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Abigail Saint

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Abigail Saint last won the day on January 1

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  1. Persoonlijk Topic Dump

  2. Her mother's voice cut through the silence. Abigail opened her eyes in shock and spun her head around to face her. In a moment, everything was back. The knot in the pit of her stomach, the ringing in her ears, the uncomfortable rush of adrenaline. But it was different this time. More unpleasant. She jumped up and in that moment something inside of her broke. "I don't know!" She yelled. There was no sarcasm in her voice this time. No satisfaction. No thrill. She didn't want to do this. She hadn't wanted to yell anymore. It was over. It was goddamn over. She had done her work and it was supposed to be time to rest. Abigail had the entire world already against her, couldn't she have one place in the world where people just left her alone? But no, no she couldn't. Because she saw the worried look on her mother's face and she broke even more. Guilt, remorse, anger, pain, desperation. It all washed through her in an instant, making her eyes prick with tears. "I don't know, okay?" She screamed. "I don't know what I was thinking. It just happened. Everything was just stupid and I... I..." She struggled to find the words. Too long. Abigail stomped once, wishing she was still wearing her boots because the sound of her stockings sounded so pathetic against the tiles. "Just leave me alone!" She yelled wildly, stomping off and running upstairs. That was all she wanted. For the world to leave her alone. Why couldn't anyone listen to that? She ran to her room, slamming the door behind her. She'd had an appartment before this. Her salary was high enough. It still was, but she had to fucking pretend it wasn't, so now she lived with her parents again. And she knew, deep down, that that was fine. Hundreds, millions of people did it. Especially women. But she wasn't some socialite, waiting for a husband to take her away. She was a hit witch. She was a goddamn hit witch, living with her parents. No, her entire family. Everyone could know. Everyone could find her and then... And then... Abigail threw a stone statue against a wall. A unicorn she'd kept since she was eleven. She felt nothing. The end
  3. "What were you thinking, Abigail?"
  4. Silence. She had Apparated into the hall. She was home. Finally. Here she heard no one. No voices, no yelling, no stomping, no overwhelming white noise that had seemed to exist in her head ever since she realised how stupid her life had become. There was nothing here. Just pure silence, only broken by the thumping of her head and the ache of her broken lip. Abigail sighed, taking off her mud stained boots and cloak and cleaning them with magic. She put them in the right place, watching satisfied as all the dirt and water disappeared. As if she hadn't even left the house. As if the cloak and boots had hung there forever. It was so nice to finally have something that was organised. Something that made sense. Everything in its right place. Everything where it should be. Nothing weird or stupid or hard to understand. Just an empty, spotless hallway. She even turned down the light to ease her head ache, letting the dark wash over her. Then she slid down the wall until she sank to the floor. Abigail leaned her head against the wall, leaning her arms on her knees, closing her eyes. It was over now. She could take a bath, read a book, sleep. The ringing in her ears had finally stopped. Tomorrow it would all start up again, she was sure of that. But not now. Right now there was only peace.
  5. "What were you thinking, Saint?" There she was again. Oooh, there she was. The woman of the hour. The one person who had started this whole stupid fucking awful day. If it wasn't for her, maybe Abigail could have just have a normal day. Oh, she'd still have been angry at the usual idiots, but she wouldn't have spent her time in the hospital and the office and being yelled at by a dozen different people. She wouldn't have been talked down to. She wouldn't have been dragged through the mud by everyone who had a grudge against her. But no, here she was, with her smug little half smile and her arms folded to her chest. Her hip cocked to the side as if she deliberately practiced this pose to look as smug and self-righteous and arrogant as possible. Abigail wanted nothing more than to finally punch that pretty face of hers into mush. She was sober now. She could take her now. She was sure of it. Her hand formed into a fist. The fingers clenching tight, ready for attack. She punched the punching bag she'd been working on instead. It swung wildly and only missed her because she had walked away as soon as her fist had hit the leather. She was done. It was over. Her fire had all but extinguished and she was tired of constantly hearing the voices. Hearing her name be used as a taunt. It had become grating and irritating. Tiresome. She didn't want to hear it anymore. "Shut up." She hissed as she moved past the woman, pushing her away hard. Abigail stomped outside, coming to a halt and looking up at the sky. It was raining. No training today. The captain disagreed, but there was a storm coming. It was too cold and too dangerous. Abigail let the rain fall on her face. Let it calm down and refresh her. For a moment she stood there, her heartrate finally slowing down, the angry thoughts in her head pulling apart and disappearing. And then she heard the smug and nasty laughing inside the dressing room and she spun around wildly, making a furious face at the door. She stomped off, her boots hitting the mud and making splashes wherever she went. Someone yelled at her to not ruin the field. She wanted to kick them. Instead she Disapparated.
  6. "What were you thinking, Saint?" Another boss. Another one's breath in her face and yelling in her ears. The same thing, over and over. Reputation, station, jeopardising the cause. A different cause this time. She might have hurt the team's chances in the nationals. She might have hurt their reputation. As if quidditch players had never had bar fights before. Every week there was a different story about how some high level quidditch player had drunkenly attacked a hippogryph or something because their buddies had told them they couldn't take him in a fight. Oh, but that was the difference wasn't it. She wasn't high level. She wasn't known. Her transgressions weren't forgiven, because she wasn't profitable. Well fuck you too, bitch. She wasn't even a quidditch player. This woman thought she was better than her because she was some stupid sports captain? Huh? She couldn't even wish to be in the same league as Abigail. Quidditch was fun and all, but it wasn't exactly saving the world, now was it? But unfortunately that didn't matter now. Unlike her boss, she needed to make friends with this woman. Somehow. She needed to stay in this team, because like hell was she going to fail her mission like that. She was either going to win or she was going to die. She wasn't going to get disgraced and fired for real. "Sorry, captain." She managed to say through clenched teeth. "Won't happen again."
  7. "What were you thinking, Saint" Her boss looked at her with eyes that seemed on fire. But they could never match her own. She stared back. Stared him down until he coughed and sat back down in his chair, taking the hands he had used to slam on his desk and placing them on the sides of his chair. That's right, she thought. She wasn't going to let anyone talk to her like that anymore. She wasn't going to be patient and wait until the storm was over, she would stare them down, make her voice heard, make sure that everyone knew that they weren't supposed to mess with her. Waiting for people to calm down did nothing. Preventing them from thinking they were better than her in the first place would stop them. Her boss had sent her on this idiotic quest, if he wanted to yell at her, he could do so sitting down, at equal height, away from her face. Not hanging over her as if she was supposed to cower in fear and do anything he said. She wasn't going to be there for that little power fantasy. Besides, what he had to say was boring anyway. It was the same old drivel the nurse had already told her. It was beneath her station, it was beneath her character, it was beneath her name too, if she went by the way he spat it at her constantly and sarcastically. She could've gotten a lot more hurt than she did. Starting drunken bar fights... She was lucky she hadn't gotten alcohol poisoning or woken up in a ditch. So hmm? What did she have to say for herself? Ah, there it was. There it was. Her invite. See, she could be patient. Because waiting for an invite to start trouble was always sooo much better than just starting it because. She stood up and slammed her hands on his desk like he had done. Her eyes wild. "Wasn't this what you wanted?!" She yelled. "You told me to start trouble. You told me to show how low I had fallen. You TOLD ME I should convince people I had changed. That I wasn't a hit witch anymore. That they could trust me." She sat back down, satisfied at the look of momentary shock on the man's face. Oh, he was a hit wizard too and she was sure he could wipe her off the face of the Earth if he wanted to. But he didn't. He was old and greying. He had a family, children, a dog. Close to retirement and not willing to risk that becoming a cliche. He was nothing. "What's lower than a drunken bar fight, huh?" She asked. "Let me worry about my station." She said sarcastically. "You just worry about how you're going to convince the Head this was a good idea."
  8. "What were you thinking, Saint?" It was the nurse who whispered it in hushed, surprised and most of all disappointed tones. The name cut through Abigail like a knife. Somewhere deep within her stirred the old guilt. The feeling she had felt when people were disappointed with her. When she hadn't been patient enough, hadn't just let other people's cruel words fall off her like water. When she had talked back. She'd done more than that now, of course, but she pushed the guilt down nonetheless. They had no right to judge her. Especially not the nurse. Hit witches were supposed to have a bed reserved. She still had one, somewhere. All she wanted was her own bed in privacy where prying ears couldn't interfere, but no. Here she sat. On a bench. In the waiting room. Her head was pounding and she could feel all the places where the bitch had hit her. The nurse prattled on. Starting bar fights was beneath her, she said. How disappointed would her boss be if he found out, she whispered. She was lucky the injuries weren't severe, she said, louder again. Or was it part of it, she wondered, whispering again. Was it an act? The constant change in pitch just served to make Abigail more annoyed. If that woman wanted to judge her on how her behaviour didn't fit her "Station" then maybe she should actually let Abi have her bed so at least she could do it without jeopardising the entire doomed operation. It was bad enough that all hit witches and aurors knew, but a fucking nurse? A nurse and a healer, apparently. Especially chosen for their integrity and silence. The nurse's chest swelled with pride. Abigail managed a sarcastic look as thanks. "Mind your own business." She grumbled, too tired to go for the usual hissing and yelling. It satisfied the nurse, even though the words were harsh. Because of course, she said. Miss Saint was right, she said. It wasn't her business, she whispered. Oh this was all so exciting to her! Abigail scowled at her and wished she could punch that dumb dopey selfinvolved smile of the idiot woman's face. When had everyone become so annoyingly stupid?
  9. "You need to learn your place, Saint" Aaaah, yes. There it was. She'd been waiting for this moment. The energy in the air had changed. Silence had fallen over the entire bar now. The patrons looked around expectantly. The barkeep just sighed and prepared for trouble, like he'd done a hundred times before. Some of the Harpies tried to diffuse the situation, but learned quickly that that wasn't going to happen. Abigail wasn't paying attention to them. The only one that mattered right now, was her. The prim and proper little miss, thinking she could be some big shot quidditch player. Thinking she could just step into Abigail's world and be a Strong Woman for a minute before deciding she'd had enough and marrying some rich guy she could talk to about her wild college days. She was nothing. A twig. Abigail could take her easily. A wide, mad, drunken grin spread across her face as she stepped closer. Finally. She'd wanted to do this since she'd first seen her stupid pretty little face. "Make me." Abigail threw the first punch, of course. She always did. She missed. The other didn't.
  10. "Come on, Saint. It's not worth it." Abigail spun around to look directly into the face of her new "colleague." Oh yeah, she had a new job now. No. A cover. She had a cover. Backup beater for the Holyhead Harpies. Backup. They couldn't even secure a real job for her. All she did was train and then sit on a bench during oh... all of the matches. All of the time. She was too new, they said. They didn't know her strengths yet, they said. She was a bit...enthusiastic, they said. Maybe it was better if she sat this one out, they said. Liars. They were all liars and cowards. She'd heard the Holyhead Harpies knew how to play rough, but apparently she was wrong. And that name... Saint. Saint. Once upon a time people used to say it normally. Now they spat it at her. They twisted it into an insult. Spoke it as if it was a mistake. They'd turned her own name against her. As if she wasn't worthy of it. She hated it. Hated the name, hated the expectations it carried, but most of all she hated her parents for giving it to her. Abigail Patientia Saint. What a fucking joke. All her life she'd tried to be patient. She'd never gotten angry and always given people what they wanted, confident that one day they'd do the same for her. She had never minded anything. Good little Abi had always waited her turn and had given it to others if they asked for it anyway. And what did she have to show for it? Nothing! Of course it was nothing. Wasn't that always the case? "And you can fuck off and all!" She yelled back, her speech slurred, but loud. Louder than anything else in the bar. "You're the reason we lost. If you had just looked at the fucking ball for a change instead of your audience maybe we'd all be celebrating instead. They're not there for you. They have better things to do than watching some idiot flail around on a broomstick her daddy bought." She looked around. An awkward silence had fallen over the group. A couple shook their heads at her. Some in derision, some as a silent conversation. "Don't say that, Saint. You're going too far, Saint." She could just imagine the voices in her head. The way they'd mock her name and patronise her. "Oh come on, you cowards." She hissed. "Everybody's thinking it." The world would be so much better if everyone just said what they meant immediately and didn't act nice to people's faces. Not that the Harpies did. Not usually. If someone made a mistake, they'd tell. Abigail was just... well... drunk.
  11. Personal topic month, topic 1 Abigail "You've had enough." Abigail looked up. Puzzled at first, but then quickly angry. No. Not angry. Furious."I will say when I've had enough." The voice came out harsh, raw, but not as confident and clear as she hoped it would. But she didn't care. She was here for herself and no one else. She was a paying customer. If she wanted to drink herself unconscious, they were supposed to keep the liquor going. It wasn't any of their fucking business. They didn't know her life. Fired. Fucking fired. No wait, not fired. "Undercover." Bullshit. They'd sent her out in the world with the flimsiest alibi in the world, chasing someone who could probably obliterate her if given the chance. What was she supposed to do? Just walk up to them like "hey hi you probably know I'm a hit witch, but I promise I'm like totally evil now, let's be ~Best Friends~" They'd not only sent her on a suicide mission, they'd sent her on an embarassing one. Having to tell everyone she was fired. That's how they were going to remember her. If that fucker killed her, that's what they'd think. That she got fired, then turned criminal and then got murdered for it. That was going to be her fucking legacy. So no. She hadn't had enough. She hadn't even started.
  12. Bath, zondag 13 november 1836 Als het niet verschrikkelijk irritant was om een topic volledig in caps lock te schrijven, dan was het de meest accurate beschrijving van Abigails huidige staat geweest. Alles was luid. Alles van haar stem tot haar gestamp tot de gedachten in haar hoofd. Ze had geen tijd gehad om braaf en zoetjes naar de kerk gegaan en nu was ze toch geweest en was ze ALLES KWIJT. Waarom kon niet alles gewoon op zijn plek blijven liggen? Had iemand dit gedaan? VONDEN ZE DAT GRAPPIG OFZO? Abigail had iets beters te doen dan dit oke? Ze had een baan. Goed, haar familie dacht dat ze ontslagen was en nu reserve zwerkbalspeler was, maar wat maakte dat nou uit? Niemand had het recht om met hun fikken aan haar spullen te komen! Er zaten dingen tussen die ze niet hoorden te weten. Belangrijke dingen. Alleen maar omdat zij niet wilden geloven dat ze belangrijke dingen te doen had, betekende dat niet dat dat ook zo was! ALS ZE NOU GEWOON WAT MEER INTERESSE IN HAAR HADDEN. MAAR NEE. Niet dat ze het hen kon vertellen, dat zou gevaarlijk zijn. Maar ugh! Abigail stampte terug naar beneden en vloekte, terwijl ze een laatje open trok. Waar was dat stomme ding? Waar was het? Ze had geen idee of iemand het ook daadwerkelijk had weggehaald, maar als ze het niet vond, ging ze boos worden op mensen. Oh, wat was dat? Ze was al boos? HA! Nee. Dit was niet boos. Dit was regenboog en zonneschijn vergeleken bij wanneer ze boos zou worden. Abigail sloot de la met een woest gebaar en opende de volgende. WAAR WAS HET? Vanuit haar ooghoek zag ze haar broertje staren. Ze negeerde het voor heel even. Vervolgens draaide ze zich boos om. "Heb ik iets van je aan?!" Vroeg ze hard. "Hm? Heb je niets beters te doen?" Prive <3
  13. Cath's Plot Reading Guide

    work in progress
  14. Cath's Posttrackers

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