Love Sucks

Burnt and Bloody - Chap. Thirty-Three

Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.

Joan Crawford

***

The manor was dead inside but the storm beyond it was livid. It pounded against the walls like a muffled wave, crashing again and again. When the black around her suddenly lifted as another strike of lightning hit the sky -- everything was illuminated again, but only for a few seconds.

Abigail flinched every time it struck, but she was grateful for the direct light, showing her briefly the course of the hallway. And then, after the lightning had hit, Abbi would find the confidence in her and move faster, not letting hopelessness grab at her inner strength. Her mother's shoe was like a heavy stone, weighing down her hand -- or maybe it was just the guilt, stabbing at her fingers.

She was breathless already, and when the cascading night settled around her, the only thing she could do was trudge on.

Trying to hold up her dress and the shoe, she stumbled down the corridor. Varying sounds tried to delude her from what was really there; Abbi couldn't stop herself turning toward every noise, that in reality, wasn't really there.

All the while, the storm raged on, pelting rain and setting white fire to the sky with flashes of light.

The sound crashing in the hallway and reverberating around her head almost fooled Abigail into thinking it was just another surge of thunder. It wasn't until she heard the distinct shriek that Abbi froze in her spot.

When the scream came again, she twisted her head around, heart hammering, but to no avail -- there was only pitch blackness. That was, until a body rammed into Abigail like a freight train, a choked sound coming from their throat.

She was slammed onto the floor -- head smacking the wood and leaving Abbi dazed as the person on top of her scrambled around, their finger-nails digging into her arms.

It was a woman, and from what she could tell, a very undernourished one. Just by the way the lady crawled forward with knobby knees, jabbing at Abbi's stomach as she climbed over her head, told her that she was not fit enough to run through these halls.

Abigail lifted herself up cautiously, hearing the woman wail, repeatedly. "He's coming! He's coming!" She voiced in the dark, her howling giving Abbi chills, not only from what she was saying but also the hollow, broken way she sounded saying it.

She couldn't see the strained woman, and even if she could, Abbi still wouldn't ever ignore the poor female.

Following her gravelly voice, Abigail reached out with one hand, trying to get a feel for the woman -- who's yelling was so near, yet, she couldn't feel her anywhere as she spun around and around trying to locate her.

"He's coming!" The woman balled, this time, right next to Abbi, making the apprehensive girl nearly jump out of her skin.

"Who?" Abbi asked desperately, scoping her hand out in the void once again. Finally, the surface of chilled skin brushed her fingers. "Who is coming?"

As Abigail tried to tighten her grasp on feeling -- another set of hands yanked at her sleeve; she didn't have to think hard on whose fragile, bony hands they were, because their fingernails were once again filing into her skin.

It had to have been the woman -- there couldn't possibly be any other person ... but then again, who had she just felt; right out (assumingly) in front of her?

"Here! He's here!" That ragged voice, now slightly behind Abigail, exclaimed.

Abbi yanked her hand away, the feel of such cold, dead skin now repulsing her. She took a step back, pressing the woman further behind her, but still, the 'He' made no noise ahead of them.