"Might feel better," she says, crossing her arms. "Healthier than pretending everything's fine anyways. Cuz I know it ain't. It never is when you've had your mind fucked with."
Trixie chews on the inside of her mouth a little, looking away from him as she considers how truthful she wants to be. She'd guessed this was going to be part of being a warden, being transparent to one's inmate about certain things, but it unsettles her to tell him her weaknesses.
"Since I was little," she tells him, finally sitting back down. "Was just a girl when I was bought by my first pimp."
"Man who sells sex," she tells him, trying to keep it as simple as she can. "He...manages women, employs 'em, sets the prices and moves the girls like goods. Mine came to my orphanage in Chicago and bought a bunch of us -- don't have to tell you it wasn't a normal orphanage. Owner was constantly looking to make a buck."
She props open the door and brings her chair close to it so she can blow the smoke out into the hallway. Her match gets struck along the door jamb and she lights up, taking a careful drag and letting the nicotine soothe her nerves.
"Had a choice, either I go to New York City with a rich widow's money and an orphan girl we found outside of camp, or I go back to my pimp and he beats the hell out of me. I didn't belong in the city, but working at the brothel was Hell on Earth some days."
"One that gets to decide who she is, instead of being fucking told," she answers. "Nobody fucking judged me here. Nobody cared. Everyone had their own shit to deal with, and so when I tried to fall back to old habits they didn't let me."
"I guess you could call it that," she says, stubbing out the cigarette under her boot. She'll pick it up before she leaves; she wouldn't want to make a mess of the place. "Turn you into whatever version of yourself you were never allowed to be."
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Re: Post-breach
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She won't let him into her mind, so he has to do this the old fashioned way.
Asking.
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"Since I was little," she tells him, finally sitting back down. "Was just a girl when I was bought by my first pimp."
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He leans forward, interested but wanting to know all the pieces.
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"Man who sells sex," she tells him, trying to keep it as simple as she can. "He...manages women, employs 'em, sets the prices and moves the girls like goods. Mine came to my orphanage in Chicago and bought a bunch of us -- don't have to tell you it wasn't a normal orphanage. Owner was constantly looking to make a buck."
Re: Post-breach
cw suicide
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She reaches into one of her skirt pockets. "Mind if I smoke in here?"
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The doctors smoked. The guards smoked. He doesn't mind it.
...He smoked in the breach. He tries not to think about that.
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She props open the door and brings her chair close to it so she can blow the smoke out into the hallway. Her match gets struck along the door jamb and she lights up, taking a careful drag and letting the nicotine soothe her nerves.
"Had a choice, either I go to New York City with a rich widow's money and an orphan girl we found outside of camp, or I go back to my pimp and he beats the hell out of me. I didn't belong in the city, but working at the brothel was Hell on Earth some days."
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"I got the chance to be something more. Not some...used up whore who can barely read. I could be a real fucking person."
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"What is a 'real person' to you?"
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"Is that what you're trying to do to me? Turn me into a real person?"
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She nods towards the cake. "Want some?"
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No amount of being here is going to help that.
"Alright. I suppose."
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cw: derogatory term for a person with a disability
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