William bristles a moment with rejoinders that will, inevitably, go unspoken. “I'm thoroughly over it,” he says dryly, mildly. His enunciation deliberate.
He doesn't watch what she does with the chert, doesn't gauge her movements. He glances at her face, the blood smearing her hands. He thinks about turning to go, letting her words ooze out same as the dead animal's blood—what's the difference, in the long run? Who cares what happened in some other world when she was eleven? When this whole place is just a tablecloth spread over an abyss.
William breathes in, presses the heel of one hand to an eye. “Why,” he says eventually, more capitulation than question. “Why'd they do that to you.”
no subject
He doesn't watch what she does with the chert, doesn't gauge her movements. He glances at her face, the blood smearing her hands. He thinks about turning to go, letting her words ooze out same as the dead animal's blood—what's the difference, in the long run? Who cares what happened in some other world when she was eleven? When this whole place is just a tablecloth spread over an abyss.
William breathes in, presses the heel of one hand to an eye. “Why,” he says eventually, more capitulation than question. “Why'd they do that to you.”