She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. Now, /now/, they think of her, when she’s finally decided she can’t take it any more, when she’s ready for there not to be any more pain, any more anything?
She dropped to sit on the edge, arms shaking, and just stared at Percival. “A picnic,” she said, finally. She choked on a hysterical laugh. “Don’t play, Percival. Sir Knight.”
Percival started when she suddenly sat. He shuffled over to sit next to her, albeit further from the ledge. His brow lowered and he reached to rest his hand on hers. “Yes, a picnic. But if you’d rather, you and I can have one right here instead.”
Summer slipped her hand from under his. Why /now/? She blinked, and a tear rolled down her face. “I don’t — no thank you, Sir Knight.” Carefully formal. Deliberate distance. She couldn’t bear to let him — any of them — in again and be hurt again. They’d forget about her, soon enough, like always. “Can you please just let me alone to die?” she mumbled.