* 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙬𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣 !

failure . failure . failure . the word echoes in her head until it loses all meaning . it’s a pitiful respite from the relentless grief , to ruminate on how pitiful she is . a sorry excuse for a calm between the storms of anguish that seem to situate themselves in succession in her heart . glassy - eyes fix on the fireplace , watching the flames dance from her position on the bed . she’s pale , despite the insistent west - elizabeth sun , wide awake despite exhaustion  . but most of all , she’s a failure .

she could not bring herself to aid in the preparation of a gravesite . she was not meant to prepare one , and this one was far too small . just big enough for an unlived life wishes had been relayed in broken mumbles to jack ( make sure she can see the house , i don’t want her getting scared ) , who was tasked with finding the right spot . tasked in etching out a headstone for a life he was grieving too . he had done good . but she had failed in telling him that .

she watched as jack wept , his hand tucked up against hers . saw uncle wipe at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. even the wife of a blackwater shopkeep ( a budding friend of abigail’s who had tasked herself with managing more of the things abigail failed to do ) shed a tear . and there she stood , stony and silent until the party of mourners left.

                                      had she failed to grieve for her daughter , too ?

       had her heart become so irreparably broken there was nothing left to grieve with ?

she dwells on these thoughts for too long , blatantly ignoring the fact that no soul on earth ( barring one ) could have loved that little girl more than she had in the days they had been blessed with . that , after this , no one would remember her with more fondness .

the bed sags beside her , a mild creak accompanying it as she feels the other occupant shifting around . a pair of hands reach out , place themselves gently against her shoulders. they are held there for a moment , as if trying to determine whether or not she will flinch from their touch. a valid question , as she has done in the past days . determining it is safe to proceed , thumbs trace gentle circles into her skin . abigail leans back into the touch , something akin to a dry , strangled sob permeating the air .

                    she feels she has failed him , too , in some inexplicable way .                     somehow she was not enough  - - somehow this is her fault.

                                                     ❛❛ i’m so sorry. ❜❜ she croaks ,

      ❛❛  i didn’t - ❜❜ she cannot continue , for this time she does weep - openly and without hesitation , turning toward him .

                                            at the very least , it is a relief to know she still CAN.