"You won't tell us then? What it's like?"
"Is it because you have something to hide?"
"Or is it because it never actually happened?"
"Then tell us. Tell us what is it like."
"I was always the girl whose family asks 'What is wrong with you.' instead of 'What is wrong with you?'"
"And this has nothing to do with my ques-"
"If they had all just asked...I would tell them. I would tell them that my heart was torn into hundreds and thousands. And my lungs were still crushed from footholds. And my brain still sees two little girls laughing and playing. And my legs hurt from dragging myself from basements that never quite close. And the bone in my left arm has never healed because it protected me. And my arteries are still clogged with his name. And my wind pipe never quite feels open anymore. And my dreams and memories have turned to dust. And there is a part of me that wants to forget, but my mind just won't heal enough to let me sleep. And my spirit feels like it's reborn to a world which is so much crueller than the one before. That I have his name shaped in my mouth, my spine and every other part of me that actually counts."
"And you didn't tell us this earlier because..."
"Because, madam...how do you find the right way to describe the night someone stole your soul and sold you a bottle of broken dreams instead?"