Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to RocknRolla, save for characters and plot unoriginal to the movie. Thanks.


You'd think it were a holiday, there are so many people. They all shove past one another as though the other is just an inanimate object, kind of like when someone runs their hip into the arm of the couch, or rubs shoulders with the lampshade. A polite few laugh it off and apologize, while others simply glare and continue on their way. Mrs. Peters stands safely to the side; the ingredients of a jar of tomato paste face her. Abby simply stands, shoulders sagging, eyes downcast at the head of the basket.

In passing, one would think she has an odd obsession with her shoes, for that's where her gaze seems to stay. If one cares to take a closer look (which, no one does), they would notice that her eyes don't look at all...they don't even see. They seem to only exist, glazed over as they sit in the sockets, her mind wandering over nothing in particular. Every now and then her right pointer finger will twitch, a shiver will travel her spine, but for the most part, she stands absolutely still. It isn't until a basket hits her from behind that she remembers she's in public.

"Oh, dear! I'm so sorry, I-" A brief pause. "Abby! Hello!"

She turns slowly on the spot, eyes still focused on the floor, arms limp and dangling at her sides. The irises sweep slowly up from the person's feet (clad in black stiletto heels), up the well sculpted legs, past the curvy torso, and finally, up into the woman's eyes. She's never noticed before that Lizzie is built to be a model, fit, athletic, rather than a doctor. She's surprised she notices it now, as foggy as her mind is. She feels like she's looking through a pair of dirty glasses; the lenses are covered in small particle debris, making everything look fuzzy and out of place. Where detail should be, only shape and color resides; Instead of the shine in Lizzie's blonde hair, it's just a golden haze. They're giving her headache, and she longs for nothing more than to reach up and take them off...only they don't exist. She looks back down at the heels, blinks twice, long and slow. "How can you walk in those?"

Now Lizzie blinks, looks slowly down at her shoes. Realizing the joke, she smiles, chuckles softly. "Oh, these. Just lots of practice, I suppose." Only when Abby doesn't laugh back does she take a closer look...and what she notices shoots an icy burst of shock into her chest.

The healthy, golden shine that used to make Abby's hair stand out from the crowd is no longer there, replaced by a dull, yellow glare. It reminds her of a pair of gold earrings she'd had once; they looked beautiful and shiny in the package, but after a few weeks of wear and tear, she realized they weren't gold at all...but gold plated. They had turned the radius of her piercings green, and though this isn't the case with Abby's hair, she can't help but look for the same effect.

She also notices with the distaste of a doctor that her skin is no longer fair, her cheeks no longer containing their endearing rosiness. It's paled in comparison to a pallid complexion, reminding her of that sun-bleached cigarette billboard she sees every morning on her way to work. Sweat adorns her brow, some beads of the liquid absorbed by her hairline and slight female sideburns. Some of the drops even run down the side of her right temple, a few falling into and irritating the red-rimmed eyes. The eyes! They're the most disturbing of all. That special, priceless sparkle that used to swim and grin in the pupils and irises is no more, destroyed and replaced by the harsh, black reality of depression. They no longer seem to look at anything in wonder, drink the miracle of life itself. They only look through things, haunted and hollow.

Her clothing, a plain black t-shirt and tan capris, no longer cling to her body like a few weeks ago, but hang on her like a scarecrow. The cheekbones and jaw are too prominent, the neck too thin. It takes everything in Lizzie not to shake her head. She feels as though she could snap that delicate neck without hardly any effort at all. The collarbones seem to jut out from the collar of the shirt, and even appear to make an impression at the tops of the sleeves on the other ends. She can't find the outline of her belly...only the loose gathering of cloth just beneath the hips. Even her shoes seem a bit bigger around the ankles.

Lizzie puts on her best effort of a smile...the one she usually keeps reserved for hopeful families of a patient that she just might be able to keep afloat, while knowing at the same time they could fall through, and there'd be nothing she could do but make them comfortable. It never quite reaches her eyes, but somehow reflects itself in her voice; the voice has always been the easier part to fake. "Abby," She says with a jovial note, "I seem to have skipped something on my list. Could you run to the poultry section and pick up a four pack of chicken breasts for me?"

Abby doesn't make eye contact. She doesn't smile. She doesn't nod. She simply turns, hands shoved deeply in her pockets, and walks away.

As soon as she's out of earshot, Lizzie turns to Mrs. Peters, the concern brighter than sunlight in her eyes. "Mrs. Peters, have you noticed anything...different about Abby? Maybe phy-"

"Oh, dear, I was hoping you'd get around to it!" Mrs. Peters says, a wash of relief gushing from her words. "I can't get her to eat, and if she ever does, it's just a nibble."

"Well, has Archy noticed?" She asks hopefully. "Surely if Archy-"

"He's tried taking us out for dinner every other night. We've both tried to get her talk about her favorite foods...Nothing." She shakes her head. Sighs. "I've never seen him worried like this before. It's not just hurting her health...it's hurting ours, too, Liz."

Lizzie remains silent, looks down the isle for a particularly ill-looking blonde. "Mrs. Peters, I hate to barge in, but-"

Mrs. Peters tisks, swats the younger woman on the shoulder. "You never barge, dear! Your presence is always welcome in our home, even if he won't say it is...foolish man." She mumbles. Now Mrs. Peters looks around the corner, too, and smiles. "Why don't you come over tonight? I'll treat you to dinner." She sighs again when Abby comes back into view. "Perhaps you can get her to eat something."

Lizzie reapplies her everything-is-fine-for-now-but-could-fall-through doctor's smile as Abby rounds the corner, patting her on the shoulder as she places the pack of chicken breast in her basket. "Thank you, darling. You just saved me a second trip."

The right corner of her mouth twitches up for a few seconds, before dropping down to a neutral, thinly pressed line. The hands once again find their home in her pockets, and the gaze once again falls to the floor.

Mrs. Peters passes a pained expression over the teen's head. "Shall we say, six o'clock?"

Lizzie nods, responding with an expression of the same nature. "Certainly."


She's beginning to wonder about her mental health. A graveyard is a good place to sit and ponder. It's quiet. Not many people enter them. Some are even downright afraid of them. Superstitious. Some flat-out silly about it. You can't possibly be disturbed while sitting in one.

...Can you?

She wonders if being surrounded by the dead is doing her as much good as she thinks. The place is calm, after all. He can't kiss her cheeks anymore...at least, not like he used to could. Out here, she can feel his kisses in the sunshine, feel the warmth that his corpse now lacks. She can feel his strong arms through the gentle breeze, embracing her weak, emotionally drained body. His fingers playfully tickle her bare feet through the grass that's springing up on top and around him. Out here, in this little patch dedicated to the dearly departed...he's everywhere. Sometimes, she can even swear he's whispering to her through the weeds when that embracing breeze sweeps across them.

She shakes her head. How can't this be helping her? She lays down atop the flattened dirt patch, now dry due to the good graces of the sunlight. Her jacket rests just at the base of Richie's tombstone, folded over just enough times for her head to be comfortable against the salt and pepper granite, ankles crossed and propped on the footstone. She locks her fingers atop her belly, stares up the sky. A gentle breeze stirs the weeds around her, plays with her hair, before shoving it down over her eyes. She brushes it away with a smile, listening contently to the voice in the weeds.

2 years ago

"About time you got home."

Despite the two bottles of nail polish, ancient library books, and mobile phone, she allows her knapsack to fall unceremoniously to the floor. It's been a long day. Long day as in, it's like all the teachers got together and said, "Right then. Let's give all our classes a test today. Never mind that it's friday." She rolls her shoulders with a groan, allows her uniform jacket to join the knapsack. "I'm doing fine, thanks. My day was a bit long, but at least it's the weekend, right, dad?"

She steps to the small room to the right, leaving her things in the center of the living room. Soon, her skirt and school shoes join the other objects, replaced with a loose pair of track pants and a t-shirt. She isn't surprised to see him lying in the grass behind the flat. Not much of what he does ever surprises her. She stands beside him in her bare feet, allows her shadow to spread across his face. "Enjoying yourself?"

He cracks open his right eye, just long enough to take in her attire. "You're blocking my sun."

"Again, glad to see you, too. You could ask me why my day was long, or why I'm so tired."

He folds his hands behind his head and crosses his ankles, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "I could. Or, I could just tell you to shut up and join me."

Abby takes a long look at the grass before seating herself, pleased that there are no stickers, or ant piles, before laying back all the way.

He allows a few moments of silence to pass between them, before looking up at the sky. "You see that cloud?"

She draws in a long breath. "You'll have to be a bit more specific. Aren't we a little old for this game, anyway?"

"Would you just look?"

The long breath is released in an impatient sigh. "What one?"

He points up, and slightly to the left, casting the shadow of his arm over her belly. "That one. What's it look like?"

"A cloud." She responds dryly.

Now Richie sighs. "If you're not going to participate, the whole class will have to go inside."

"What class? You call two people a class?"

"Any number of people willing to learn is a class."

"If this is one of your life lessons-"

"Do you want extra chores?"

"It looks like a person."

"Any specific type of person?"

She groans. "I don't know...A woman."

He smiles. "Good guess. It reminds me of your mother."

"It looks nothing like mum! The hair is all wrong-"

"That's not the point. It's a cloud shaped like a woman. Your mum would lay out and look at the clouds with me." He looks over at her. "Your mum never thought there was an age limit."

Now she looks at him. "So...the lesson is..."

"Do you have to turn everything I say into a lesson?"

"What? This wasn't to make an example out of something?"

"I was just trying to have a bit of fun." He leans over to poke her in the side, effectively tickling her. "Don't be afraid to have a bit of fun every now and then, alright? Even if it seems childish."

"That's the lesson?"

"...I've noticed that you haven't been very happy lately. Just...have some fun. Have some childish fun-"

"Have some childish fun." She chuckles to the wind. "That's even better."

"That's even better!"

"But-" She looks to the right, only to be surprised by an empty, grassy space. Her eyes roam wildly, she sits up to see if he's gone inside the flat, only...this isn't the lot behind it. She isn't even wearing track pants and a t-shirt, she's back in her uniform. The most shocking revelation, is that she's certain she had heard him. She could've sworn she had just had a conversation with him, even felt him tickle her.

She bolts upright and stares at the wrought iron fence to her left, and to her right, her heart sinking at the realization...tombstones. She turns around just to assure herself, nearly weeping with the horrible truth that she is, in fact, leaning against a tombstone that says,

Richard Crackit

Adoring Husband

Loving Father

16 April 1968 - 18 March 2011

A large, black shadow is coming at her when she turns back around...a shadow that seems to consume anything and everything in its path. It seems to have no end. It covers the buildings for miles out, eats up the sidewalks, the roads, until it's right within the graveyard. It passes up the tombstones without slowing, right up to the bottoms of her tennis shoes, until she herself is deep within its belly. Looking up at the sky, she realizes a large cloud cover had been forming during her hallucination, traveling along with all the time in the world, unnoticed, until it decided to consume the sun, blocking out all of the warmth...blocking out all of Richie.

It's all she can do to hold back the tears as she climbs to her feet, using the headstone for support. Everything feels heavy. It's as though someone has strapped concrete blocks to her feet, forcing her to drag them through the patches of dirt and grass, leaving scrape marks on the sidewalk when she finally reaches it. There's an odd adhesive on the backs and palms of her hands, something strong enough to hold a pair of bricks on each. They swing and sway at her sides, forcing her shoulders forward. Her stomach has rocks in it. Small, individual pieces of gravel and pebbles, and they all roll and shift every time she drags a foot, scraping the lining, trickling slowly into her intestines. They make her want to double over and vomit right there in the street, but she has nothing in her belly. No food, no liquids, just stomach acid.

Her head is the heaviest. The last vain attempt to keep it up is to keep her chin from resting on her chest as she drags herself forward. Her brain hurts in places she didn't know could hurt. Someone's driven nails in it. Someone else is pounding it with a hammer, pounding hard enough to make her give up on all legible thought. Someone has written graffiti across her eyes with thick black and white paint. Some of it mingles together over her pupils, forming spotty shades of gray, depending on where she looks.

What scares her the most...is her chest.

The breastbone is built directly over the heart. It serves as an anchor to keep the collarbones aligned directly beneath the esophagus, to help keep the shoulders pulled back. It allows for the ribs to have something to grip on the front, so they're not precariously just clinging to the ever so fragile spinal disks in the back...though one could argue that cartilage is hardly a strong adhesive. After all, it's what gives the nose shape, and noses can be broken easily. However weak or strong, the ribs do circle around and house the lungs, forming a virtual prison.

The lungs, however light, however flimsy, adjust and curve in their environment to allow room for...the heart. Though the left lung mostly has the hassle of staying out of the way of the body of the heart, even the one on the right has to make room for the superior vena cava and right atrium is divinely placed and adjusted to stay out of the way of the muscle that has the equal importance of the brain, and yet...she can't feel it. Everything in her body feels sluggish and heavy, but the only things she can feel moving in her chest are the lungs, filling like balloons, then deflating like beach balls to be stored for the winter. She can feel her frontal ribs being pushed upward and out, allowing the cartilage to flex just enough for the lungs to go as far as needed, before retracting down into starting position once again.

But, the heart...

She'd reach to her neck to grope for a pulse...if her hands weren't so heavy. She'd stop and listen for the tell-tale sign of pumping, but everything around her is so loud. Buses barrel past her on the street like angry elephants, little black London taxies pierce the air with their shrill horns. Babies, God bless them, cry after being woken from their blissful sleep. Dogs bark in passing on the other side of the street. They all seem to move so...so...fast. Everyone appears to be in such a hurry. They all move past her like a blur, and she feels like she's moving in slow motion. She feels like a snail, slithering at her own pace of altered time, and they're all race cars. Even the split second of her eyelids moving feels like closing them for a good minute. She's got to get out of here. She's got to get off the sidewalks, away from the streets. She's got to know that there isn't just some dark, vacant cave where her heart should be. She's got to see if there's even blood moving through her body. She...Needs...

A blade.


This can't be happening.

Where she expected the air to be silent, she finds it pregnant with laughter. Dishes clank against one another. Silverware clashes together like angry swords in the midst of a battle. Somewhere near, a television is going. She wants to bang her head against the wall until the world goes black. Of all the things Archy's flat is, it's not social. It's like a library. The sacred rules are to not disturb the silence, or the master at work (unless you're Mrs. Peters), and this is hardly a place of concentration. The master is the operator of the offending high definition television. He's only watching the news, of course, but in all the months she's lived here, she's never once seen it turned on. Just like in the memory, she allows her knapsack to fall to the floor with a dead thud. Dead. Just how she feels.

Archy turns his head with a start, glances at his watch before standing. "Abby-"

Mrs. Peters (followed by Lizzie), comes out of the kitchen the moment the word leaves his lips, reminding Abby of the first note of a piece of music after just the right beat from the metronome. "You're late, dear! Dinner's going to be ready soon. Where have you been?" Her tone is like that of a rattle snake: the rattler is fun to listen to while the snake is behind glass, but out in the wild, one venomous bite has the potential to kill.

All of the oxygen in the room seems to vanish. She wouldn't say the atmosphere is hostile, but it is most definitely tense. It reminds her of the particular occasion in which her ten year old self had strictly been told to stay away from the dirty dishes while dad was washing them. Wanting nothing more than to help, she grabbed one, and, not expecting the rim of the plate to be so greasy, sent it crashing to the floor in hundreds of pieces...and much like Humpty Dumpty, it couldn't be put back together...ever again. She'd started out on a quest just to help, just to lend a courteous hand...Yet the gesture ended badly. Richie had just stared at her, disappointed and irritated...much like Mrs. Peters.

"Abby," Lizzie starts, breaking the memory, "Are you alright? You look a bit pale."

She stares at her for a moment, taking in the concern in the elegantly arched brows, the slightly parted lips as the doctor surveys the infected. She doesn't even have to look at Mrs. Peters to know what's going through her mind, the mother hen that clucks crossly at the last chick to enter the nest. She can never read what Archy's thinking. He just stands there, hands in pockets, neutral eyes waiting for a response to the doctor's question. She releases a shaky breath, realizing she'd been holding it all the while, and hangs her jacket on the coatrack. "I just went to see Dad, is all." She side-glances at Chicken Little, assuming a posture non too different from Archy's. "Is...that alright?" Her voice is timid, the last line of defense; perhaps if she lays defenseless before the bear, it'll lose interest, stop attacking.

Mrs. Peters sighs, soothed over for now. "It's fine, dear." She says gently. "Just, call next time you're going to be late, hm? Now, come along, everyone. Help me set dinner out on the table."

Archy and Abby carry a few dishes, along with Lizzie, but it's mostly Mrs. Peters, with her proverbial bee-line, that sets everything out. Archy assumes his usual seat at the head of the table, directly across from Lizzie. Abby sits at his left hand, and after rushing a few finishing touches, Mrs. Peters sits to his right.

Enticing a meal as it is (for Mrs. Peters always prepares meals fit for a king, no matter the company), Abby feels none of its appeal. The potatoes are diced, cooked to fall apart in the mouth, but to remain firm enough as to not fall off the fork on the way there, absolutely dripping with butter, sprinkled with pepper. The steak is basking in its own delectable juices, the dinner rolls are crisp and flaky (but positively fluffy on the inside), and the wine is fine and sweet. The smells alone, however, make her want to gag. She forces a straight face only for the sake of Mrs. Peters, trying to think of happier times to help it along.

She knows she won't be comfortable while she sits here, surrounded by the small, cautious conversations swimming mockingly inside her ears. Her face feels hot, practically burning as every light source in the house seems to be shining in her direction. There's a force pressing in on her eardrums and cerebrum, a pair of hands, clasping harder and harder, until they feel like they're going to detonate, send oozing bits of brain careening down the sides of her neck. Her silverware is eased on either side of the plate, allowing her to cradle the sides of her cranium with shaking hands.

She feels sick to her stomach...and the pressure. She can feel the steam building up, buzzing beneath the surface of her skin like a water heater about to explode. She bites back the nausea, swallows down the provocative bile wanting so desperately to surface over the tongue and between her teeth. She excuses herself quietly and speeds away from the table, one hand grasping her stomach, the other clamped over her mouth in a theatric display. It's the only way Mrs. Peters will allow her to leave the table this night, almost a week since she last ate properly.

Archy watches her retreating form with a sinking stomach, leans back against his chair with a sigh.

Mrs. Peters wipes at her mouth with a bit more force than is necessary, tosses her napkin on the table in defeat. "Do you see what I mean? Not even one bite this time."

Lizzie nods, filing away all the information for later diagnosis. "She's depressed, Mrs. Peters. Have you thought of sending her to a clinic? They could get her on an IV; She'll get all the nutrients and therapy she needs."

Mrs. Peters looks anxiously at Archy, brows raising.

He sighs again, also discarding his napkin on the table.

"I know you don't like the idea, Archy, but we've discussed this." Mrs. Peters presses. "If a clinic can sort out people like Johnny Quid-"

"Abby's nothing like Johnny." He cuts in, shakes his head. "She's not a junkie, not an alcoholic-"

"How can you know for certain?" Lizzie asks gently. "She's depressed, she could be-"

"She's not." He says firmly. His brows raise slightly, eyes opening wider as he studies the two women. His voice drops drastically, almost a murmur. "She's not. I would know if she were doing drugs; Lenny hires crack-heads to do the dirty work on the streets. She doesn't have the tell-tale signs-"

Mrs. Peters places a weary hand on top of his, curls her fingers into his palm to silence him. "She's starving herself, Arch. Surely that's just as bad?"

Lizzie draws her brows together as she listens to the exchange. "How often does she stay in her room?"

Mrs. Peters pauses, removes her hand from Archy's. "She's in there all the time. She doesn't come out for breakfast in the mornings, so I suspect she's just sulking around in there before school. Then, she's right back in there, just as soon as she gets back."

Lizzie fingers the stem of her wine glass, lips pressed in a thin line. "Do you know what time school lets out? Is she coming home directly after? Or many hours after the time?"

Mrs. Peters shakes her head. "Never. It's always many hours after the bell rings. She always stops off at that..." Her nose wrinkles in disgust, the words practically rolling off her tongue like venom. "That graveyard. She stays there for hours on end. It can't possibly be helping her."

Lizzie nods, stares at her plate. She reaches up a tired hand to massage her forehead, trying without ease to remember that one psychology class she took at university...all those years ago. What were those different stages of depression? "How does she look when she does come out of her room? Aside from on the way to class, or to run errands. Does she appear more relaxed? Is she happier? No difference at all?" She directs her attention to Archy, getting to her feet now as she begins to think faster. "Does she speak to you?"

He shakes his head, opens his arms a little. "Me? I haven't seen any difference." A deep sigh flows gently out of his nose. "And no, she doesn't speak to me anymore."

"Why do you suppose that is, then?"

He snorts. "Well, I don't know. Maybe I remind her too much of-"

A string of curses floats from down the hall to where the three adults are sitting. Lizzie shares a look with Mrs. Peters, before both turn to Archy. They all stand and run when a louder, toe scrunching scream pierces the air.


She knows that it's wrong. In therapy, they don't fail to mention it to you...five, ten times.

"There are other ways to deal with your emotions." They say. "You can take out your frustrations on a sport, say...boxing, or football. Work yourself physically, so you can wear yourself out mentally. Your body is a work of art. What is self-mutilation going to help?"

Abby stares at herself in the mirror, concentrating on the voice of her past therapist. Her tone was soothing, words carefully chosen, pronounced slowly and deliberately as she smoothed out the decidedly rough parts of the words. She takes a deep breath, watching the memory play out on the smooth surface of the glass.

"But, what if cutting helps me?"

The therapist had simply tilted her head, crossing her legs as she readjusted her writing pad. "How so?"

"It's like I've been bitten by a venomous snake, or spider."

She squeezes her eyes shut as she whispers with the memory, though it does nothing to keep the tears from falling over the edges. The straight-razor rests only a few feet away on the lavatory, barely within reach of her shaking fingers.

"Thinking about my mum is like releasing the poison into my body. It goes straight to my heart, where it's pumped out into my entire body through the bloodstream. The poison attacks my muscles, makes them swell up to the point that they feel like they're going to explode. The bloating of these muscles makes my internal organs feel like they're being squeezed. The worst part is when my chest feels like it's swollen. The force is pressing in on my ribcage, which, ultimately, is restricting my lungs."

She had paused there to look at the psychologist, her breaths heavy and uneven, tears threatening to spill over. "Have you ever heard of, "I Was Bitten"? It's an American television program. It's about these people that get bitten by venomous snakes, spiders, stung by Africanized bees, shark attacks, bear attacks, and how the person survived." She stopped to swallow, but her tongue was dry. The glass of water that sat next to her had never stood a chance. "Well, there was this one man...I think he got bitten by a rattlesnake. His throat swelled up so badly, that they had to shove an air tube down his trachea , and his muscles were so swollen..." She closed her eyes, pictured the footage, "The muscles in his arm were so swollen, that they had to cut it open, or else it would have...popped, basically."

The therapist wrinkled her nose in disgust, but Abby didn't notice. She'd been on a roll, finally able to describe just what her pain felt like...in a way she'd never been able to tell her father. "Well...that's basically how I feel." She'd said, her voice softened, almost a whisper. "If I don't cut myself, if I don't allow my muscles to expand...I'm going to suffocate."

The therapist had just stared at her, amazed by this...this child's use of words. Even some of the adults she'd had to work with weren't this grammatically gifted. She didn't really know what to say, how to respond. She'd just sat, legs crossed, note pad limply hanging in her fingers. "W-well," She'd stuttered, "What if Leonardo Da Vinci got frustrated at his work? What if he took a knife to it every time he was-"

Abby shakes her head, splashes some cool water on her face from the faucet. She'd never felt so hopeless than she did in that therapist's office; she'd poured her heart out, and the woman couldn't even figure out what to say in response. Needless to say, she'd never seen that particular psychologist ever again...they just gave up and sent her to a mental hospital, left her in there with regular visits until she got better.

Her stomach turns at the thought as a few more tears leak out. Would they do that to her again? Would Archy even bother to visit her, too disappointed to have to go to a place like that? Mrs. Peters would, she knows that for certain. Kind, old Widow Peters, with her gentle, yet firm disposition. Maybe even Lizzie would come to see her. But Archy? Her hand slides a few more inches across the lavatory, putting the straight-razor just slightly closer...

"I hate you." She whispers to the object. "I hate you so much."

But, I comfort you. It coos. Remember? I help you relax.

"You make the venom go away." She takes a step over, putting it well within reach.

"I'm so disappointed in you."

She whirls on the spot, wide eyes darting around the room like an angry bee trying to find a way back outside. That voice. That was Richie's voice. She throws open the closet door, rips the shower curtain off its rungs, revealing a dripping shower head. She's all alone. But...that voice! It had been so loud, so clear, as though he'd been standing right next to her, speaking directly into her feels like she's breathing through a straw, breaths shortened to desperate gasps as she struggles for air. Her heart has relocated itself. She lays a trembling hand on her throat, discovering its new home in her airway. She's got to get it out of there, got to rip it out and put it back where it belongs.

Come here, darling. The blade whispers. I'll make breathing bearable.

She looks up at it, on her knees now. Only one arm is supporting her weight, pressing painfully down on the counter to keep her from falling. "You're going to kill me!" She screams.

No! No! Never kill! It assures. Only make everything better.

A choked sob forces its way past her heart, ricochets off the walls of the tiny room, only to shoot their own master in the ears. She screams at the pain, grabbing the razor as she falls to the floor. "You can't help! You never help!" She opens the blade anyway, catching her eyes in its reflection. She's frightened by how she doesn't even look like the same person, rather like a fugitive broken free from his cell, running wildly from the dogs and gunshots not too far behind. "I'm going crazy." She whimpers. "You can't help my mentality."

Yes. Yes I can, sweetheart. I can heal your pain, if only for a little while. It murmurs. Come here, embrace me. Let me show you it's going to be okay.

She allows herself to cave in to its seduction. The steam is slowly blowing away, the skin opening just enough to allow her muscles to breathe. She gasps blissfully, allowing the coolness of the steel to soothe the consuming fire beneath. The venom that was paralyzing her body runs freely down her forearm, staining the white cloth of her rolled-up sleeve, but she doesn't care. It's all going away, relinquishing its strangle-hold. Her air passage opens up, gives her heart enough room to slip freely from its cramped home, easily traveling safely back between ribs three and four, slithering quietly over her left lung, situating itself easily back between the two airbags. She tries to laugh, relieved with her new-found freedom of oxygen, but it comes out in a sob. She isn't surprised. How many times has she tried to laugh, only for it to turn into more depression?

She lays her head back against the cabinet beneath the sink, nose turned up at the ceiling as she lays her bloodied hand on the floor, finally able to loosen her grip on the razor. "This doesn't change anything." She cries tearfully. "I still hate you, you bastard!"

The door flings against the wall with a deafening crack, showering her with splinters. Someone else is shouting, too, screaming explicit words at her. Archy yanks her up by the back of the shirt, slaps the razor out of her hand, cutting the back of his in the process.

"Ow! You're hurting me!" She yells at him.

He holds her wrist with an iron grasp under the faucet, pins her elbow to the side of the sink to keep her from jerking away. "You've hurt yourself more than I'm hurting you!" He yells, not even half a foot from her face. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I couldn't breathe!" She shouts back. The sadness leaks down into the drain, disappearing with the blood, only to be replaced by the anger of the crimson.

"So you cut yourself? That doesn't make any damned sense!" He reaches for the soap, now, scrubbing the cuts with his rough palm.

"You don't understand!"

"Apparently I don't!" He scoffs. "What the f-"

"Archy." Lizzie lays a calm hand on his back, a first aid kit near the sink. "Calm down." She looks quietly over his shoulder, surveying the damage.

Abby looks at the woman, curiously, oblivious to whatever Archy says after the attempt to soothe him. Her face is composed into a mask of such...such serenity. There's something so natural about it, yet supernatural at the same time. Her nostrils don't flare like Archy's. Her eyes aren't blazing. She simply observes Archy's work, silently. It's at that moment that she realizes...She isn't Lizzie, the friend, anymore. She's an emergency surgeon. She's Doctor Elizabeth Sheffield. She catches the younger woman staring at her, sighs gently through her nose.

She looks back down at her arm, unable to bear the full-fledged disappointment. When she does, her eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. Seven cuts adorn her forearm, each a different depth or angle. Hadn't she only cut herself twice? Three times, tops? She looks up into the mirror, catching a glimpse of where the razor hit the wall. Blood. Blood spattered on the blue and white wallpaper. Blood spilled all over the floor. Bloody shoe prints where Archy had trekked right through it. Blood still going down the drain. No wonder they're all freaked out...it looks like a crime scene.

She lowers her head, hope above hope that Archy won't move his shoulder out from under it in disgust. She realizes now, she didn't just hurt herself. She hurt everyone else in the process. She looks at Archy, brooding but silently cleaning her wounds. Lizzie tries to scrub some of the blood off the wall. For the first time, she notices that there's no trace of Mrs. Peters, not anywhere near. She looks at Archy in the mirror, who looks back down at the lacerates. "Wh-...Where's Mrs. Peters?" She whispers.

He refuses to look at her, answering stiffly, "Laying down in her room. She almost fainted when she saw that you'd mutilated yourself."

Most definitely. She'd let everyone down. Her head lowers back to Archy's shoulder, where she allows herself to cry openly. She hasn't felt this rotten in a long time. Come to think of it, she didn't even feel this tiny and useless at Richie's funeral. The quiet hiccups crescendo back into body jerking, breathy sobs.

Archy shifts his weight uncomfortably, glances at Lizzie in the mirror.

She simply pushes off from the wall, glances over his shoulder with a satisfied nod. "Good, Archy. You've cleaned them well enough. I'll go get the hydrogen peroxide from the fridge."

Watching her leave, he respires an exasperated sigh, turns his attention to the sink. "Right then." He mumbles awkwardly, deciding it's time to turn off the faucet. He seats the crying teen on the edge of the bathtub, himself on the toilet lid, after fetching a hand-towel. Keeping his head down, he allows her to rest her arm in his lap, where he keeps firm pressure on it. It's only now that he notices he's bleeding, as well. It must have happened when he'd swatted the razor away, but it doesn't bother him...He's had worse.

Much worse.

He shoves the torn shower-curtain aside when Lizzie returns, deciding the tub will be best for the peroxide cleaning. Holding her firmly by the wrist, he positions her arm just over the edge, and without warning, without giving her the benefit of at least using a rag, tilts the bottle, dumping the clear liquid along the length of her pale forearm. It bubbles and hisses, mixing with what little bits of blood are left. The chemical reaction earns a wince out of the recipient, even makes her so bold as to reach out and grasp the excess of Archy's sleeve with her uninjured hand. He acts like he doesn't notice, choosing instead to go about laying down the gauze, while Lizzie moves a roll of medical tape around said arm in a spiraling motion.

He moves to the sink without looking at either of them, a frown pulling prominently at the corners of his lips. The crusty, old blood breaks free of his hand like it had just been sitting on the surface for decoration. "Go sit in the living room." He says quietly, reaches for the peroxide bottle. The medicine makes contact with the exposed under layers of skin and tissue, licking at them like a diseased dog at his wounds; his eye brows don't even so much as twitch when it gives off its signature hiss.

The living room is Abby's favorite in the flat. The large, wide windows allow enough light in during the day that electricity isn't needed. The couch cushions are almost as comfortable as her mattress, and the white paint and openness of the room give her a sense of sanctuary and fresh air, unlike the small, dark, closed-in room back at her old flat. But tonight, with the outside light seeming to dissipate more rapidly by the minute, the blinds drawn and closed, it feels like a cave...if not smaller.

Archy and Lizzie walk into the living room side by side, expressions somber as they quietly exchange words to one another. They pause by the front door, every now and then sending a glance or two in the general direction of the girl. Five minutes go by before eventually, Archy reaches for the door knob, nodding gently as Lizzie sticks a foot outside. Abby watches curiously as she squeezes his upper arm, passing on a few more sentences, before making her exit.

For a moment, he doesn't look at her when he sits opposite of her on the coffee table. He holds his left hand gently in his right, thumb stroking the bandage.

She watches him, mouth opening and closing most of the time before she can get the words out. "Well?" She asks timidly.

He looks at her from under his eyebrows, raising them shortly after. "What?" His voice is surprisingly gruff, not hostile, as Abby was expecting.

She swallows tightly, looks down at her faded blue, blood-stained sneakers. "Aren't you going to ask why I did it?"

He sighs, a heavily deep-drawn breath through his nose, and swallows too. "Ask no questions, you hear no lies." He clears his throat. "But, it was on my mind."

The room is dead silent, save for the wall clock that ticks loudly. Abby envies it; apparently, even it's braver than she to allow its voice to be heard. She glances up at it, watching with the last tiny sliver of hope as the sun finally sets down behind the skyscrapers.

"You got somewhere to go?" Archy asks, not seeming to care about the balance of silence he's just broken. He crosses his right leg over the left, entwines his fingers over the knee. "Do you think he'd be happy with you, Abby?"

Tiny pinpricks behind her eyes begin to sting. She wraps her arms around herself, holds her legs tighter against each other. "No." She whispers shakily.

He holds his arms open, a gesture once thought to be warm, now seeming to mock her. "Well? You seem to want to tell me why you did it."

She squeezes her eyes shut, fighting the burning tears. One rebelliously trickles out and onto her left cheek, drawing a sharp breath out of her. "I miss him...It suffocates me to think about him."

He nods, brows raising again. "Tell me how cutting yourself helps that...I'm not sure I understand that part."

She takes a deep breath, wills herself to continue. "Like I said: I feel like I'm being suffocated. A tea kettle boils water until steam is shooting out of the spout. That's exactly what I feel. I have to cut myself, in order for the steam to have an outlet." She can't stand the intensity of his gaze anymore, piercing her like individual knives. Again, she drops her head, only this time into her waiting palms.

Archy places his hands on either side of his hips, looking off to the side as he sighs again. "Lizzie and I had a talk," He states, his voice a little softer. The new tone draws Abby out of her hands, and he looks full-on at her as he speaks. "We both agreed that...it might be best if you went away for a little while, took a bit of thera-"

"No." She whispers firmly. She shakes her head, wondering where the boldness is coming from. "No, I'm not going to therapy again...I refuse."

"Abby," He leans forward, voice dropping again. "It'll help you. They can teach you ways to deal with your grief without-" He looks at her bandaged arm uneasily, swallowing a little easier now as he recites his practiced lines, "Without hurting yourself. You'll have people to talk to that have been through the same thi-"

Somewhere, she finds the energy deep within to shove herself angrily off the couch. "No!" She shouts, and even she's surprised at her bravado when her voice echoes off the walls. "I'm not going!"

He stands, too, knocking the coffee table back. "Yes you are!" He yells. "Don't mistake yourself in thinking you're the only one that misses him! It's a shame. It's a damned shame! But," He gestures aggressively at her arm, "This isn't anyway to deal with it! He's dead, Abby! Got it? Dead. You go to that dirty stinkin' graveyard every night like you're visiting with someone that responds back! You stay out late, you don't tell us when you're coming home." He flails his arms in the air, exasperated. "I'm worried about you!" Now he grabs her tightly by the shoulders, shakes them firmly. "Do you understand that? You're not some orphan out on your own! You have family to come back to, however small it is!"

Abby tries to rip away from his grasp, only to have him irritatingly grab her by the excess of her right sleeve. She beats at his chest in a blind rage with her fists, able to see nothing but the color red. Enraged about getting caught. Enraged about being told what she's going to do. Enraged about someone speaking about her dad in such a manner. "You're not my family!" She screams. "Family members don't keep secrets from one another, and they don't speak about the dead like some pet! I hate you! I hate you!" She ignores the pain in her left arm, disregards the fact that the bandages are being stained with scarlet. "Do you understand that? I. Hate. You!"

Archy stands quietly, taking his beating like he did only a year ago. Takes it for as long as he can bear it, anyway. In a swift move, he grabs her wrists, restrains them just enough to keep them from coming near his chest. Then, without question of what to do next, pulls her against him, wraps his arms tightly around her. She strikes at his back, her incoherent words muffled by his chest. Even after she stops struggling, he continues to hold her, afraid to let go. His right hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, strokes the wheat-colored threads as the other rubs soothing circles along the length of her back.

"Shhh, shhh. Abs, listen. Listen to me. It's for the best. I'm doing this because I love you." He murmurs, bending his head over hers.

She grips handfuls of his coat, squeezes him tight enough that it squishes her nose. "How can you claim to love me," She mumbles, "If you're willing to send me away?"

He opens his mouth, pulls in a shaky breath. "It's a serious matter, Abby. Things like this...they shouldn't be skirted."

"Yeah." She whispers. "It is for the best. But," She lifts her head from his chest, allows him to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm not going without a fight. I'm awfully sorry about this-" She swings hard against his stomach with her fist, makes a run for the door when he doubles over.

He hobbles right behind her, hand clamped over his belly. He makes it to the bottom of the stairs before stopping, trying to regain his breath. "Abby!" He calls. It's too late. He catches a flurry of her figure behind the closing elevator doors.

Mrs. Peters is waiting for him in the living room when he gets back, worry-lines prominent on her brow, eyes shining with concern. "What's happened? What was all that yelling?" She takes a moment to look at him, particularly noting his bent posture. "Archy?"

He eases himself down on the couch with a grunt, crossing his ankles on the crooked coffee table as he closes his eyes. "We had a disagreement," He winces, places his hands on his stomach. "About rehabilitation." His brows quirk. "She doesn't want to go."

"Disagreement, indeed." She mutters. "Getting bashed in the gut isn't having a disagreement...It's having a fight."

"Well, I could hardly hit her back, could I?" He snaps. "Give it an hour. If she isn't back by then, I'll go looking for her."

"Fine, fine. I'll put on a kettle. Call Turbo, would you? I want him here with the car as soon as possible."

He nods. "Right. Will do." He raises his brows, watches her retreating form. "Oh, and Mrs. Peters? I'll have a beer."


She wonders about the intelligence of her decision as she drags herself down the sidewalk, sleeves rolled down to her thumbs. Crying doesn't seem to phase him. Hitting him didn't phase him. What good is running away going to do? Not running away, she reminds herself, Just taking a walk. "But, how long of a walk? How far?" She responds to herself. She catches the whiff of a cigarette in passing, stops to stare in longing. After a moment, she follows them at a brisk pace. "Uhm, 'scuse me, sir?"

The man turns. He's hardly any older than she is, mussed up hair, hasn't shaved in a few days. "Speakin' to me?"

She bows her head a little, rubs the back of her neck. "Yeah. Uhm...Could you spare me a cigarette?"

The stranger's brows arch. He takes the cancer stick out of his mouth, studies her with disturbing interest. "Forget the cig, sweetheart. You look like you need a drink." He looks over his shoulder, yanks a thumb in the same direction. "I'm on me way to the pub. Care to join me?"

She gives him a half-hearted chuckle. "No, but thanks very much. Just had an argument with my uncle, is all. I'm going to go back to him after a cigarette, if that's alright with you."

The young man's shoulders slouch a little, but he nods. "Alright, sweetheart. But, you're missing out on a good time." He winks. "I could bring you a smile, or two."

She winks back, taking the offered smoke. "You already have, mister." With a neat little smirk, she leans in close, close enough to make him uncomfortable, and lights her cigarette on his.

He grins, leaning back in amusement. "Are you sure you don't want to come with me to the pub?"

She laughs, slowly leaning next to his face to grab another cig. "No, but I appreciate the offer." Turning, she sends him one last flirty smile, before walking off.

She'd quit smoking a year ago, vowing she'd never touch another cancer stick. But after tonight...What more is one more broken promise going to hurt? Promise to Richie to never cut herself again. Promise to stay off of cigarettes. Promise to herself to treat Archy with the utmost respect for taking her in. Cancer stick, she muses. That's why she'd quit. Too many family members, friends of the family were dying off from lung disease, or other such causes of smoking. It's not like the box doesn't come with a warning label. But, oh, how it feels good.

She takes in a nice, deep breath, feels the smoke travel down her windpipe, spread out into her lungs, before blowing out the excess. A moment later, the nicotine kicks in, causing her steps to become unsteady, her body wanting to go this way, while she wants to go that way. She laughs, carelessly, openly to the empty streets, tucking the other cig behind her left ear. She can't say she wasn't expecting any side-effects after not touching one in a year.

One cigarette smoked down to the filter, she uses it to light the other, deciding to walk just a little bit longer. She goes across a bridge without noticing, around a pond without hearing the ducks quack. Soon, it's been half an hour, and still, she walks. She's surprised at how few the people have been in all this time, how shady they look when someone does pass her. She begins to go across the bridge again, nerves and smarts nagging at her.

"You speak to me like that again, and I'll kill you without thinking twice!"

What did he say? She stops, tip-toes back to the beginning of the bridge.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cole! I didn't mean-"

Cole? Lenny Cole? Isn't that who Archy works f-

"You almost exposed me, you understand that? You should know not to deal with unfamiliar customers!"

"Honestly, Mr. Cole! I didn't know! You don't just have us deal to street scum, we deal to gentlemen, too! Crooked cops, for Pete's sake!"

She gets down on her hands and knees, scoots just to the edge of the steps. It is Mr. Cole! But what's he doing?"

"You never sell to a gentleman we haven't done a background check on! How stupid are you, you f-"

I knew that man didn't work in real-estate! She shakes her head, inches down a couple more stairs.

"Immigrant? Danny, shoot 'im before I have a heart attack! This stupid bastard is of no more use! Go on, then, shoot him!" Lenny barks.

A man, Danny, apparently, steps out of the four-man crowd of thugs, silenced-pistol in hand. He aims it at the offender without blinking.

"No! No! I won't do it ag-"

Click. Click click...click.

The man is thrown back against the brick arch of the bridge, slumping down to his back-side in what's left of dried creak scum, bird waste, feathers and dead leaves.

Abby can't see the man's face, can't see his soul leaving his eyes, or his slack jaw swinging by the hinges, dangling just above his shoulder. She did, however, see a man fire a gun, and another one die after a violent jig, which is just as good. A shriek projects involuntarily over her tongue, past her teeth before she can clamp a hand over her mouth.

The accidental outburst draws the attention of the rough crowd (including a certain man dressed in all black, from his fedora, tie, even down to his socks and shoes). For a minute, they just stare at her, their pupils adjusting as though they've just remembered they were out in public, with the danger (fulfilled, now), of being caught. Abby stares, too, the lines and details of each individual face being burned into her memory...the faces of people that very well might just kill her.

Lenny's momentary shock is hidden behind his sunglasses (even worn at night, apparently). The girl's face won't go unremembered by his memory, either, having realized just who has caught him in the act. He pretends not to recognize her, for the benefit of the end of the situation, or for his image in front of the men on his payroll, he doesn't know. "What the f-"

Oh, sh-

"-Are you staring at?"

Panicked, she trips up the stairs a few times, scrapes her chin a few good ones, before making it back up to the bridge. She can hear Lenny shouting beneath her feet, hear him goading the men to chase after her, before he has them shot, too.

The men are on her in a heartbeat, a pack of hounds after a fox. By-standers pause to see what all the noise is about. She looks at them with frantic eyes, flails her arms wildly as she leaps just in time to avoid tripping over a branch. "Help me!" She calls to them. "Help!"

None oblige.

She notes a patch of trees, planted in neat rows, just a few yards before the sidewalk and a major street. Heart in her throat, she heads for the patch, runs a zig-zag pattern between them. Someone's fingers brush the base of her neck, begin to grab the excess of her shirt collar. Terrified, Abby brushes shoulders with one of the trees, successfully knocking the man's face into it. He falls to the ground with blood spattered across his broken nose, crooked for the rest of his life.

She chances a glance over her shoulder. Two more people pursue her. Two? I thought there were- Her legs connect with a park bench, breaking the two top-most boards of the back support. She flings her arms in front of her face, managing to make her elbows crack against the seat instead of her chin. She groans unashamedly in the middle of the sidewalk, rolls over onto her side to cradle her right arm against her.

"Ooh!"

"That's gotta hurt..."

"Is she alright?"

"She may need to go to the hospital! Someone check on her."

A ginger, perhaps in her fifties, kneels over her, molds a hand around the ball of her shoulder. "Are you alright, dear? You took quite a-"

"Those men!" She breathes. "I'm being chased! I-"

"Chased? Someone's chasing her?"

"Who's being chased? Do they have guns?"

"Who has a gun?"

A bobby and his partner make their way gently through the crowd. "What's this about a gun, I hear?" The first one, raven-haired, addresses the people.

The ginger looks up at them. "This girl says she was being chased-"

"By who?" The partner, a short black woman, asks.

Abby carefully eases herself to a sitting position, arm still cradled tightly against her. The two men are nowhere to be seen. "I-...I don't know who they were. I..." She pauses. "They were trying to rob me." Her stomach tightens. Rob you? What are you lying to the police for?

The black bobby eases herself to a squatting position, takes out a notepad. Her partner begins to question the crowd. "What did these men look like, dear? What were they trying to get from you?"

"Uhm..." She glances around again. "My mobile. They were watching me speak into it. When I put it away, they came around and asked for it. I couldn't really see their faces...All I know is that they were wearing black."

"And this happened just now?"

She nods. "Mhm."

"Are you alright? Do you need a lift to the hospital?"

"No, but-"

It's him. Just leaning there against the lamp post, watching the scene with amusement. Black fedora and tie, socks and shoes. His eyes remind her of Charlie's: brilliant blue, incredibly observant. He smiles at her, points his fingers at his eyes, then hers. Before Abby can warn the policewoman, he's gone.

"I think I did something to my leg. Could you help me get home?"


"You be safe, now. Hear me, Archy? I don't want to be getting any phone calls that you're in hospital, too, if she isn't already."

Archy checks the magazine of his pistol. He's taking the more favored of his collection: a silver magnum, given to him by Lenny as a reward for his first job done well. Nodding, he slips the magazine back into the chamber. "As always, Mrs. Peters. Call me if she comes back, alright?"

She nods, pats Turbo on the shoulder. "Take care of him, will you, Turbo?"

He smiles. "Yes, ma'm. Always, ma'm."

"Alright, Turbo. Loaded? Ready to-"

A buzzer sounds at the front door. Archy picks up the phone, brows knotted. "Hello?"

"Mister Crackit? Mister Archibald Crackit?"

He frowns. No one calls him Archibald anymore. Not unless they're officials. "Speaking."

"Mister Crackit, this is Officer Peak. We have a young lady down here that says she's your niece. A one...Abigail Crackit?"

He turns to look at Turbo, then Mrs. Peters, who breathes a sigh of relief. "Yes, that's her. Want me to come down, or-"

"No, no, that's fine. We'd like to have a word. Nothing serious, just a short chat."

He breathes a sigh out of his nose, nods. "That'll be fine, thanks...Come up."

The policewoman smiles at him when he opens the door, keeps a hand gently on Abby's shoulder. The raven-haired officer just nods...curtly. Abby's relieved to see that he doesn't look angry. More so, he looks relieved.

"I hope there wasn't any trouble." He says quietly, hiding the magnum behind him.

The woman smiles. "No, no. Your niece isn't the center of any mischief. Rather, she was the victim."

Abby avoids his gaze, looks at the woman when she removes her hand. "May I go, please?" She doesn't waste any time when she receives a nod, ducks beneath Archy's arm as he holds the door open. She doesn't listen to the details the police give him. She barely feels Mrs. Peters smother her with a hug only a mother can give. She almost doesn't register the nod sent her direction by Turbo. All she knows at this point is the pain in both arms, embarrassment at having to be brought home like a teenager caught toilet-papering on halloween night.

"You've scraped your chin! And your arm is bleeding." Mrs. Peters fusses.

"I'm fine." Abby says weakly. "I just...I just need to lay down."

"Well, at least let me-"

"Mrs. Peters." Her voice is soft. Firm, albeit, but not irritated. "It's noting I can't take care of. I'm going to my room, now. Thank you."

Her bed. Her bed has never felt this good. Tempur-pedic? Please. Now laying on her back, she can feel the stress of the day, the torturous, emotional events taking a toll on her body. There isn't a single part of her that doesn't hurt. She strips off her blood-stained shirt, groans as she replaces it with the black tank-top laying wadded at the end of the bed. She opens the blinds to allow the street light to shine in, effectively illuminating the room. The bandages on her left arm look absolutely disgusting. Her right arm has already begun to turn black. This isn't release...This is morality turning around to punish her for self-mutilation.

She jumps when someone knocks on the door. Flustered, she doesn't respond, waiting instead for it to open. Archy pokes his head in after a moment, pulls her into a rough hug after the door slams behind him. After tonight's events, his hug only hurts, but she doesn't care. She hugs him with fervor just as equal, inhales his cologne that isn't too strong, yet definitely masculine. Which is also why it surprises her when he shoves her away after a minute.

"Don't you ever, ever run off like that again." He scolds, squeezing her shoulder as he waves a finger in her face. "Do you understand? Do you have any-" He stops, shakes his head. "No, you don't. You have no idea how worried I was. And when the police showed up-"

She throws her arms around him again, nearly sending the both of them careening backwards. It surprises her at how much comfort she gets out of just being around him, now. Inhaling his scent, hearing his voice, even if it's chastising. She hugs him all the more tighter, wincing at her throbbing right arm. "I'm sorry I hit you." She mumbles against his chest. "And I'm sorry I ran off. You must have been sick about the whole thing."

Surprised, it takes him a moment to hug her back. He slowly snakes his arms around her, strokes her hair. "Do you remember what those men looked like?"

"No. It was dark...I couldn't see much of anything." She looks up at him, rests her chin on his chest. "I'm sorry." She whispers. "I'm so sorry."

He rubs her back with a sigh, cups her shoulders as he looks at the window, then her eyes. "You're safe-"

Not for long...

"That's all I care about." With one final squeeze to her shoulders, he releases her from his arms, walks slowly to the door. "Get some sleep. I'll have Lizzie look at your arm tomorrow...And we need to have a talk." He stares at her seriously, allows the door to break his gaze.

She goes directly to her mobile when his footsteps recede, allows the tears to flow unchecked while the connection goes through. "Charlie? We need to talk."

A Glance Into the Author's Mind: Symbolism:

Talking Straight Razor: The devil. He whispers into your ears at times of temptation, telling you how good it will feel, only to throw it back in your face just how stupid you are once you cave to the crave.

Richie's Voice, Just Before Cutting: Abby's conscience, and the disappointment of God looking down at sin.

The symbolism didn't really start out that way when I wrote it, but looking back, I decided I'd throw out what it symbolized to the author after a read-through. :-) If you'd like to know anything else about the reason behind the symbolism, feel free to send me a message.

I apologize for the long wait! Headaches, irregular sleep patterns, writer's block. You name it. I hope this was long enough to make up for all that time. Special thank you to my lovely reviewers: G.G. Blythe, Yranthro, Smthng2B, SelenesLegacy, and Ennya. Your input is greatly appreciated! Also, special SPECIAL thank you to my friend G.G. Blythe, who is constantly helping me with the character analysis that is our beloved Archy.

You know the drill! Hit the review button. Likes/Loves, Dislikes/Hates. Let me know!