The Quill

Chapter Two: The Quill and Ink

The wind whistled a lonesome tune through the winter streets. Abigail's cold breaths beat in time to the orchestra of nature, silently adding a hint of individuality to the music piece.

A song her father used to play came back into her memory - the streetlights reminding her of the flicker of a campfire. Abby's dad played the mandolin, and he would constantly play Blue Grass music in their family-owned orchards. As a child, the trees seemed to sing back in harmonies; dancing to the familiar tune that he provided for them.

A smile creased at her lips as she soon forgot the bitter situation she had gotten herself into.

Nancy was forcing her to go on a date with Duke. The only thing Abby was able to nab control over was the day. She decided that Wednesday would be a good day, since she didn't have class the next morning. And also because Duke was still on a plane flying from Springfield to Chicago, and Abby didn't want to force him to go to dinner with her. She didn't want Nancy or Genevieve to know that, of course, since they would probably think that she cared about him.

She didn't.

Genevieve had teased her that maybe she would get more than dinner, but Abby dismissed that thought. She was only going there to further Nancy's campaign. Purely platonic - even though Genevieve was forcing her to dress up.

Nonetheless, it was still a casual, platonic meeting. Not a date.

Finally, Abby climbed the stairs to her apartment. It was a nice, cozy, little apartment - a two-room, one-bathroom place to call her own. Chicago may have been disastrous and hard to live in by herself, but she was grateful to have her parents who personally knew the landlord.

"I'm home..." She muttered, closing the door behind her, knowing that no one would reply. She looked at her clock that hung nonchalantly on her wall, and read it through blurry eyes.

Ten forty-four at night.

What a long day.

As her face dug into the pillows on her couch, she contemplated if she wanted to take her makeup off or if she just wanted to lie there and sleep. After a moment to breathe, she huffed and her bare-feet embraced her fake wood floors. The sound of her dim shadow made its way to the bathroom, where she took out her makeup remover wipes.

After fifteen minutes or so, Abigail was ready for bed. She, with her trusty Snoopy-quote tee, walked into her bedroom, where her little twin-size bed squeezed its way into the somewhat-cramped room. The room wasn't that big, but she was also only one person, so she didn't need that much space.

But there was something there that made her brain come alive again. A small box sat on her bed, neatly placed square in the middle. Abigail eyed it for a while, wondering if she was hallucinating or if she was actually awake.

Carefully, she beckoned toward it, turning on her bedside lamp in order to get a better look at it. It was blue - maybe teal - and it had a black lock that was kind of shaped like something. Abby's eyes were drowsy, so when she looked at it, she thought the lock looked like a knife, but it was actually a sword.

She placed her hand on the small box, wondering what was inside. Maybe her landlord, Sharon, had delivered it. But there was no note, so there was no way of knowing. Then, a chilling thought came to her mind:

What if it was from Duke?

Did he even know where she lived?

She hoped not. Crossing her legs in a comfortable position, she finally sat down next to the box, organizing her body so that she was adjacent to the enigmatic item before her. Curiosity nearly ripped her insides out, and when she finally opened the box, she was quite surprised.

It was a quill and an ink pot. In the yellow-ish light of her lamp, she assumed it was black ink - but on further investigation, it was actually blue. A darker blue than the box that it came it. Abby carefully picked up the quill, not wanting to damage the precious item. It was a common white feather, with a hint of teal in color. The pen part was exciting, too, since she had never owned an actual quill. She felt so vintage. Abigail pretended to write her name in the air with the quill, regretting not taking that calligraphy class in high-school. Her smile was weak and tired, but it was definitely genuine.

"What a sweet gift!" Her voice rang out in the silence of her room, and she swung her right arm all around, pretending to write a letter of opposition to Duke.

Not so Dearest Duke,

I implore you, on my greatest behalf, that I am not excited about our date. Of course, I understand that you have not yet received my recent text to you, (since you are on a plane) agreeing that we will meet this Wednesday, but I just wanted you to know that I will not be having ---

Suddenly, her elbow hit something hard.

The ink pot fell, and ink splattered across her pillow, she then just realizing that it was blue in color.

"C-crap!" She immediately dropped the quill, and, panicking, she instantly used her Snoopy-quote tee to dab the ink onto it. Abby grabbed the splotchy, ink pot and reluctantly placed it one her bedside table, knowing she would regret that later.

But, no matter what she did, it was in vain. The ink seeped into her pillow, which then seeped into her sheets. Abby felt like such an idiot; how could she even manage to do something so stupid?

And that was her only pillow!

In the morning, she decided that she would go to the dry cleaner's and get it cleaned there. She wasn't sure if a normal wash would get the stains out of her pillowcase and pillow. She might just have to buy a new one altogether.

"Whatever..." She grumbled, shuffling to find another shirt to wear to bed. "I guess I'll just have to sleep with it like this..." Her only wish was that it didn't stain her face - maybe she would put a small blanket between her and her sheets.

That was her only pair of sheets. It was a train wreck when she needed to clean them.

Abigail yawned. It was too late to deal with this, and getting stain on her face wasn't a big deal. She could just wear a scarf or some concealer if need be. So, she quietly - yet quickly - laid her head on her ink-filled pillow; not even realizing that she left the quill on her bed or that she forgot to turn her lamp off.

It wasn't long before she fell into a deep slumber; the deepest slumber she had ever been in. It was nice - like how she would sleep when she still lived in the countryside with her parents. Listening to her dad play the mandolin to her like a lullaby, and the way her mother spoke softly at night.

She even swore that she felt a kiss on her forehead - something her parents would do before bedtime.

Abigail felt young again.