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That short, potential stir

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"What would you do, to get back what was taken from you?"

Margot means Abigail's scar, Abigail's quiet life, Abigail's ear. Margot means safety, family, the dreams that have been overtaken by nightmares.

"I'll show you," Abigail replies. She's always been good at lying to herself, but this time, she's telling the truth.


"Impressive," Margot says, her voice like honeyed velvet. She drags her fingers lazily through the still-growing puddle of blood, then lifts them, stares at the red that drips down to her palm.

Abigail is filthy, covered in a sheen of sweat, and shaking, but she stills when Margot reaches out and places a bloodied digit to Abigail's lips. She opens her mouth in reflext, accepting Margot's finger and the iron tang against her tongue.

"It's too bad," Margot says, finger-fucking Abigail's mouth, painting her lips red, "that this doesn't change a thing."