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"You were her lover, and her fiancé. What does a loving fiancé do in such circumstances? Please think about it Ged."Ged shrugged, "I've gone over this Gus, over and over I've gone over it. She went with Zak and married him, and she tells me she doesn't know why. I've nothing left for her. I'm sorry about it, but I can't get over it."His folk group would not let it be either. They were desperate for him to stay.It was Vivienne who let rip at him. It surprised him. She had always been dead straight with him, but he could see she was really worked up."You know Ged," she said angrily, "you were always such a good friend to have, you always saw both sides of any situation. You had empathy – hell, you couldn't have written the stuff you have if you couldn't put yourself in other people's shoes."Where's it gone, Ged? You're totally self obsessed now. Can't you get into her shoes and see things the way she sees them? Can't you feel how she feels? God, Ged, you've written songs from a woman's. Nipple pegs dancing with each slap across my unpretty face. "Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." Grabbing at the pegs. Rough. Uncaring. Pulling them from my flesh in single rabid movements the pain an explosion of deserved self-abuse. Flinging them at the vision before me only to have them bounce ineffectually off the thick glass sheets that trap us, separate us. "Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." No longer just a thought; a screamed exhalation filling the air, invading my ears, caressing my trembling, twitching flesh. I wish for variety, to find other words; slut and whore, slag and cunt and cow and; but they won't come. I grab at my breasts, fingernails digging deep, try to pluck the words from my being, twisting, gouging, scraping, skin trapped beneath my nails, glorious red furrows brilliant on my flesh. "Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." Railway tracks dragged across my heaving stomach, reaching for the spatula. Glorious firm unforgiving wood to caress my flesh, to swat, to shape, to punish, to bruise. Pathetic.
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Abigail could understand the trees, but it was almost impossible to use a bow effectively in thick brush. What did he have in mind? Did he plan his own private ambush with a knife attack? This seemed the only logical conclusion when she found him heading directly for the dense brush. She might have some problem countering a knife attack in the brush, but she figured that she didn't have much real choice if she was going to kill this Indian.Abigail crouched low as she made for the brush. She held her Navy Colt in her hand, the hammer at full cock, and her finger on the trigger. This was a dangerous way to carry a pistol, but she expected to need to get off a shot in the minimum possible time, and it did take a finite amount of time to move a hammer to full cock. She was about one step away from the brush when it happened!An arrow came whizzing by her cheek, missing her by no more than an inch. She knew immediately that the arrow had come from the trees off to her right, so she lifted.

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