"Yes it is. It always is."

It occurs to them that they can struggle too late, glove and hand tearing and flaking, badly-sewn cloth and old peeling paint together at once.

What a nasty woman.

"I'm not hungry," Frisk says flatly, shaking what's left of their hand over the table until it finally drops off with the sound of torn tissue paper, and red spills out.

Not blood. Leaves. Everywhere. And they're left flexing the needles that made up the bones of it. Rude, making it all exposed like that.