“ You’re in a prison of your own sins. ”
A neat-brow arched with hollow amusement, her cherry stained lips crinkled into a half smile which was barely distinguishable in the low light, and she let out a faint scoff. A prison was one way to put it, but then she had never seen a warden walk around with the keys to secure her freedom. “ What sins are those? ” she purred with a faint French lilt to the tone of her voice, her eyes drifting over the tall glass of aged red wine - a hue not too dissimilar to her favourite beverage.
“ Your words suggest some measure of moral fibre, of which I have none. I have little time or patience for regret and guilt. I suggest that you save evaluations for a physiatrist who is paid to analyse others, for I doubt they would share your view. ”
