This is a sequel of the book that occurs four years later. Based off of Arthur Miller's "Echoes Down the Corridor".
This is the confession of a tormented soul, who had struck the end of a path that lead to nowhere. She loved and she hated, but those emotions were empty now. With no one to share them with, she leaves them behind, only to realize there is nothing else left. With the death of one life, like dominoes, inevitably leads to the fall of another.
Mary Warren treads soberly down the shaded pathway. Above her are tall canopies of trees with threads of sunlight filtering through. She emerges out of the shadows and into a meadow lit by the soft morning light, the small grassy field lined with headstones. Mary is in a plain white dress, the fabric softened and frail from age. In her tightly clenched hand is a bouquet of white lilies.
She closes her eyes for a moment, fighting against the clenching of her chest, before approaching the familiar gravestone tucked into the corner of the terrain.
As she draws near, Mary startles at the dark figure crouching near John Proctor's resting place.
She hesitates but does not turn away. "Abby."
The figure twitches subtly, but no other reaction is drawn.
Mary closes the last few steps between them and crouches down by the weathered stone, her dress rustle against the damp grass. Her hand is steady as she delicately settles the bouquet at the foot of the stone with the engraving: John Proctor 1657-1692.
"I never wished for this." Abigail's voice was barely a whisper, and Mary almost doesn't catch it, lost in the sounds of nature and the loud thoughts filling her head.
She shifts her attention to Abigail, and notes that she looks ashen and gaunt, like a ghost that's barely anchored in reality. Mary feels a long overdue anger rising, choking her throat.
"But it is what happened, and you can't escape fault for it." Mary says sharply, intending to cut.
Abigail doesn't react, she only stares at the gravestone with an intensity Mary is slightly frightened by. The girl is entirely clothed in black, as if in mourning. But it has been three years and she had never shown her face once. Only her hands are visible, and they're thin and pale, a sickly colour.
When Abigail spoke again, it is as if she forgot Mary was there entirely, speaking to the passed John Proctor in hushed secrecy.
"I loved you, did I not? I loved you with everything I had. You knew what I had to do; had to sacrifice for us." Her voice is tender and soft, but it hardens abruptly." But you left me, and I am so alone in the world now," she says in rising anger, and her hands tighten their grasp on her ink black dress. They are shaking with rage and despair. "We could've been together, if only-" Then her voice breaks, and she let out a whimper.
Mary is stunned by her long ago friend- Abigail is no longer the vicious predator that circled its prey, while wearing the appearance of an innocent girl. She is now no more than a broken heart in a worn out body, her strength to carry on fueled merely by her skewed sense of morality and justice she carries in her soul. However hard Mary tries to suppress it, it is difficult not to feel a twinge of sympathy towards her. She whispers a silent prayer for God to save her soul.
When Abigail speaks again, it is a hollow and cold rasp. "You took away the only thing that was precious to me, and all for what? For a noose around your neck, John!" She pauses, as if to recompose herself, then, more quietly," she still lives, you know, that Elizabeth of yours. They took down the warrant on her head," Abigail said with a humourless grin that appeared deranged. "But you see, John, she married another man," she gloats, "that's what you gave up your life for: a whore who would forget about you and gladly remarry, all in the same day…" Abigail trails off.
Her bitter words are swept away by a sudden autumn wind. Mary's white lilies flutter gently, and fallen leaves sweeps up from off the ground and whips away. The yellowing trees stir and Abigail's loose hair whips up from under her hood to join the kaleidoscope of gold and red.
Abigail stands up from her cramped huddle, dusts herself off carelessly and stuffs her hair back in her hood. She blinks rapidly, still focused unerringly on the gravestone, before her expression shutters into indifference, her eyes stony. Without even a glance at Mary, Abigail scuffs away and down the shadowed path, now dark and cold without the sun's forgiving warmth.
High up above, the sky is blotched grey with the promise of the incoming fall of rain.