[Her pen rests, spreading ink for a moment, then digs in a bit.] There is not even the thought among them that I might. Do you know, you are the only one to actually ask? You, who they say to stay away from, and my sister, are the only ones that actually seem to hold a care at all. [The pen digs harder, her writing getting increasingly agitated and difficult to read.] Other things. The screaming, the hexing, the running. The fact that I can only call a shack my home, the fact that my dress is half mud and two of my fingernails are broken and my hair refuses to cease its frizzing. The fact that I haven't a knut to my reviled name and I am subsisting solely upon the charity of my sister and her son. [She finally presses hard enough to leave a blotchy pool of ink, along with several drips of tear-damp along the edge of it, causing a faded spread. After a long pause, a few more clear drops that cause letters to run, slower but still heavy.] I hate this place.