Like all beautiful things, she too was born of violence

What Jo doesn’t know yet is that for years she will remember Abigail. How she felt. How she tasted. The way she purred “I always feel prettiest when you hit me,” like a revelation.

It starts like this.

Jo and Mark are sitting companionably on the roof of the bar they’ve just closed. Jo is smoking and Mark is nursing the last of a beer gone warm while they watch the sunrise.

“I’ve met someone,” Mark says, breaking the silence.

Jo takes a deep drag, holding it fast in her lungs before exhaling.

“What’s she like?”

“She’s, uh… weird, I guess. But I really like her.”

“What’s her name?” Jo asks, stubbing her cigarette on terracotta roof tile.

“Abigail.”

Jo shrugs. Stands and stretches. “Time for me to be off, I need a solid 8 hours before coming back tonight.”

Mark nods and in a smooth movement throws his now empty schooner glass overboard. It hits the ground with a wet, satisfying smash. Jo chuckles as she climbs back into the building, Mark a few steps behind her.

Mark brings Abigail to Jo’s birthday party.