Goth wanted to collapse in Abaddon's arms and just sleep, sleep this away so it wouldn't be there in the morning. However, the goddess was all too aware that yes, it would still be there in the morning, and probably the worse for wear. She needed a different point of view, someone who would be willing to listen and pass her own judgment. Not that there was much to be done now; she had told Rave what she would, and dropped off the delivery to Punk on the way here, lest she change her mind about it later on.
At every step of the way, every stop on a street light, she wanted to turn back. There was nothing to be done now, and poking at the wounds would only make it infect. However, inside her, there was the small voice that sang about the wound having to be cleaned before it could start to heal. Stomp on that voice as she would, it continued in that sing-song tune, prodding her forward. If she went back to Abaddon's place, the wound would fester.
The bright side of her, and the crazy one, and she had driven both away. For what? Petty anger at herself? That was all too common and yet she didn't learn to fight it nor to cope with it. Gabriel might as well never have talked with her, for all that she was improving.
Wallowing in her own misery. Goth loved and hated doing that, and the cycle repeated itself. About time she took some action to break it, she mused, once at Fetish's door.