[ As he talks, Bryn gradually pulls her legs up towards herself, tucking herself in and making herself small. It's easy to forget how petite she really is in comparison to how brashly she acts and speaks but scrunched up like this, as if she's trying to hide from something, the contrast comes into ever sharpening relief.
Hearing all this makes her feel greasy inside and a little unclean. Not that it's a shameful thing to admit to – but it makes Bryn feel shameful that he'd been more or less forced to, by her own stubbornness. But maybe she's projecting. Maybe it lifts some of the weight to talk about it, to speak out loud the wrongs done to you and make them real.
She wouldn't know.
It takes a long while before she responds. Long enough that it almost seems like she might not answer him at all. But finally she speaks up in a voice so soft and quiet that it hardly sounds like her at all. ]
... It was my brother. He... killed the one who raised me. And he left me behind.
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Hearing all this makes her feel greasy inside and a little unclean. Not that it's a shameful thing to admit to – but it makes Bryn feel shameful that he'd been more or less forced to, by her own stubbornness. But maybe she's projecting. Maybe it lifts some of the weight to talk about it, to speak out loud the wrongs done to you and make them real.
She wouldn't know.
It takes a long while before she responds. Long enough that it almost seems like she might not answer him at all. But finally she speaks up in a voice so soft and quiet that it hardly sounds like her at all. ]
... It was my brother. He... killed the one who raised me. And he left me behind.