Obviously, nothing like that happened.
Nicklas eyes me out of the corner of my eye. Sure, that's another sentence that came out wrong. At least Valeria isn't smart enough to notice sexual innuendos. Or maybe she just can't fathom ever having sex with a lesser. Or maybe just me in particular. I'm not hurt—she's a Human. I reciprocate by not entertaining such an idea.
Stop thinking that I'm coping. I'm not fucking coping. Some people have ideals that persist through delusions. More like ideal singular; my unbridled enmity for Humanity is the only dogma of mine that I truly feel connected to.
Valeria's upper uniform is off—there's a black tank top underneath, of course. Disinfectant floods the grievous wound. She stares me down, all peeved as I deftly wrap a tight bandage around her shoulder.
"Who taught you this?" she looks up at me as I work.
"Myself." When you get stabbed so many times, you pick up a thing or two, no?
"Who taught you how to fight?"
