Her jaw progressively clenched. Unaware, her fists bunched together tightly, drawing the pigment away from her knuckles and leaving shaking, ghostly knobs. 

Tzich brought up a very good point, one that even she couldn’t refuse. When she urged herself to think about it, her shoulder stung some, but even she knew that she was just convincing herself that. In reality, it was a little stiff to move around, maybe a little irritated around the stitching, but she was in tip-top shape. Aside from the dull headache reeling in the back of her brain, she was five by five. She wasn’t any normal girl—and normal woman.

Carly snapped her head away and turned around quickly. With her back turned, she crossed her arms over her chest. Only when eyes were off could she let that worried, sickened and enlightened expression come to glean. Everything spun for a moment and she felt light-headed. Her eyes coasted over the family photos hanging above the grey stone fireplace—her, her mother, and her father. Her fake father.

“Fine,” she could barely believe the words were coming out of her mouth, dry and seized, trembling from pressure, “you got me. What do you want from me, then? If I’m the bastard kid of the devil himself, I think I’d be in a different place in my life. At least if I were supposed to be important or anything.”

She spoke quietly, and with her back still turned.