Abigail

Abigail wiped the mist off the bathroom mirror and examined the dark blots across her throat, wondering if there would be any long-term damage. Two days since her forced excursion to Italy, her voice sounded less raspy, but every time she moved a limb or even shifted her weight her body hurt in places too numerous to count. This was a serious escalation from the scratches on her feet that she had earned from their first excursion with Ramiel.

"Morning," Elias said, pausing by the doorway. He'd had the first shower this morning and left the bathroom walls slick with condensation, so Abigail had kept the door open in the faint hope of airing out the room. But this also allowed Elias to see her glaring at her reflection in the mirror as he walked past.

"I look like a domestic abuse victim," Abigail said.

Elias offered her a sympathetic wince. "Do you want me to take another look?"

Abigail shrugged; if she declined she would only start an argument. She knew Elias phrased his words as a question only out of courtesy. Despite concluding that the blood Elias had initially taken for a broken nose was, in fact, a gash across the side and tip of Abigail's nose, Elias wanted to watch Abigail as carefully as he did Ramiel. And she wanted to trust his declaration that she didn't have a concussion or that the cascade of colour around her eye would fade to a healthy skin tone, but his insistence to keep checking up on her made her wonder if Elias even trusted himself.

He stepped into the bathroom and prodded Abigail until he was satisfied. "It's fine," he declared. "It'll take a few weeks for the bruising to go down."

"So you said last time," Abigail replied.

"I did, didn't I?" Elias tapped his fingers against the rim of the sink. "Breakfast?"

"Sure. How's Ramiel?"

"Pretty much the same as yesterday. All right, I'll get the coffee going."

Elias closed the door behind him and now that she was alone again, Abigail sat down on the edge of the chipped bathtub. What little sleep she had managed the last few nights had been saturated with screaming and fear. She woke up as exhausted as she had been when she had gone to bed. Even a shower seemed an arduous task this morning.

She considered her options. Her next shift was tomorrow and, unlike Elias, her university had excused her for the rest of the semester. Abigail had nowhere to be today. She could just collapse back into bed and sort herself out later. Or tomorrow. Or next week. Surely she could weasel out of one more work shift.

Don't you even think about it.

She had to keep moving. A routine or at least some sense of forward movement was key, even if you weren't sure where you were heading. Her mother had taught that to Abigail and her siblings early on. Time after time it had begun with the small things — a stained dress, an empty fridge, a missed day of work. But it never seemed to be just the small things, it always got worse. And how long had it taken her mother to get back to her life after each episode? Weeks. Sometimes months.

Abigail couldn't think of anything easier than skipping the shower or wearing the same clothes as the day before or to avoid work for a day. But precisely that was the danger — that's how it always started.

With the resigned sigh of a soldier ordered to dig a trench from dawn to dinnertime, Abigail peeled off her pyjamas and tuned the knobs. She hissed when she stepped into the shower. The water pressure was torture to her bruised face.

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She shifted forward until the water fell onto her hair rather than her face. No better. There was a large lump on the back of her head from when Najran had flung her into the fridge. It was as tender as her black eye.

Abigail showered quickly, then shut off the water. Pulling back the shower curtain, she gulped as the cold air assaulted her. Since she had neglected to put down a bath mat, the floor was ice. This was why she hated Sydney in winter; for three months of the year, she felt warm only when she sat within half a foot of the heater. Abigail scrambled to get into her clothes as quickly as she could.

When she made it to the kitchen, Elias had a steaming mug of coffee ready for her.

"Your phone buzzed a minute ago," he said, then motioned to the box of cereal in the middle of the table. "Dig in, I already ate."

Abigail picked up her phone, impressed it still had battery life. But then she barely touched it of late. For the first couple of days after her parents died it had been manageable. Then the news got out. It was curious how condolences for the loss of people as important as your parents quickly became meaningless strings of words, as banal as "how are you". I am sorry. My condolences. It was all meaningless. What did they know? Were words going to bring them back? To explain why her mum had done what she did? It was all useless prattle for the sake of propriety.

And the messages were still coming in. When Abigail unlocked the phone, she was met with a myriad of Facebook notifications, four missed calls and seven unread messages. She cleared the alerts, then scrolled through the messages.

Hey, Abs, I'm so sorry about your mum and dad! Are you ok? Give me a ring if you need anything... Lizzie

Lizzie? It took Abigail a moment to remember that Lizzie was the red-head she had done a group assignment with the previous semester. She had refused to understand why Abs was a terrible nickname.

Hi Abby

I heard what happened with your folks. My condolences. We are still completely stunned by the news

Where are you staying? Mum and I will drop by, bring you and Elias some food. I'm sure you guys are in no mood to cook

Take care, Kalvin

Abigail bit down on her lower lip even as she grinned. She hadn't seen Kalvin in at least two years, but they had been close back when they had been on the swim squad together. He'd had a crush on her, while Kalvin's mum, ever warm and bubbly, was always ready to adopt every person on the squad into her family. Despite the circumstances, it was good to hear from him again.

"What are you smiling about?" Elias asked.

She glanced up. "Nothing."

The rest of the messages were little different in tone or content. Abigail glanced through them without concentrating on the names, then locked the phone. Of course, she had her end of the social contract to uphold. To explain that she was coping and that she was grateful for all the messages of support. But later — after breakfast. Or tomorrow. It was rather rude to ignore messages for so long, but considering what had happened (never mind the half-dead angel in Elias' bedroom), people would have to understand.

"What's your plan for today?" Elias asked, nudging the cereal box towards Abigail.

A slow crawl back to bed.

Abigail sipped her coffee and ran a finger over the scab that had formed on the bridge of her nose. Again, she was falling into temptation. She needed to respond to those messages. And getting back to bed was about the worst thing she could do to herself. She would spend the day drifting in and out of sleep and moaning that her bruises continued to ache.

"What can I plan for today?" she said. "We're ok in here, yeah? What about outside? Or are we under house arrest until Ramiel's better?"

"He said the sigil he... um, carved into us is protection enough from their tracking. Where do you want to go?"

"Surfing."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Elias said. When Abigail threw him a bewildered look, he added, "What if you wipe out and smack your face into the board? You don't want to make it worse."

He had a point, Abigail had to concede.

"I'll go for a walk then, along the beach and the main street," she replied.

Elias' response was a dismissive shrug, but Abigail found the image of her meandering along the beach by herself no less miserable than burying herself under blankets for the rest of the day. She would just end up circling over the same topics she had been unable to get out of her head since Italy.

In truth, she wanted to be around people. Not Elias though. She could feel cabin fever setting in between them. A conversation with a human other than her brother could do her good.

She picked up her phone once more. Plenty of people had offered their time to talk and whatever else. This would be late notice, but perhaps someone would come through.