It was minutes before Quinnlash returned, but she’d wished it was longer. Roaki’s eyes found the sheets again, she couldn’t tell if the shame was bearing down on her from without, or bursting from within, but it was heavy and burning all the same. Was she meant to say something? Should she throw herself down and apologize for what she’d said? If she brought herself low, as she had in the cockpit with Dragon’s pilot had cut her apart, would that satisfy them? Would it end, then?

She was surprised to find she had enough pride left to refuse, but not by much. She could take isolation, she could take insult, she could take pain, none of those had ever struck her as deeply as revulsion did. She hated being looked at, she felt disgusting. Worms belonged in the dirt, why didn’t they just—

[i]Quinnlash is speaking.[/i]

Well, Quinnlash was [i]trying[/i] to speak. She did this sometimes, too, stuttered and stumbled and eventually gave up. Often the silence would last until she either tried to continue, or decided to call it a day. Roaki hoped for the latter. She needed to be alone. She wasn’t going to cry—never again, not for any of them, she swore—but the cold and empty inside of her was suffocating. Every breath was a bit shorter than the last, a bit more strained. It was panic, almost, or aspiring to be. Another weakness she had no desire to degrade herself showing. 

“[color=ec008c]They’re gonna come draw blood at some point,[/color]” she said quietly. “[color=ec008c]Do you want anything else?[/color]”