I watched my sister gaze up at the war poster pasted to the brick wall, stars gleaming in her eyes. Her fingers traced around the words that daily mocked her as she walked to town for work.
'We want you.'
But they didn't. Not in the way she wanted. Clara didn't want to work in the factory and make bullets, she wanted to be the one firing them. She believed herself capable of the glory that came with defending her country - out on the front line.
She had seen men come back, half the men they once were - holes the size of penny's dotting their flesh like chicken pox. Their minds wondered, screams tearing the night as they remembered.
Lest we forget.
But Clara wanted it. She wanted to brave the trenches, laugh at the enemy and scream, 'TAKE MY LIFE BEFORE MY COUNTRY!'
And she would do it! ... If women were allowed to fight.
Clara was told she was "weaker" then men, less "resilient" then the "strapping young lads we need". Mum would drag her by the forearm from the recruitment office as her daughter spewed her outrage.
'I HAVE SEEN MORE BLOOD THEN YOU HAVE IN YOUR WHOLE LIVES YOU CRACK-WITS!' She would scream, 'HOW DARE YOU THINK YOURSELF SUPERIOR TO ME!'
Clara was ever determined, and I admired her for it. The whole town knew her by name, she was the "feisty little lass," the "little solider girl.'
They didn't even know I existed.
I was seventeen, young and timid. A bookworm who spent my days buried in novels and poetry and plays. What could I do as a solider? Scream poems as I clumsily clutched my rifle? Swish a pen back and forth like a pendant and confuse the enemy? Unlikely.
Where Clara was all fire and thunder, I was a gentle stream. She never blamed me for being unpatriotic or a scholar, she never accused me of being the weakling she was thought to be through her gender. We were simply different she and I.
And that was fine.
The day I had gone to town with her was the doctor came.
He didn't look like a doctor, in fact he introduced himself as a lawyer who had been tipped off of my location. He had hair the colour of strong english tea, a black top hat that he often sewed on random objects he found interesting. A button here, piece of unique lace there, rare hawk feather paired with a raven's. He wanted to tutor me, to strengthen my mind the way an athlete strengthened his body. My mother was delighted. When the war was over I could very well earn an income for the family - who knew if my father would come back?
So, Mr Tomas Atkins became my teacher and friend. He understood me in a way no other had tried. He challenged my mind, he laughed at my wit. He became the father that had never shouldered a backpack in army greens and left without looking back.
He taught me French, Italian and even German. I spent the first year under his care, never noticing the gaze he gave me as I ate up his lessons, drank up his knowledge.
He payed attention to Clara as well. Naively I had thought him admiring her form, her eyes the colour of dark storm clouds, her copper brown hair braided neatly behind her back.
He was a doctor.
Us, the subjects.
Mr Atkins had sat me down and said, 'Michael, if you could help your sister reach her goals would you?'
'Of course!'
'Do you swear it?'
'I swear it!'
'Good lad!'
If I had known how fitting those last words were - perhaps I would not have been so enthusiastic when he offered me a green pill with water. Perhaps I wouldn't have encouraged Clara to trust Mr Atkins.
Perhaps she wouldn't have listened to me anyway.
We slept and we woke.
I curled in on my side as the light draped along the windows, wrapping my arms around my waist. Slim wrists peaked out from beneath my shirt, piano fingers with clipped nails raising into the air as I stretched. I smoothly brushed hair from my face as though I had done it thousands of times before, tucking a strand behind my ear. My chest was heavy, my mouth filled with the strange taste of sleep.
I stood up, frowning at my shirt as it hung off me like a big sweater on a coat-hanger, reaching past my thighs. My pants pooled around my bare feet, long hair waving down past my face as I stared down bewildered.
'MICHAEL!' A voice yelled, his voice breaking in panic as a young man sprinted into my room. His tasseled hair stood up on end, stormy grey eyes wild with panic.
'Yes?' I asked, cocking my head to the side, 'do I know you?'
'For bloody sake Mike!' He yelled, 'you're in my body!'
I blinked slowly, curling a strand of hair around my finger absentmindedly. 'Clara?' I asked carefully, watching his head - my head - nod.
'It worked!' The doctor cried, leaning against the door frame.
Clara turned stark white, and I felt emotion build up behind my eyes. Tears dripped down my cheeks, hugging myself for comfort. I was angry and hurt and sad, all at once, forcing me to sniff and look away. I realized it wasn't my body or my normal reactions, and let my arms hang loosely by my sides.
'What worked?' Clara asked slowly, 'how is this possible?'
'This has no scientific bases!' I added, walking over to stand beside Clara.
Mr Atkins smiled and held up a hand, pulling a poster from his pocket. Slowly he unraveled it, revealing Uncle Sam in his star decked top hat, finger pointing expectantly straight at Clara.
Clara stared at it for a few moments more, reaching for it the way a starving child reached for bread. She walked to my wardrobe and pulled out a pair of trousers, pressing a cap onto her head.
'Clara...'
'No,' she said, changing her clothes, 'that would be your name.' She grabbed my hand, pulling me through the doorway past the doctor.
'There are some things I have to teach you.'
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