Abigail:

[For the dying ones:]

I heard you call a thousand times that night. For fire, for rain, for chaos. Things to knock you either to your knees or raise you on your feet.

Anything,

something,

to appease the madness.

I heard you, when you were screaming for help. Shivering, as you tried to remember,

there is grace

there is grace,

there is grace!

but the words would not fall to you.

It was a betrayal, and the days after you couldn’t see from your rage. Couldn’t believe the pain in your body, couldn’t believe the wretchedness that had buried deeply in your life.

You couldn’t believe.

You refuse to believe.

And it is not the darkness that haunts you, it is a determination to kill your inner self. The realisation wraps it’s hands around your neck, and it tightens. Tightens. Tightens. Your days are the evidence that there is now little air.

But I am here, My Abigail.

My Abigail, My Abigail, My joy.

My daughter.

Let me breathe over you.

I will hold your hands. I will piece your being together.

You will live, My Abigail.

You will rejoice.