"I hate her," Iris whispered, voice just as soft and shaky as before. She didn't say anything else for a long, hanging moment, eyes attempting to focus more on the figure in front of her. She had a difficult time determining the figure's gender, but it didn't matter as much as it might have to someone else, or even to her at a different time. One of her hands reached out and touched the figure's hand, but she pulled back suddenly when she looked down and saw the smear of her own blood there, not realizing where it had come from. The foreign memory pushed forward again, the woman's blood on her hands and slicking through her fingers when she looked down. The whimper was pulled from her throat as she squeezed her eyes shut again so she wouldn't have to see it. "Hate her. ...her blood..."
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