( There's an edge to it, cutting. Mean, petulant, as if the child feels wronged — blatant in the sudden, stiff tautness of his spine, in how he stomps close and firmly sets his hand on his umbrella's stick.
He does not tug for it, yet, but the possessive intent is there. )
You're sick, because sickness doesn't choose to hurt you. It just... is. It can't control itself. No one can. You came to where the sickness is.
no subject
You're wrong.
( There's an edge to it, cutting. Mean, petulant, as if the child feels wronged — blatant in the sudden, stiff tautness of his spine, in how he stomps close and firmly sets his hand on his umbrella's stick.
He does not tug for it, yet, but the possessive intent is there. )
You're sick, because sickness doesn't choose to hurt you. It just... is. It can't control itself. No one can. You came to where the sickness is.