All the muscle went out of Warhol's body when the hand was removed by her chest; she dropped to her knees, barely steadying herself, taking big gulps of air and trying to focus her eyes and not thinking about how he could have just ripped it out easy as
that -- she retched a little, in the back of her throat, but managed to keep it down; and then she came back to herself and the present. But by that time, he was looking into her face and talking (
oh, Warhol thought fairly calmly,
he's not going to kill me, he would have if he was smart) and holding her chin.
She wouldn't give him anything. Not even a noise of assent, or a cry of fear, or the eye contact he so wanted. Warhol kept silent, barely managing not to whimper when her head was pushed into the fence, and when he finally lifted her up that was when she decided to speak. "...I'll do...what I have to do. I'm not going to beg you for mercy...that's gross."
