Ella had lost the difference between her physical wounds and the ones that could shake her in the very core of her being. Right now, she felt like the only strength she had left was just enough to get her to her bed where she could collapse and not move. But as much as she wanted to do that, as much as she knew walking away would be so much easier than letting him see her, she stayed where she was. "That's not," she started, but stopped again. Words, as he well knew, had never been her strong point. "When I was there it was like when we're here and I," she started again, but, once again, stopped. Fucking hell.
How could she even begin to tell him what was going on in her head without inviting him in there again at a point where she didn't want him to see everything in her head? How was she supposed to explain that the only thing she feared in life was losing her brother or losing him? She hated acknowledging these things in her own thoughts, much less saying them out loud. "Аз просто не очаквам да искам да остана," she managed, a bit more quietly than before. And she glanced back at him over her shoulder, her cheeks blotched red as she struggled between being angry and being...something else she couldn't quite pinpoint. She could feel her anger dissipating at the sight of him, but that didn't make her own situation much better. Anger was so much easier to deal with than the other.
She'd seen him pinning the girl to the wall. And, yes, she'd seen the knives, but they used knives, too. While she knew in the corner of her mind that she was being completely irrational, she couldn't shake the image, couldn't stand even the thought of him with someone else and she hated that she couldn't just let it go, hated that it bothered her so much in the first place. He'd killed his parents that day and all she could picture was the, apparently, dead girl. How fucked up was that?