"What is this?" She asks him quietly, and it's obvious she doesn't mean the blood (maybe because there's no way to know what it is) but she means them, she means him with his hand on her back, means the way she wants to kiss him and the way they danced in his room barefoot, and she'd sat half in his lap while he told her about art. About the drawing, about the bracelet, about the dress and the invitation. About how he'd stared at her when she'd ran into him, the way he said I've got you and had her go, told her to run - and the way he'd both taken her life from her and given it back on her birthday.

She doesn't know what this is, but she's in it, she's in the middle of it, and she's sliding further down, not escaping, because she doesn't want to escape.