[It's only the truth, which is why Ben doesn't understand when people call him kind because of it. He gives her her space and her silence, listening instead to the quiet piano music still playing on his CD player and trying to think of what else she might need from him at this time. The space, the quiet, is hers for as long as she needs it; his attention is optional, until she calls for it again.

Of course, the question is too broad for him, though he does wrestle with it for a moment. The confusion pulls his eyebrows together ever so slightly, bright brown eyes searching for what it is, exactly, she's wanting or needing to hear.]

What is what like? The sequence of events, the motivation, and my frame of mind before, during, and after all depends on why I've killed them.