[There is, Abigail knows, a mask above her desk. A mark. A sign. An indication of imperfection. This keeps her going. It keeps her breath steady. It keeps her from drifting away into the gaps in time that threaten to tug her apart.]
[Hesitantly, she steps forward - not touching, but close enough to be reached out to if she's needed. Winston leans on her leg, but she doesn't lean down to scratch behind his ears. It's not her who needs comfort now.]
[Her voice is a brittle rasp, but she knows who and what and where she is, and she still isn't crying.]
spam
[Hesitantly, she steps forward - not touching, but close enough to be reached out to if she's needed. Winston leans on her leg, but she doesn't lean down to scratch behind his ears. It's not her who needs comfort now.]
[Her voice is a brittle rasp, but she knows who and what and where she is, and she still isn't crying.]
Hannibal killed me.