Author's Note:

This is the start of the fic I am writing for my sister Danielle, better known as drodgers89. Be sure to check out her stories, she is an amazing author! Stabby is her OTP, so I'm writing her a story with them. I know at first the story will seem a bit confusing, but it starts making more sense, promise :D

This chapter is straight, pure angst, so consider yourself warned!


I walked into my flat, the numbness slowly eating away at me. My clothing was all black, a color nearly as dark as the swelling darkness in my mind. The funeral had been even worse than I'd thought. The depression was like a circle in my mind; it had no beginning and no end, just a never-ending, torturous cycle of grief and guilt. I didn't bother looking into the mirror as I walked by it, for I knew exactly what I would see. The reflection of a haunted, lifeless man. My body was nothing but a shell of the former person that had inhabited it. A cruel parody of a happy, confident person that had made it a point to live life to its fullest. That was before the accident. I would never be the same, and I never wanted to be. Living and continuing to function properly without her wasn't an option. Her name rang out in my mind against my will, so clearly it was as if I had spoken her name aloud.

Abby.

It was a name that meant so much. It represented more than just the moniker of a fiery, spunky young woman. It represented two beautiful blue eyes that, even though they'd had cause to hold hatred on so many occasions, had held nothing but warmth and forgiveness. It represented a soft voice that I could hear in my mind as if she was standing right next to me. But it was more than her physical traits, there was so much more to her than that. Under her beauty, there was who she was. Some people think who you are is directly related to what you look like. I tend to disagree. Even as entrancingly beautiful as she'd been, it could never do justice to just how amazing of a person she was. Was. I'd grown to hate that word. I hated how much it irrevocably meant the past tense, how final it sounded when used in a sentence.

I sunk down onto the edge of the bed, closing my eyes. I tried to take a deep breath, but my heartbeat was erratic. Once I started thinking of her, I couldn't stop myself. I'd thought of her constantly since the accident, a nonstop string of thoughts and reminisces, all centering around Abby. My already weak body trembled slightly, and I surrendered to its feeling of shakiness as I sunk down onto my back. I was shaking with a painful combination of grief and anger, both emotions warring for dominance in my already distraught mind.

Many people had tried consoling me today. Nick especially. In spite of everything that had happened with Helen, he still worried for me. He was a much better friend than I deserved. Abby had also been a much better friend than I deserved. I wanted to scold myself for thinking of her again, but what was the use? I had tried many times, and just as frequently failed, not to think of her. It had become a constant habit that I constantly fell victim to. Memories, in spite of their ghostly, translucent feel, were all I had left of her. Memories and the photograph that lay safely in my pocket. I never left home without the picture anymore. She looked so happy, so alive in it. Her short blond hair was disheveled, and though it was hard to tell because it was a photo, her blue eyes had been sparkling brightly.

Fingering the 3x5 print that was nestled in the pocket of my trousers, I finally calmed my breathing and attempted sleep. Anymore, I took solace in the blissful unawareness given to me by unconsciousness. The many doctors that everyone had insisted I see after the accident informed me I was suffering from severe depression. No shit Sherlock, I'd replied bitterly to one of them. It was glaringly obvious from both my changed personality and my worsened appearance that I was a different person now. I'd neglected offers of food most of the time, I couldn't remember the last time I'd given anything other than a wry, humorless smirk, and I'd lost a lot of weight since I'd stopped eating as much. I still ate, just not very often.

I drifted into a state of semi-consciousness, but my body still refused to fall asleep. I lay there with my eyes closed, helpless to the images that played out before me in my thoughts. Terrible, awful images that appeared to be a nightmare but were painfully real. I wanted them to be nightmares, because then I would wake up. I would wake up, and the recent string of events would have been all in my head. I would wake up, take a shower, get dressed as always, go into the ARC, and I would see Abby alive and well. But truth be told, I wasn't going to wake up. All of it would forever remain real and intact. The accident. The events preceding it. The events following it. My thoughts, which had once been bright and alive with vibrancy, were now mere ghosts. They were ghosts that taunted and teased me, ruthless in their fierce hold on me. I was haunted by these ghosts day and night, overtaken by the surges of memories that came to me at the worst of times.

Several of the doctors I'd spoken to had suggested that some mental damage had occurred during the accident, but I knew I was technically sane. Lost in grief, but sane. But then again, would a crazy man even be aware of his own insanity? I nearly laughed aloud at my own bitter musings. I'd never been a particularly optimistic person, but never before had I been this cynical. I hadn't even realized I'd finally been falling asleep until a rush of memories jolted me awake. Knowing I would be helpless to them, I didn't fight them. I now knew that there was no point.

To tell you this story, the one of Abby, the one of the accident, the one of everything, I have to take you six months into the past.

So here it goes.