Their eyes looking away, and it's a relief. She feels less flayed open.

You don't know how filthy my hands are. Just once, just once she craves someone to despair of her for it. Say she's too much, that she's too far gone. That she's foul, that she's vile, that she's depraved, any of the countless things she knows she is and glories in. (Has to glory in. What else is there?) Brimming with hatred, ready to ravage the world if but one thing goes wrong. Why can't she find someone to decry her for it?

The coffee has to unstick her throat from where it's closed.

What she means to say is It feels like you want to fix me. With your talk of gentle people and helping and all the rest. I don't want you to break your back over an impossible task. What she wants to say is that she wants to take advantage of their generous offer, but. What comes out instead is the only justification she has.

"...I don't belong in a place like this."

Somewhere safe. A home. An innocent creature near her. This entire isle. Any of it, really.