Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|

January 6, 1770

Waking up in Boston broke my heart. I was completely alone, which didn't feel right on a fundamental level. I was supposed to be with Dan Blaine. I was—Abigail Russell was supposed to get married tomorrow. Today? 

I don't know how to see time anymore. Nothing feels sequential. Nothing feels right. I'm sick to my stomach as I sit at the window, watching snow fall down on a Boston that is boiling under the tension of British occupation.

Today, my name is Abigail Pryce. I own a small tavern in the middle of the city. One that needs to be up and running in time for the breakfast rush. One that is a common gathering place for the Sons of Liberty.

I have to wonder how much more of this I'll have to go through.

First, I was amputating peoples' legs. Yesterday, I killed someone. Today, I'm a patriot sympathizer who runs the risk of drawing the ire of the British soldiers who wander the streets. 

Maybe the real question is how much more of this can I take.

Abigail Pryce is brave. She's as passionate as any of the men who come here to plan their next protest—who whisper of more than just protests. She's protected and hidden rebels. She wants freedom. She hates the redcoats parading down the streets of her city, bullying honest tradesmen and sinking Boston in their depravity.

Me, I'm beginning to dread just waking up. I'm more afraid of falling asleep.

It's not like I have any choice though. I can't not sleep. So I guess all that's left is just...dealing with it. If I don't learn how to live like this, I know it'll eat me up. So I have to find some way to accept what's happening.

But for now, I've got another new time to survive.

                                                                                       ~~*~~

All they eat here is fish! Which, I mean...I get. It's a harbor town. The fish is fresh. Whatever. It's still enough to make me want to gag a little. I've always hated fish. As I kid I didn't even really like fishsticks all that much.

But seriously. It's chowder for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I've gutted and filleted and chopped and prepared more stews in one day than I've cooked in my entire life.

In my...regular life?

Does any of it really count as regular anymore? For Abby Kilken, traffic and jerk bosses was normal. For Gaëlle Chastain it was living in the middle of a war. Abigail Russell spent an average day riding the range and now a normal day for Abigail Pryce is what I experienced today.

Cooking. Serving it to the clamoring patrons. Cooking some more. Making sure any disagreements didn't turn into outright brawls. Serving gallons of ale. Doing a little more cooking. And finally, a little after midnight, being able to go upstairs to her own quiet little room to sleep before it starts all over again the next day.

Each woman is so different, yet similar in important ways.

Am I all of those people? Or am I none of them? Being more than one person is generally a pretty good sign of mental illness. But...I don't think I'm crazy. Do crazy people know if they're crazy?

And now I'm thinking that if I keep spiraling down this track, I'll definitely be crazy.

Maybe it's like I wrote this morning: I have to just find some kind of acceptance here, even if I can't find a reason.

The hard truth about life is that there isn't always a reason for why things happen. I can't decide if that makes it easier or harder to accept.

But I have to accept it, either way.

If I don't... Well, let's just say I know enough of history to know that my madness won't go over all that well with the good people of colonial Boston.

They still hang people for witchcraft here, after all.