Emotional Stress.
The words hit Ines like a slap.
Her mind did not go to the race. It did not go to the heat of the sun, or the noise of the crowd, or the tightness in her chest.
It went, instantly, to a small, dark, dusty shed that smelled of gun oil.
It went to Carcel. To his cold, logical, brutal rejection. To his words: "I will likely die. From your brother's hand." It went to the slam-door of humiliation. The rejection. The cold, aching disappointment. He was right but does her feelings have to be based on what society thinks is right or wrong?
It must have been then, she thought, her stomach twisting. It must have been when I was so upset with Carcel about what happened at the shed. That... that is what the doctor might have meant.
The realization was a new, fresh wave of humiliation. She had not just made a fool of herself in front of him. She had, quite literally, fainted from the rejection. It was the most pathetic, most dreadful thing she had ever done.
