[H2] Abigail (and Brooks)[/H2]

It was the burning that worried her.

To Brooks and Billy's knowledge, magic wasn't meant to work that way. It was meant to be taxing and tricky to use, not the opposite. But for Abigail it felt like a second bladder; she kept building up some sort of uncomfortable pressure that had to get released in jets of violet flame or it started to hurt. She didn't want to know what would happen if she didn't. But the scorch marks might've left a trail here and there which terrified the girl into learning quickly and efficiently, so as to avoid leaving any traces of their path for anyone who'd be looking. She needed to burn two, three times a day if she held it in. And she hated every minute of it. It was fetid, satanistic, it was unholy fire and a definitive answer to the question that had been rolling around her head ever since she got a chance to think.

Brooks was the only witness to her unanswered prayers at night. It was the elephant in the room, the slow-bubbling cauldron of existential dread that Abigail was doing a remarkably job at keeping a lid on until she knew she was in a safe enough location to disentangle her beliefs and come to terms with her new life. She was already at the end of her tether as is, periodically alternating between cheery, lost, despairing and pissed off at any given moment. Her teenage hormones didn't help much either, but being outside helped. Being able to walk and run around helped. Blisters be damned; she's run on them before for the hell of it. This was no exception and the stinging felt familiar, especially now that her hands kept cracking and blistering with the heat of her ungodly flames. And during those brief moments when they could catch a rest Abigail stuck to Brooks like glue because she was usually upset and sought after the comforting presence of an adult who pretended to know what they were doing. Billy had the right mindset but alien concepts such as ‘a friendly and open demeanour' weirded Abigail out. Luckily for her, Brooks was far better at reminding her of home; he avoided any sensitive subjects at all costs, never once offered to talk about feelings and when the subject inevitably reared its ugly head he was utterly incapable of resolving it. It was like she never left the campervan at all. All Brooks really had to do right now to help Abigail deal with the complex trauma she underwent was to be an adult and pretend to know what he was doing. It was a lucrative pairing of mutual interests. They barely shared a handful of words between them, though Abigail talked to herself often and kept up meaningless conversation with Billy during the walks as Brooks was too busy grunting and wheezing to be inclined to respond.

By the time they got to Goodnight there was nothing harmless left to talk about and Abigail was staunchly avoiding the obvious. Brooks’ knee was still giving him grief but he stood stoically in the open hall and started taking note of familiar faces that also survived the purges. As the speeches were read out and the responders worked through the crowd, Abigail had her forehead pressed against Brooks' arm. The cumulative sleep debt and fatigue from a few days of hiking was hitting her hard, especially now that she realised her journey was temporarily over. A lady in a parka offered her a small bottle of water and Abigail made a noise and shook her head. Brooks took it from her. Another lady offered her a trail mix bar and Abigail didn't even respond so Brooks held his hand out and took the bar as well, stuffing them into the pockets of his hoodie. 

Shortly before speeches were done Abigail muttered something about a bathroom and peeled away from Brooks and the crowd, wandering down unlit corridors on her own. Brooks watched in which direction she was headed, waited until all the speeches were done, stood still for a second or two and then resignatedly plodded after her. As expected, Abigail had inadvertently chosen one of the most out of the way bathrooms lit by only half of its fluorescent bulbs. Brooks lingered outside the ladies' room for a few minutes to help her find her way back, only for a few minutes to turn into a handful more and he looked up and down the corridor and went inside. He could hear sniffling from one of the stalls.

"Girl, are you crying?" he voiced out, internally praying it was enough to snap her out of it.

"N-nuh!" Abigail sobbed.

Brooks let out a deep sigh. "You gotta get yourself together. You can't keep crying." He offered, leaving her the dignity of being unseen while she wept.

"S'just--...it's just-...horseshit!" Abigail kicked the door of the stall a few times, the WHBAMWHBAMWHBAMWHBAM rattling through the bathroom. "Why'd this happen to me?! Why now! I ain't done nothin' wrong! I listened, I followed the Bible! What's Jesus got out on me?!" She tried to compose herself and defaulted into a snotty, snivelling wreck again. 

“There’s toilet paper in there, use that to wipe your face.” he interjected amongst her audible woes.

"Wiping my face doesn't fix shit!" Abigail yelled back. "What do I do?!" 

“What do you do about what?”

"About-...the thing! The magic! The being hunted! All of it! And-...aaargh!" Abigail stamped some more and yanked on the toilet roll in the dispenser furiously.

“It’s why you’re here, so you don’t do it alone. No one will.”

Abigail fell quiet for a while, aside from some self pitying whimpers now and then. After a very long pause she mustered up enough courage to finally, awkwardly ask "can you…? Get me a lady? With-...a bag? Tell'er I'm in the bathroom and I-...need something she's probably carrying."