clearly there's something you don't want to tell me.
hannibal sentence starters | still accepting.
"There usually is."
There is something mean in Mary, some prickling anger she can feel in her fingertips, in her feet tapping idle at the air, down the nape of her neck. Maybe it's only the anger of the caged animal. She slumps further in her chair and inspects her fingernails.
In Arkham, it's easier to decide on an affect early. Mary shifts — sometimes playing feral monster, sometimes unaffected savant. This one — sullen starlet, bored by white walls and pill timetables — is the easiest, and maybe the most familiar. She glances up at the doctor, sighing.
"We've been going in circles," she says finally, hands falling into her lap with a soft smack of starched fabric.
They never have her size shoes to hand in here; she had gone around in socked feet for two days this time before an orderly had ripped the tags of a Walmart pair of canvas sneakers and tossed them into her cell.
"It's lazy," she complains. "You ask about my childhood, I tell you it was normal, and you say I must be lying."
She is lying. She thinks of a locked box. She thinks of Harlene Quinzel, trying to pry that box open with her neat hands, and feels a flicker of something pass across her face before she can stop it. Her heel hits the leg of the chair in frustration.
"How does it benefit me to tell you anything?"
