Once again, thanks for all the comments! I've edited this, to the best of my ability, according to the suggestions given to me, please let me know if you see anything else that needs fixing! Thanks again!
~Chapter 2~
Images raced behind her eyes, running in circles until it made her dizzy. “If I tell you, will you be able to give me employment?” she said, eyes still closed.
“Tha’ depends on the answer, miss Abigail.” She nodded once. This might be her last chance.
Slowly, she forced the images in her mind to slow down, to ebb their way around, rather than race. Slowly, Abigail began to tell her tale.
“You see...”
Abigail opened her eyes, her mother leaning over her.
“Darling, it’s time to wake.” she whispered softly.
Abigail yawned sleepily, “Yes mother…” she whispered back.
She lay quiet for a moment, allowing her dreams of the night to fade. She felt her mother’s arms around her, lifting Abigail’s torso off her pallet, putting her into a sitting position.
“Yes mother…” Abigail sighed, lifting herself off the pallet. Her mother helped walk her over to the kitchen table. Suddenly Abigail felt an ice cold shock pass over her face. The dreams and sleepiness of the previous night vanished, her eyes shooting open.
“Mother, why must the morning water be so cold?” she said, rubbing the water out of her eyes.
“If it wasn’t cold, how would we wake you each morning?” her mother laughed.
Abigail dressed in a simple woolen dress. She tied a simple pink bow into her long brown hair, knowing that it would please Mrs. McHale to see her looking pretty. She examined her face in the cracked mirror, turning side to side. Her facial features were all simple, only her bright green eyes and long chestnut hair standing out in the glass.
Once dressed, Abigail walked over to the kitchen table, carefully picking up the silver tray, filled with Mrs. McHale’s morning’s breakfast. Walking slowly, she went up the servant stairs and into Mrs. McHale’s room.
Mrs. McHale was a feeble old woman. She had taken Abigail’s mother and father in when Abigail had not yet been born. Her mother and father had eloped together when they were still young, still naïve. In return for shelter, Abigail’s mother worked for Mrs. McHale, while her Father became a fisherman.
When Abigail was born 12 years earlier, the woman had fallen in love with the child. She spent most of her time holding Abigail, cradling her in her arms, keeping her close to her at all times. Mrs. McHale had lived a lonely life ever since her husband had passed away.
Mrs. McHale took great pleasure in telling Abigail stories. These stories had made Abigail question the world around her from a very young age. Abigail’s imagination was alive and wild, like a beast locked inside a cage. Sometimes it scared her to think of her own imagination, to think of what lay behind her eyes.
Mrs. McHale had always told her that thinking above and beyond what others saw was always the right path in life. She taught Abigail to think in reality, as well as in the world of her own imagination. Mrs. McHale had watched over Abigail as one of her own; her own children had left home long ago, never bothering to come back.
As Abigail grew older, so did Mrs. McHale. While Abigail learned to walk, Mrs. McHale lost her ability to keep mobile due to pains in her back and legs. She had lived in her room upstairs for as long as Abigail could remember.
Day after day, it was the same routine for Mrs. McHale. At noon, Abigail would bring her breakfast up to her. When she was done eating, Abigail’s mother would come back from the market, and take the tray downstairs.
The rest of the day for Mrs. McHale was spent sitting by her window, staring out into the world she was once able to live in, the world behind the glass.
Sometimes she would sleep, sometimes she would knit, however, nothing could excite her more than to tell Abigail stories. Whenever she had a moment from tending to the fire or helping her mother cook and clean, she would fill Abigail’s mind with thoughts and dreams of her unconscious life, or ideas and events from her past.
Abigail’s parents lived had a single room to themselves, what was once the dining room. Abigail slept in the kitchen by the fire, as it was her duty to keep it going at all times. The rest of the house lay vacant; Abigail’s mother refused to use up any more rooms. “Mrs. McHale has given up part of her home to us; it wouldn’t be fair for us to take anymore.”
Quietly, Abigail entered the room, setting the silver tray on the bedside table.
“Mrs. McHale…Its time to wake…” Abigail whispered gently.
The old woman remained in bed, refusing to move. Abigail looked to the old woman. Her long silver hair was down to her shoulders, spread over the pillow her head rested on. It was once a white blonde, Abigail had been shown pictures by Mrs. McHale.
Whenever Abigail looked at the old pictures, she had seen no warmth, no life in them. They seemed as vacant as Mrs. McHale had been before Abigail’s family came into her life; Sad, lonely, and simply waiting for death.
Mrs. McHale lay on her side, her face turned away from Abigail. Slowly she walked around to the other side of the bed, getting a better view of her face. Mrs. McHale’s face, once smooth and delicate, was now wrinkled. However, Abigail did not see the old decrepit woman which others saw.
Abigail could see the fire in Mrs. McHale’s eyes whenever she told her a story; she could see the life that was trapped inside her aging physical body. Abigail could imagine the brighter times in Mrs. McHale’s life, the times of joy and laughter.
Over and over, Abigail would find her imagination come to life before her eyes, for whenever Mrs. McHale told a story of her past life, Abigail’s world was changed. Wrinkles faded into porcelain skin, ragged silver hair was detangled and brought back its original color. Abigail could still see the Mrs. McHale for what she truly was, not a decrepit old woman; bound to her physical body.
Gently, Abigail brushed a lock of hair off of Mrs. McHale’s shoulder. “Mrs. McHale…I’ve brought your breakfast, won’t you tell me a story?” she whispered into the woman’s ear. Mrs. McHale’s face stayed as it was, her body unmoving.
Slowly, Abigail pulled back the blankets, then walking over to the windows and drawing back the curtains. The sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating Mrs. McHale. Abigail walked back to the woman’s bed, placing her hand on Mrs. McHale’s.
Her hand was icy cold to the touch. Immediately, Abigail drew her hand back, confused.
Suddenly, realization hit her like a lightning bolt. Abigail placed her hand on Mrs. McHale’s shoulder, shaking her gently. “Mrs.…Mrs. McHale?” She gasped.
Tears began to flow down her cheeks, her newest realization beginning to sink in.
“Mrs.… Mrs. McHale! Please! Wake up!” she cried into the thin air. It was all happening too soon, too fast for her. Grasping the hand of the woman, Abigail sank to her knees next to the bed.
She wept for all the times she had listened to Mrs. Mchale tell the same story over and over again, never once stopping her. She wept for all the times she had seen Mrs.
McHale’s true self, for all the memories that were dear to her, for all those memories that she had taken for granted. However, most of all, she wept for Mrs. McHale.
She was gone.
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