She doesn't want to talk about why. Her whole life just is. He's boring with his questions and assumptions. "What's done is done, it can't be undone. What's the point?"
Maybe he'll stop coming for her. Maybe this brush outside his fantasy space will keep him away. Or he'll find another girl to beat the grit out from under him. She'd tried to do a good thing or at least some kind of good and of course, he would speculate on it. Now she realizes this has mushroomed over and has become some other kind of weed and she's ready to prune.
Letitia looks over at Owainn, eyes piercing through him, expression hard and then ignores him completely. She sits up, moves to the edge of the bed and slides her feet into her pink satin shoes with delicately embroidered rosebuds and daisies. They clash completely with how she is feeling. She doesn't feel dainty or pretty. She's restless.
She hates to be in his space. Hates to be in a place she's not particularly wanted. She doesn't want to talk, and she doesn't like feeling trapped.
Letitia begins to pace, avoiding the jutting, angry sunlight that sizzles through the gaps.
There are always gaps. Nothing is ever tight enough.
Compared to her room this place is a tomb and she was the one who was dead. She rights a picture frame that is face down. In the painted portrait is a young girl and a woman that looks a lot like she does. Pale skin, dark hair, blue-blue eyes. She knows instantly she shouldn't have touched it and tries to put it down again, fitting it back in the imprint its made in the dust.