[She says it more under her breath, mumbled to herself, than really meant for him; it's the impulse to talk just to hear the sound of her own voice, to fill space, without really knowing what else to do when he's got her face in his hand and is looking at her like a man who's just dropped something valuable and is praying it's still intact upon retrieval.
(She wrote a story once, of Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf. Nym told her to make a change, and see what it did. She sent the woodsman fishing, and watched it all go to hell; maybe she should've made the wolf fond of Little Red instead, and it might've turned out like this for her.)
But then he presses her on how she's feeling, and she — it's a problem, really, because she doesn't want to lie but she doesn't want to tell the truth, doesn't want to relive the memory long enough to put it into words with all the thorough meticulous skill she's capable of. It's done and it's over and it's supposed to be gone, but this damned haunted house keeps dredging it back up.
— not unlike a necromancer, really. Ha, ha. Undead? More like fundead.]
I came back — [She swallows hard, the lump in her throat almost as stubborn as her determination to be rid of it.] — because this damn place got the better of me, before. I hate that. I hate it and I'm going to beat it.
[...But that doesn't answer his question, does it.]
I don't like the dark. It reminds me. Of. ...Of something bad, something bad that once happened. To me, to — to everyone I knew, really.
no subject
[She says it more under her breath, mumbled to herself, than really meant for him; it's the impulse to talk just to hear the sound of her own voice, to fill space, without really knowing what else to do when he's got her face in his hand and is looking at her like a man who's just dropped something valuable and is praying it's still intact upon retrieval.
(She wrote a story once, of Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf. Nym told her to make a change, and see what it did. She sent the woodsman fishing, and watched it all go to hell; maybe she should've made the wolf fond of Little Red instead, and it might've turned out like this for her.)
But then he presses her on how she's feeling, and she — it's a problem, really, because she doesn't want to lie but she doesn't want to tell the truth, doesn't want to relive the memory long enough to put it into words with all the thorough meticulous skill she's capable of. It's done and it's over and it's supposed to be gone, but this damned haunted house keeps dredging it back up.
— not unlike a necromancer, really. Ha, ha. Undead? More like fundead.]
I came back — [She swallows hard, the lump in her throat almost as stubborn as her determination to be rid of it.] — because this damn place got the better of me, before. I hate that. I hate it and I'm going to beat it.
[...But that doesn't answer his question, does it.]
I don't like the dark. It reminds me. Of. ...Of something bad, something bad that once happened. To me, to — to everyone I knew, really.