Sometimes, it feels like Abigail was born cursing your name.

“And another thing,” she continues, shoving her finger in your scarred face.

God, your face.

Your right eye is completely unusable, the deep gashes across your face made sure of that. Abigail had nearly fainted when she first saw you, and still she can’t quite meet your eye without tearing up.

“If you EVER do anything this stupid again, I’ll kill you myself. How the hell did you even manage—“

You close your eyes, her voice fading to background noise as the warm cloth she uses to gently wipe away the blood on your carefully face meets your skin again.

Before Arthur and Javier found you huddled up on that mountain, the wolf pack nearby circling ever closer, you had silently prayed to whoever may be listening that you could at least get one last glimpse of your dearly beloved, kind, and sweet Abigail. Thoughts of her smile, or her laugh, or how she painted the picture of a life outside the gang so clearly you could taste it.

Somehow, you had caught the good graces of something, because when you came to, it was Abigail’s blurry face you saw first, and her distraught voice you heard second. Her fists came last, though she had been careful to hit you where it didn’t hurt too bad.

“Are you still awake?” Abigail asks nervously, your silence stretching on much longer than she’s used to.