Abigail stood tall among the dead, looking down at her father with flared nostrils and heavy- staggered breaths. She could barely keep it together that evening, anger and somber haunting her soul wouldn’t leave as her people celebrated. She sat amongst the drunkards, drinking herself into half a good mood. Yet, when she saw you, she couldn’t bring herself to explain her ire. An uncharacteristic response due to her blunt and direct nature. Now you’d notice she never cared so much for appearing weak than when she was weak.