The Widow's Peak

Part Two

    1778 Boston

Abigail couldn't sleep. She knew Rebecca was angry at her. Poor sweet Rebecca, the niece she raised since her parents died in the flu of '61. Take care of Becky; you've always wanted a little girl, Levi "Lovey" Brasher had written with a shaky hand, and she knew her baby brother-in-law meant every word of it. The man never read or wrote unless he was forced to, and it seemed fear and pain were the two forces shoving him to the quill. He must have written that night, because in the morning, little Becky had walked in to find both Mama and Papa unable to wake up.

But to call me a whore...in public!  To curse me, as if that's the Christian thing to do! Curses...bah! Rebecca has no idea what I've survived! She knew this elfin beauty was no longer the giggly little girl who spun hoops in the lawn, but that didn't lessen the sting of her words. Of course, Rebecca backed up her reasoning with the Lord-- a Reverend Hilden classic. According to Hilden, the Lord liked seeing little Nabby get whipped for misspelling her full name, or having one eye fall out from "illness".

 Could Rebecca take matters even further...stand over my bed with a knife? she thought, No! Nabby, hush! The girl loves you; why would she do that?!

As she rolled to her side, Abigail felt something sharp and cold sting her chest. She felt a strange weight crush her shoulder, pinning her down to the mattress. Suddenly sweating, she tried to roll over, but couldn't move. A thick buzzing sound burrowed into her ear, like a mosquito flew inside it. The weight pushed her shoulder down even further, until she felt the painful crunch of bone and heard it cuh-rrrack in her ear.

She twisted her neck sideways. A tall, dark figure loomed over her bed-- so blurry she couldn't tell if it was man, woman, or even human.

"Good evening, Nabby," rumbled a deep voice.

It was so singsong, so mockingly affectionate that Abigail's stomach churned. Her mouth twitched open.

"I have been summoned to your home, darling. The reasons-- you are probably aware. You have committed too many sins for one woman to bear."

"I-I have not," she gasped, shivering upright, "The men who inflicted abuse onto me, all those years ago, they're the ones who ought to be ashamed!"

"Was it abuse, though? Or was it...discipline? You were always such an unruly girl."

"I'm not a little girl anymore." Abigail swung her legs over the side of the bed and stormed over to the figure. "If you have the nerve to break into my house, you have the nerve to remove your hood!"

The figure vanished, only to reappear crumpled into a mushroom-like squat atop Abigail's bed. The bouncing and cuh-reaking of the figure made her skin crawl.

"Rebecca told me this might be music to your ears."

"Don't you dare blame her for this!"

"Why? A good, virtuous old woman who needs money sews more and sells fruit at the market. She doesn't become the very thing Dinah was, who cursed her people!"

"How dare you use the Bible to attack me, you...you...blasphemer!"

"Light a candle, and I might become one of your clients."

"Absolutely not!"

She lunged forward and pulled at the figure's cold, silken cloak. She yanked and tugged, biceps burning as she struggled to unfurl the wrapping from the form's body.

"You fool!" she hissed, "You men can't have me be my own being, huh? I have to be broken and each one of my pieces scattered into all your lives! Those days are long gone!"