Abigail moved with measured purpose. She cast a brief look over her shoulder at Tristan calling after her but, still bewildered, she hurriedly ignored his calling. Her trainers crunched under the gravel of the empty lot just outside of the warehouse and onto the path, then the tarmac of the road. She heard another voice - another man - call disapprovingly against her behaviour. She exhaled sharply through her nostrils and tugged on the hem of her jacket and walked a little brisker as it became increasingly apparent that she was less worried about what was out there...and more afraid of the warehouse and its inhabitants. [i]Especially[/i] after she flinched when David’s camera shutter went off and went just a little faster.

Nobody had yet jogged up to her level and Abigail hid her discomfort by sort of hunching her shoulders as she walked, behaving defensively. She could hear the footfalls of other people following her as she crested the hill. Her pace slowed and stopped as she reached the chasm, staying a good few feet away from it, peering down at it as she took a shaky breath and exhaled. Jaden, Tristan and David had caught up to her. She was quiet for a while then loosely gestured to the vertical buildings. “My, uh. My carers are down there,” she offered up to nobody in particular, as if vocalising it would magically procure a solution. 

When that didn’t happen and she heard David’s shutter snap shut, she jolted again and wheeled onto him in moments. “Okay-no. No, stop doing that.” Her hand half-raised to push the camera away from her until he dropped it. “No more pictures of me, okay? Delete any you took of me just now. It’s fucking-...I’m sixteen. Can put you in jail for it. [i]Shhhit[/i],” she hissed the last curse under her breath as her head jerked back to the sudden drop. She stood and stared. She kicked a little piece of gravel off the precipice and listened to it bounce and rattle as it cracked against walls and porches.
 
“Fuckin’...Silent Hill piece’ashit…” Abigail muttered under her breath as she fumbled in her jacket pocket and pulled out a half-empty carton of Newports and a pink zippo lighter. Her hands were disgusting; her nails were markedly shorter and the fingertips all frayed, peeling and scabby. Her thumb still held the smear of congealed blood where she had chewed it earlier. It took her several attempts to light her menthol because her hands were trembling so much. Abigail took a long drag and exhaled a plume of minty tobacco smoke, squinting up at the plummeting sun with apprehension. She wiped her eyes with her free hand and looked around at the gathering, on the brink of tears. “M’not staying round here when it gets dark,” she shakily declared, and started traipsing down the hill again at a brisk pace to hide the odd tear or two rolling down her cheeks. Once she reached the warehouse front again she turned a corner and leant against one of its walls to finish her cigarette, cracking the capsule between her fingers. After a second or two she slowly slid down the wall and drew her knees to her chest, breathily sobbing into her free hand, the cigarette dangling loosely out of the other as she went through the motions of processing what’s happened to her.