, I choose to dedicate a small part of her body to kiss, to leave my mark, to remind myself of how many lives we've lived, she's lived. A beauty mark appeared just where my lips took place so many years ago.

Britannia stirres in her sleep, blonde strands of hair falling in front of her face as she falls from the small ledge of her windowsill. Groaning, her throat hoarse from misuse. Her body was too tired from the tears, from the pain.

I reach out to touch her. To feel her, anything. Nothing works, I'm forever doomed as my hand lays against her skin feeling nothing. All feeling of touch was gone from my palms.

She whimpers and shivers from the cold as I turn my head away and pull my hand back. I can't stand watching her shiver away from my touch.

Britannia wobbles to her bed, laying on her mattress with little to no try, reaching for the closest blanket. She wraps herself in the soft tissue, falling back asleep with her mouth subtly agape.

I sit against the windowsill where she once was, watching her as I do, making sure she's safe. I pull my legs up to my chest and lay my head atop my knees. My dark brown locs dangle on either side of my neck.

I count her marks, then count them again. There are six so far. On her wrist, another against her right temple, the mark just underneath her left eye was the lifetime where she was a princess. The most beautiful in the world, no matter how cheesy. My favourite one is on her stomach, close to her ribcage, the one Brits has on her arm, she has two on that one. If I were to guess, the next one she'd have would be close to her forehead, just next to her

I jumped off the windowsill and wiped away a tear, unable to see her writhe in agony as she sleeps as she does every night.

Maybe in the next lifetime we'll stay together. Doubtful, but we'll never know until we try. That's what I hope.

My darling Britannia Fitzger, with eyes as green as emeralds, and hair as blonde as honey from a hive, I love you, my dear.

I, Harmony, promise to have and hold till death due us part - even if we haven't gone to that part - in sickness and health. I promise to love you until my heart stops beating once more.
If only I could kiss you.

That's my wish for change