[ she has time to think. entirely too much time to think, because hardly anyone comes except to bring food and water. she doesn't pace anymore, she's sick of pacing the length of the room and measuring every step. after they take byerly away she doesn't do anything but curl up on her cot and cry into her pillow, not just weeping tears but screaming them out, playing that scene over and over in her head again. there's too much to untangle, too much to unpack. if there was any trace of honesty in that, if he was doing anything but playing head games with her --
goddammit, byerly, you're awful at telling the truth.
but days go on, and the sting of hope fades, and she just feels miserable about what she's done. what she is, apparently, capable of. she feels sick with it. she wants it all undone.
this time when the chime comes she's curled up on her cot, red-eyed and clutching a pillow to her chest. she looks at the door warily, but she doesn't get up. ]
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goddammit, byerly, you're awful at telling the truth.
but days go on, and the sting of hope fades, and she just feels miserable about what she's done. what she is, apparently, capable of. she feels sick with it. she wants it all undone.
this time when the chime comes she's curled up on her cot, red-eyed and clutching a pillow to her chest. she looks at the door warily, but she doesn't get up. ]