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The Awkward Love Song of Abigail Archer

Chapter One
6
The Awkward Love Song of Abigail Archer Copyright - All Rights Reserved Feb 19, 2011 Abigail Archer lived a non-existent life. That is until Death arrived at her door with an interesting proposition... He asks her to live. But what will Abigail do when she realizes her only reason to live is Death itself? And what will Death do when he realizes that in Abigail, he has found life?
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Marcus Kents steps warped to a stop outside the near skeletal remains of a three story brownstone. Crumbled brick exposed the steel veins of the wounded structure. Dismal and worn,itcouldhavejustaswellbeeninvisible.Inside,lobbylightsflickered,thedarkness beyond there striking Marcus oddly, as if warning of the dangers that lurked within. Solitude and darkness never a favorable companion, Marcushuman instincts strummed and urged him to leave, that it would be best if he didnt go in there. Perhaps it would have been. But, instincts no longer mattered. They hadnt for quite some time. Not for Marcus. Free will long dead to obligation, he walked inside. Past litter stained halls, and up stairs whose creaking betrayed his silent coming, he arrived: Apartment 2C. Marcus blew out a long breath and traced the dilapidated plastic letters marking the door, sliding the dangling C to its rightful place. Mid-stroke, his hand paused. A strange, tortured sound bled from the seams of the door. The broken melody, played poorly on a pianoforte, held neither tune nor rhythm. Keys were struck to the tempo of a fading heart, an irregular pulse that made no sense at all. Marcus retracted his hand. Cold, he stepped back. He didnt know the song, but the agony lacing every manic note was familiar. His instincts had been righthe never should have walked into that building. But it wasnt ever a choice. Marcus misted inside. The damp smell of liquor and cigarette smoke laced with despair, fear, and anger burned Marcusnostrils. It was the stench of violence, fresh, like the rains trailing a hurricane, and rightfully so. Quavering in a corner, a woman sat barely covered in a tattered dress, her bleeding lip staining the torn white fabric. Tears trailed from her blackened eyes, and fell to the broken bottles and floored tables adorning her surroundings, casualties of a passing whirlwind. Marcus wasn't there for her. Across the room, eyeing the woman coolly over steepled hands was the storm, sitting at the only upturned table, cradling in his hands the last unbroken bottle of dark liquor. Transfixed by anger and swirls of cigarette smoke pirouetting before his eyes, the man didnt even breathe. Unfortunately, Marcus wasnt there for him either. Trapped in the blackness of their minds, the toxic couple seemed oblivious to the invisible wave of song cutting through the room. But Marcus heard it, and rapt by the frenzied beatings, he glided over the shattered glass of downed pictures, past wallpaper barely hanging from the walls until reaching a doorthe door, just as the last broken note rung in the air in one final, desperate echo. For the first time in almost a century of collecting souls, Marcus hesitated. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his list of souls to be collected that night. He read the first name as the others blurred in insignificance. He would get to them, eventually. However, the first name Marcus looked at for a long time. Abigail Archer,he whispered to no one at all. He would remember her. The pain always made sure of that. Tucking the thoughts into the dark recesses of his mind and the list into his pocket, he stepped inside. The dark room, barely lit by a single hanging bulb, was immaculate, save for a brown coat

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sprawled out on a bed at the far end of the boxed room. A white wooden armoire ornamented the opposite white wall, its top bare, unpolished. An oval mirror stood alone, tucked in a corner, while white shades veiled the only window. Considering the rest of the house, the chalk white room was an entirely different world, a frosted asylum apparently void of life; but there was life, and Marcus was there for it- forher,AbigailArcher. Sitting at a ragged piano beside the bed with a battered suitcase at her side was the young red haired girl. Not ravishing, fiery red, no, but the dull, dimmed rays of a dying sun. Her back toward him, Abigail hung her head low, her slender fingers resting on the ivories as if contemplatingwhatbrokenkeytostrikenext,orwhethertoplayanythingatall. Marcus took a quiet step and extended a hand with which to rid her of all life when "Hello," spoke a voiceAbigails voice. She uttered it low, in the barest of whispers, just enough sound to be heard. Marcusbrows furrowed, his hand snapped back. Shooting a brief glance over his shoulder, there was no one there. That being the case, who on earth was she talking to? She couldn't very well have been talking to him, he told himself. No, no, he must've been hearing things, or perhaps she was insane and talked to the figments of her mind. Yes, she was crazy, Marcus decided. Was the room not a testament to her mental state?
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Ben Barnes Mia Wasikowska Carey Mulligan as Marcus Kent as Abigail Archer as Margaret Devonshire

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