Chapter Two

Her plan had been to get directly into her coffin, shut the lid, something she rarely did any more, and cry. There was no plan beyond that. She shed her clothes and started to her room but as she remembered his face, burned, angry and tired she had to run for the bathroom. She was sick over and over again, lying on the tile floor, cold against her legs, her arms rested on the seat of the toilet, her face swollen, red, tear stained.

The coffin seemed too comforting now, and she didn't want comfort, she wanted to sit in her pain. It came over her, wave after wave of emotion. Gibbs had walked away, her protector, her friend, the man against whom she measured all the men in her world. He hadn't wanted to hear her speak, didn't care to hear about her pain. His promises had meant nothing.

She thought of how she felt when she had heard about the explosion. She couldn't get to him quickly enough. They were tighter than family, that's what she had told the nurse, that's what she had believed but she was wrong. He had allowed her to feel special and she had trusted him enough to allow it herself.

You don't just walk away from someone that special. You walk away from co-workers. You walk away from people you don't care about. All those times he had smiled at her, rubbed her back, brought her Caff-Pow's, kissed her cheek, told her he loved her in signs only they would understand evaporated when the elevator doors closed behind him.

How many other people had he allowed to feel this way? She had been stupid to think that he treated her in a way he had never treated anyone. Every job he'd had there was probably a girl or two crying when he left, the same way she cried now. Screaming, sobbing, and ripping her throat to bits in disappointment and fear.

She could never have left him, how could it have been so easy for him to feel so little?

Exhausted, physically and emotionally her breath hiccupped through her in painful bursts. The tension released from her body, her arms and legs were useless to her now, unwilling to follow the smallest command. She lay on the floor and could only listen as the phone rang and the machine did what she couldn't.

"Abby? It's me Tim. Call me."

"Hey, It's McGee, let's have dinner. Give me a call okay?"

"Abigail? It's Doctor Mallard. I promised Jethro I'd make certain you were okay. Are you home dear?"

No, JETHRO, she thought after Ducky's call, I'm NOT Okay. I trusted you and you left me like everyone else has. Ducky's not going to cut it, you can't send in a replacement when you're tired of the job.

"Hi Abbs, me again, um okay, call me. Yeah? Okay."

The calls kept coming. Even Tony tried her once leaving a brief "It's gonna be fine Abbs."

She barely had the energy to blink. It wasn't going to be okay. They'd all miss Gibbs, but this was different. Or it wasn't, she thought angrily. It was for her, but for him it was the same, he left them all, exactly the same.

In between the calls from her coworkers (her anger wouldn't permit her to label them friends just now) there were hang ups. She figured they were McGee, she could sense the worry in him when Tony had called him away. He had leaned to kiss the top of her head as he left but she had pulled away. She felt bad about that, but the gaping hole in her chest didn't allow for much pity for anyone but herself.

Trying to sit up Abby's shoulder crashed into the toilet. A clanging noise behind the tank caught her attention and time froze when her eyes focused on the small piece of metal on the floor. It was years ago that she had stashed the razor blade there. It was a testament to how far she'd come that she had forgotten something that had once been such a deep ritual for her. Her fingers shook as she reached out to touch it but then pulled back her arm as though it might burn her.

She had never hurt this deeply back when she was cutting herself. If ever there was a time to let out some of the pain this was it. Her mind flashed back to all of the times before, watching the thin red line appear on her arm and feeling the flood of relief that accompanied it. Scars like badges of pain had been covered long ago with tattoos.

Abby was the sweet spot for everyone. Abby was the happy one. Abby was the strong one. Abby never got depressed.

Did they have eyes?

The skulls, the darkness, the gothic look and hearse, these weren't fashion statements. Abby identified with the twisted, the broken, the things that looked pretty but weren't on the inside. It's a lonely childhood when no one can hear you cry. She stopped trying and just worked on being the good girl but the darkness seeped out, in her hair, in her clothes, in the scarlet lines that crossed her skin.

Gibbs heard her cry. He heard her and he came and comforted her and made her believe that she wasn't broken or twisted or ugly inside. He made her feel like he would always hear her and come to her when she was certain no one would.

And now he was gone, but the blade was here.

It used to take such a small tear in her skin to make her feel better. Maybe it wouldn't take much more this time.

She chose a space on her thigh, closed her eyes and began to apply pressure to the razor.

The phone ring and she held her breath.

"This is Abby, hit me with it:"

So quiet she wasn't sure she heard him, "Abbs?"