[She sits and waits, but it's so difficult to be patient with these thoughts rushing through her mind. But then the rush seems to slow somehow. They aren't disappearing exactly, but even without something else to hold her attention she's finding them less pervasive. Less demanding. It isn't something she's exactly aware of. What she notices more than anything else is a clarity of thought and memory peeking through the clouds.
It's this and not any sort of pain that contorts her expression. The hidden parts about the massacre are making themselves felt in little bursts. A splash of blood becomes something real to her again. It's a life. A person. Someone she killed. Someone she so desperately needed to kill. It turns her stomach little by little and without realizing it a hand reaches out to grasp the bar in front of her because she's growing dizzy.]