It was pretty hard to disagree with her assessment.
As Arla got up David turned his attention back to his pie, still sweet and warm and vaguely reminiscent of being twelve and failing a spelling test. And about the only alternative he'd ever had to the solution that she seemed to be taking - a mild suggestion was on the tip of his tongue, something about alternate ways of adjusting one's mindset, but he let it drop. Too many memories of his own were resurfacing now, remarkably clear once they'd pulled their way through the muck he burried them under.
"We're not okay," David disagreed softly. "Some of us died, they came after us when they saw us. The only reason it wasn't worse ..." was because he'd ripped his entire clan's existence out of more minds than he could count - and done more damage than that in the beginning, before he'd learned how to control both his mutation and his temper. He couldn't hope to compare the attacks his Morlocks suffered each time they stepped on the wrong feet to the massive attack in New York, but it felt like a disservice to just sweep so much suffering under a rug. Too much like what he could do ... "It wasn't a massacre, it was never that bad. But ... it wasn't okay."