Flashes of images.
Nonsensical, at first - just brief flashes of colors and light.
Like the rapid-fire clicks and popping flash bulbs of an old, old camera.
Not a dream.
At least, not my own.
Memories?
No - thoughts.
But not mine.
Hers.
Abigail's.
I wasn't seeing through my own eyes.
I was seeing through hers.
(Abby)
(honey can you hear me)
She couldn't. Somehow I knew that, though.
But I could hear her.
(how is this possible)
The images were overlapped, twisted, hazy. Hard to understand what I was seeing at first.
And then there were her thoughts - a broken stream of consciousness, ebbing and flowing in both volume and energy.
She was in a bedroom. My initial excitement at being able to connect to her quickly melted into trepidation.
Then fear.
She wasn't alone.
