"Abby"

The glowing embers leap and twirl in a fiery dance, twinkling like stars in the hot smoky air before cascading to earth like gleeful fire fiends.

A plume of fire explodes into the blackness, the flame rolling outwards like the smoke of a mushroom cloud. The idea of the firefighters rushing in is ludicrous; it's like an inferno fuelled by the gallons of accelerant in the warehouse. The heat is oppressive even from a hundred and eighty metres away.

The pain has an unpleasant warmth to it, eating away at my nauseous stomach. I've often prized myself in ignoring pain and just rocking on regardless, but that just isn't possible right now. It owns me, dominates every thought, controls every action.

I've always thought myself as someone ice-cold, with walls so high up that it blocks out any sense of light and warmth. This is a completely different situation; the walls have ruthlessly been smashed through, and overwhelming heat has snatched possession of my very system.

I huddle, bringing my knees to my chin and trying to block out the frenzied flames that dance tauntingly around me.

"Abby?"

I close my eyes and sink into oblivion.

•

"Rai"

The heartache was like a red-hot coal dug into my chest. It glowed and burnt me at the same time, but it did not cool quickly like a coal in water; it instead throbbed and tortured me in all her walking hours and there was no relief to be found.

I knew that healing was not about force, however brutal hardships could honestly be. It was about trust, and care, and love.

And so when Abigail withdrew in on herself after the accident— hidden, I knew, like a geode, all the intricacies and beauties of my best friend encased in a thick wall of unassuming excuses and steadfast insecurities— I figured I knew how to wait.

Abigail so often buried herself below miles of work, working with steadfast single mindedness that put just about everyone to shame, but she always resurfaced after a time, hardly aware of just how long she'd removed himself from the world.

It had been her way since childhood and I, despite my concern, was used to it. This, though borne surely of mortality-driven introspection rather than a need to bury herself in work, should be no different.

Or so I'd hoped.

The scars on her arms are concealed beneath the thick fabric of her sweater, but I know they'll always be there, hurting. Hurting so much, she couldn't even feel what pain was anymore.

Her physical numbness has seemed to affect her mentally as well— months had passed with hardly a word from my best friend.

She's dead inside. She's gone.

I walked forward, wrapping my arms around the fragile shell of the teenager. This wasn't like five years ago, when we were innocent little kids without a care in the world.

No, decisions needed to be made— and I could only tell myself, firmly, that this was a situation where I couldn't afford to wait for Abigail to come out from her broken shell.

"Rainy?" the girl croaks out, confused.

"Please come back," I choke out in between my sobs.

Perhaps I wasn't as good as waiting as I'd thought.