When the Angels Fell

Chapter 17: In Flames

Fire...all around...all consuming.

Pain...agonising....invasive.

She fell.

And she remembered.

****

'Abigail!'

The voice of her teacher snapped her out of the state of deep thought she had been trapped in since seeing Morwena.

Why here?

Why now?

'Sorry sir,' she apologised, hastily scanning the confusing sprawl of numbers and symbols on the board. 'What was the question?'

'You really are impossible,' the teacher sighed, turning to face the rest of the class. 'How about....Kieran? Maybe you can enlighten us'

'52, sir'

'Very good, Kieran. I'm glad at least one of you has not lost their brain cells. Now if we take the value of x-'

Abigail put her head back down on the table and mentally searched for something that didn't bring back memories of Daniel, Saecar or any of the dark world she had been introduced to. She settled on a summer holiday to Ibiza a few years back, which had also been one of the last times she had seen her dad truly smile. Sense memory brought back the soft white sand, the scorching heat and the tangy smell of the sea salt. Abigail sighed contentedly, blissfully lost in the past. The storm clouds that had clouded her head for several long weeks retreated, if only temporarily, to the darkest corners of her mind.

Then they came back, suddenly and with shocking ferocity, propelling Abigail into a raging torrent of pain and anguish.

Dad!

Is he breathing?

Dad!

Stablise him!

Mocking laughter echoed through the surge of water, shouting and panic.

This isn't me, Abigail thought frantically. I'm not doing this

Hello child

Go away!

Why? Being here and tormenting you is so much more fun

Abigail cried out and shot up from her seat, the overload of emotions and mental manipulation making her physically sick. Ignoring the stares and whispering that sprang up in her wake, she staggered over to the door while the room spun nauseatingly.

'Where do you think you're going?' the teacher demanded, glaring at her with crossed arms.

'Toilet...throw up,' Abigail managed to choke out, barely noticing his scowl of disapproval as she stumbled through the door.

The corridors passed by in a sickness-induced blur as she staggered through them in a desperate search for the nearest bathroom. Finding one, she forced open the door and retched violently into the nearest sink; ignoring the splatters that missed and hit the wall instead. Taking a long shaky breath after her now empty stomach slid back down her throat, Abigail looked up at her tortured reflection in the mirror.

Her hair stuck to her face, slick with sweat and spots of vomit. Her skin was deathly pale; accentuating her bloodshot eyes and purple rings around them. Every stress line on her face seemed larger and deeper, forming a network of ravines and crevasses across her skin.

Ripping at least half of the tissue paper from the holder, Abigail spent a sizeable amount of time cleaning her face, the wall and, with conscious effort, the sink. Finally feeling somewhat satisfied with her efforts, she binned the dirty tissues and made to leave the bathroom. It was as she stepped into the corridor that she heard the voice and instantly knew she was in trouble.