The Awkward Love Song of Abigail Archer

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

Water droplets darkened the faded stairs with their irregular percussion as they dripped from Abigail’s trailing scarf. Marcus watched each drop form a shape as it crashed against the worn wood—each one unique, each one the same. As the soft drum of each drop and the hush of shuffling feet echoed in the cement vault, Abigail looked over her shoulder. Hunched within the soaked layers meant to shield her, she met Marcus’s eyes with an open stare. It was one of disbelief that he was still there, following her damp trail, mixed with a quiet relief that he was.

Mid-flight, her bundled frame grew oddly rigid. Her steps slowed and came to a complete stop at the top of the stairs. From a slight distance behind, Marcus, too, paused. Could it be she no longer wanted him there? he wondered. He would have asked if anything was wrong had he not then closed the distance between them and heard the explosion of shattered glass. Images from nights before filtered through his thoughts as another crash resonated. The drunken man and battered woman were at it again.

Abigail turned, her lower lip tucked between her teeth as she fiddled with the zipper of her coat, avoiding Marcus’s gaze.

“You should wait here. I’ll go inside and change. It’ll only take a minute. Then maybe we can go to the deli from yesterday? Or there’s one down the street from here. The coffee there isn’t great, but it’s raining and it’s much closer than walking all the way back to the one by the record store.” Her voice cracked and faded, while fearful anticipation brimmed in her eyes. Marcus looked down at her hands. Her fingers were now still, white with tension, as she pressed down on the zipper severely.

The chorus of voices inside the apartment rose. They roared atrocities at one another above the constant tempo of exploding glass and tumbled furniture.

Marcus walked around Abigail, a blockade between her and the short hall at whose end was the dreaded apartment. “You don’t mean to go in there.”

Another scream...

Abigail shrugged and plucked sheepishly at her drenched pants. “I have to. Besides, this isn’t the first time. They’ll quiet down soon enough, and Randy will go back to watching TV while Nancy cleans up their mess. Then tomorrow, they’ll do it all over again, like some twisted version of Groundhog Day.” She took then to twisting the tassels of her shawl, wrapping one around her finger until the tip grew white. “I’m normally not home around this time so I miss most of this. I just get to come home to broken furniture. I guess it’s actually better this way—them fighting right now. They won’t notice me coming in or going back out.”

“And when you’re home?” Marcus asked readily. “You said you miss most of it. What of the other part?”

Another crash...

Abigail attempted a smile that faded before her lips arched. She dropped her gaze and made to walk around Marcus without answering. He didn’t move.

She exhaled. “Mr. Death, please—”

“Marcus.”

Abigail blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Marcus let out an uneasy breath. “I told you I wasn’t Death. My name is Marcus.”

She was quiet for a moment while Marcus’s heart pounded in his chest with violent pangs.

Finally, she lowered her eyes. “Thank you, Marcus.”

Another slap...

She took to the paint chipped zipper again. “I know it sounds bad in there, but please, they’re far too busy with each other to notice me come in.”