Abigail sat upright, her back pressed stiffly against the headboard, gaze fixed on the opposing wall; eyes usually bright and blue were now devoid of any emotion or implication anyone was home. She looked empty; she felt empty. Her mind willed her to grasp the pieces of her nightmare and construct them back together but Abigail didn’t want to relapse her terrors.
‘There was plenty wrong with your father, Abigail, but there’s n o t h i n g wrong with you.’
‘Sounds like something a liar would say.’
Seconds lingered like hours, the clock’s ticking replacing the otherwise silence of the dawn. After a few seconds she slid from her crumpled sheets and the warmth they provided, her feet pressed against the chilling hospital floor. Slowly, she moved to the window where little bars of light filtered through, casting squares on the floor which chased away the darkness. Abigail pushed back the heavy curtain, letting the sun’s light kiss her face, her eyes wandered the gardens, half expecting to see someone, but they were empty and still.
‘More secrets for us.’
Abigail flinched when her door opened and she turned, her hands still clinging loosely to the curtain. She expected a nurse, or perhaps someone who heard her bumping into things in her post-dream state. The last person she expected was standing right before her… and yet she didn’t look at all surprised.
‘I remember you.’
“W-Will? What are you doing here?” she quired in her hazed state; her eyelids blinked and head shook, as if trying to determine if this is real or just another nightmare. Abigail’s gaze moved to his feet, and then to the rest of him. He’s in his boxers, she thought, her eyes darting to the left wall out of respect; a light flush of pink tinted her cheeks but thankfully her face was still shaded by the darkness.
‘You killed my dad.’
He is reminded that he is undressed at the faint pink that colors Abigail’s cheeks and he clears his throat stiffly, eyes more focused and interested on the wheels of her bed than at her. “I’m inclined to go cover myself,” He says flatly, knowing his own cheeks were also flushed – but that is partially due to his midnight stroll out in the cold. He’ll likely end up sick later that day. He does not move, though, having brought nothing with him, he is not about to rummage through her drawers, looking for a robe – not while she stands staring at him.
Why are you here?
Abigail Hobbs w o k e u p
“I–uh, wanted to see how you were doing.” He says lameky as he reaches up and rubs the back of his head with a hand, expression pinching into an apologetic one. It is a partial truth, granted. He had not known that he had wanted to check up on the girl he felt so responsible for until he woke up a few minutes prior and stood before her hospital.
Do you feel [ responsible ] for her, Will?
{Don’t you?}
I feel a staggering amount of obligation.
He knows she can see through the half-truth; his lack of clothing is enough proof against him as it is. “And I couldn’t sleep; nightmares.” His smile was thin and wane at the mention of nightmares, remembering how the girl had asked him about them.
So killing someone, even if you have to, it feels that bad?
It’s the u g l i e s t thing in the world.
He wonders if it is also nightmares that keep her up – the darkness under her eyes and the paleness of skin speak volumes, even in the wavering light of dawn. Was it nightmares that woke her up so early, or was it nightmares that kept her from sleeping the night before?
“How are you doing, Abigail?”