34.1 Quote
She stares blankly at the tharapist. It's a man this time. Seems her regular person is on holidays. For a moment she wonders what that woudl be like. Her one effort during that cruise with Barbara, well that's probably not a good measuring stick for such things.
The Asian girl pulls her attention back to teh man behind the desk. “Pardon?” She asks. Already is big on that response. He had explained that it was easy to be polite, contemptuous or anything in between with that one; she need only use the right tone. Of course, knowing what the right tone was would have helped a lot, but she's still trying to figure that one out.
Thankfully her lack of comprehension seemed to translate as the reedy therapist repeated himself. “Fairytales don’t tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairytales tell children that the dragons can be slain. G.K. Chesterton said that. I would like to know what you think of that idea.” He smiles at her. It's probably meant to be reassuring but it leaves her feeling slimy.
She doesn't like him. At all. There is something very wrong about his eyes, the set of his mouth. It's distracting. The girl frowns to herself and the idiot's smile becomes pleased.
“Yes. No.” She says firmly.
The man raises an eyebrow at her. “Please elebrorate.” His tone is so patronizing, as if he thinks her little more then a child. Not that he's the first to think such. More then a few people have lept to the same conclusion about her based on her lack of verbal communication skills.
“Monsters real. Very real.” She should know, along with the rest of her family. And sometimes it was her family-depending on the defination-were the monsters. Sometimes she wondered if she was as well. But that said, “Not teach. People teach.”
Now the man is frowning, shifting. It reminds her of some of the men her father dealt with. The ones that had a hidden agenda. Cain had done little that was actually beneficial to her, but he had taught her how be strong so she could deal with those that came against her.
“I don't understand,” the therapist says failing to hide his scowl. Clearly he thinks she's being deliberately reticent.
“No. You don't,” she agrees and she doubts he would even if she could get the words out. After all, would he be able to grasp the idea of her being raised without language, that she didn't have bedtime stories? Probably not.
Thankfully the timer dings. Getting up, she leaves without a word, careful not to give the shifty man her back.