She feels like she’s under a microscope with that studious gaze leveled on her. She wonders if it was always like that. Is that what Malcolm always felt from him? He was probably worse with her brother, he always had such a... strange attachment to the elder Whitly child.
She shouldn’t tell him. Telling him anything he might be able to somehow use or leverage against her is always a bad plan. But Ainsley isn’t always the best at thinking things through, and she’s feeling some type of way, and the words seem to just pour out of her mouth of their own volition like a waterfall she can’t stop from flowing.
“It was Endicott.” Those first three words are the hardest but even breathing that tiny fact out dulls the building hysteria that tries to claw its way out of her. Quiets the panic into something softer, a little detached. Not completely, and the guilt will be waiting for her when this flimsy mental wall inevitably collapses on itself. But for now it is her shield.
“He was- awful,” a grimace tells there’s so much more to that part of the story that she isn’t even telling. “He was threatening Malcolm. And he was just—” a sneer scrunches her face. “So sure of himself, that he would just get away with everything scott-free.” She's defiant this time, a child caught doing something she shouldn’t have, trying to explain it all away, “I just wanted him to shut up. Stop being so goddamn smug. Malcolm was never going to shoot him, and then he’d still be this— giant fucking problem and I- I couldn’t let that happen.”
She’s blank-faced as she delivers the final piece to the events. Voice flat. Eyes empty. “I grabbed a knife and I slit his throat. And I don’t know how many times I stabbed him after that.”
no subject
She feels like she’s under a microscope with that studious gaze leveled on her. She wonders if it was always like that. Is that what Malcolm always felt from him? He was probably worse with her brother, he always had such a... strange attachment to the elder Whitly child.
She shouldn’t tell him. Telling him anything he might be able to somehow use or leverage against her is always a bad plan. But Ainsley isn’t always the best at thinking things through, and she’s feeling some type of way, and the words seem to just pour out of her mouth of their own volition like a waterfall she can’t stop from flowing.
“It was Endicott.” Those first three words are the hardest but even breathing that tiny fact out dulls the building hysteria that tries to claw its way out of her. Quiets the panic into something softer, a little detached. Not completely, and the guilt will be waiting for her when this flimsy mental wall inevitably collapses on itself. But for now it is her shield.
“He was- awful,” a grimace tells there’s so much more to that part of the story that she isn’t even telling. “He was threatening Malcolm. And he was just—” a sneer scrunches her face. “So sure of himself, that he would just get away with everything scott-free.” She's defiant this time, a child caught doing something she shouldn’t have, trying to explain it all away, “I just wanted him to shut up. Stop being so goddamn smug. Malcolm was never going to shoot him, and then he’d still be this— giant fucking problem and I- I couldn’t let that happen.”
She’s blank-faced as she delivers the final piece to the events. Voice flat. Eyes empty. “I grabbed a knife and I slit his throat. And I don’t know how many times I stabbed him after that.”