Likewise, it's fucked up that if Abby would only give herself time to process everything she'd fall to pieces. The indent of teeth in her arm is a sick reminder, but she doesn't let it progress beyond the surface-level pain. If she acknowledges that hurt she has to think about what put it there, she has to go back to the aquarium. The cold, blood-slick floors. Abby can't think about that without wanting to throw up and so she doesn't. She fills up her days with new places and strange people, and ignores everything else, pushes it back down deep.
That doesn't make it lock up and leave. It's in her dreams again and twisting them into nightmares: Lev crumpled up on the hospital floor with his skull split open, a new feature. She wakes up jaggedly, because once she's awake she has to move. Lying still would be a luxury, if she could achieve it.
Doesn't matter. Abby's handling it. Walking herself out helps her sleep later, keeps her mind fed and distracted even while her jaw clicks, popping when she yawns, teeth aching away in her mouth. Kirkwall is interesting, genuinely. She people watches and she uses what little coin she has to buy foods she's never tasted before. She spars with other people in the Forces division, teasing out her strength, threading it through a new combat style, and it helps her feel like she's doing something.
Maybe it's slipping into old habits, how she leans up on a faction and follows orders, but she's only doing what she can. It's better than the alternative, which is something she can't even name.
Lowtown is crowded this time of day, they've opened up the markets. Abby is out with a slice of apple bread for company and exploring half-heartedly. She's being fitted for proper armor later in the afternoon, something new and interesting to pad out her day, and she isn't paying attention to where she's going, just following the surge of the crowd. Rounding a corner, she almost knocks somebody over with a rough check of her shoulder.
Abby snakes a hand out to grip an arm, keep them from going over backward.
"Sorry–" she huffs (as if she meant for it to happen), glancing down– and it's the world that falls, right out from underneath of her feet.
Everything freezes over. This includes the hand seemingly welded to her skinny arm, fingers wrenching tight into skin: ironic because what Abby wants to do most is throw her down on the ground and run. Her chest heaves like she's already started, fear and wild, disbelieving anger a molotov churning in her gut, sloshing around, waiting for a spark.
Abby didn't leave her for dead, only broken, and choking around blood licking up the back of her throat. So why does this feel like a haunting?
The still-healing scar on her cheek pulls tight when she opens her mouth to speak.
no subject
That doesn't make it lock up and leave. It's in her dreams again and twisting them into nightmares: Lev crumpled up on the hospital floor with his skull split open, a new feature. She wakes up jaggedly, because once she's awake she has to move. Lying still would be a luxury, if she could achieve it.
Doesn't matter. Abby's handling it. Walking herself out helps her sleep later, keeps her mind fed and distracted even while her jaw clicks, popping when she yawns, teeth aching away in her mouth. Kirkwall is interesting, genuinely. She people watches and she uses what little coin she has to buy foods she's never tasted before. She spars with other people in the Forces division, teasing out her strength, threading it through a new combat style, and it helps her feel like she's doing something.
Maybe it's slipping into old habits, how she leans up on a faction and follows orders, but she's only doing what she can. It's better than the alternative, which is something she can't even name.
Lowtown is crowded this time of day, they've opened up the markets. Abby is out with a slice of apple bread for company and exploring half-heartedly. She's being fitted for proper armor later in the afternoon, something new and interesting to pad out her day, and she isn't paying attention to where she's going, just following the surge of the crowd. Rounding a corner, she almost knocks somebody over with a rough check of her shoulder.
Abby snakes a hand out to grip an arm, keep them from going over backward.
"Sorry–" she huffs (as if she meant for it to happen), glancing down– and it's the world that falls, right out from underneath of her feet.
Everything freezes over. This includes the hand seemingly welded to her skinny arm, fingers wrenching tight into skin: ironic because what Abby wants to do most is throw her down on the ground and run. Her chest heaves like she's already started, fear and wild, disbelieving anger a molotov churning in her gut, sloshing around, waiting for a spark.
Abby didn't leave her for dead, only broken, and choking around blood licking up the back of her throat. So why does this feel like a haunting?
The still-healing scar on her cheek pulls tight when she opens her mouth to speak.
"It's you."