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SUMMARY: Part of a story arc I wrote about the Horus Heresy about four years ago.

Abi sat on the window ledge, cold stone offering little comfort against the chill that pervaded her father's apartment. The lingering scent of processed stew reeked; she shuffled awkwardly and listened carefully to the hissing sound of the acid rain. It pattered against the protective paint that covered the huge city block, giving off a slight scent of rotten eggs. The dull, dank and foreboding cityscape was lit up by the explosive flare of a distant explosion; the sound startling her, yet the momentary beauty of the blossoming flames escaped her. Abi stroked her unseeing eyes and a solitary tear rolled down her cheek as she returned to the small apartment's shrine. No more than a gilded bed side table covered with litanies, hymns and her fathers most treasured possession, a tin mass produced statue of the Emperor standing triumphant in his armour. Every hour she would chant the litany of devotion and pray to him to forgive her for her sins, to give her the power of sight and remove the taint of chaos from her veins, and then she would sit at the window and wait. At the tender age of 17 she still lacked the devotion necessary to be blessed and it broke her heart, she had been born blind, and the only reason why she wasn't culled at birth was because her father had bribed the midwife. Her mother had died giving birth to her mutant child, and the father had been distraught. First he had turned to prayer, and when that had failed, he found a new master, the bottle. She rarely saw him any more, he would return from his job at the administratums warehouse sometimes in time for dinner, but mostly he would come back late, cursing her if she questioned where he had been. Often his breath would reek of the synthetic alcohol they distilled from the generator fuel, deep within the warehouse. He would slump down onto the flat's only bed and weep. Other times he would return, his eyes defocused and his clothes dishevelled. These times were the worst, he would stay awake for hours, his temper flaring and staring at a framed picture of his deceased wife. Nobody understood why she hadn't run away years ago, but Abi knew different. Abi wasn't just cursed with blindness; she had been cursed with witch sight. Not even her father knew of the depth of the heresy in which his daughter was steeped. If she dared venture out the house, she would be hunted down and slaughtered by the inquisition. Her witch sight was limited, she couldn't see objects, she couldn't see light or darkness, what she could see was the auras emanating from the souls that drifted through the world. Her prayers had just reached their conclusion when a fumbling at the door alerted her that Father had returned. He was having difficulty unlocking the door, scrabbling round with his keys until it finally slammed open. He leaned heavily on the frame, she could not see him, but she knew that he had returned from the underhive, she could smell the scent of the unwashed masses, cheap tobacco and cheaper spirits. From his deep breathing she could tell he was drunk, his breath was ragged and he sank down the door.