All she really wanted was to feel safe.
People tried their best; she knew that. She appreciated it, really, but each sympathetic glance and softly spoken word directed her way only injected more poison into her rotting veins. What a despicable person, she laughed bitterly. All these wonderful people showing how much they truly cared about her in their own little ways, and all she could return was a snide scoff and a cold "thanks for comprehending."
Perhaps it was because she didn't care about them at all. Outwardly, she was empathetic and sweet, never forgetting to act like a lady and laugh even when a joke wasn't funny. She had forgotten a long time ago if this persona was fabricated or not; she supposed aspects of it had just woven themselves into her eventually. She had no idea how to even begin to approach this issue. Sometimes her stupid, intrusive thoughts quite enjoyed castrating her.
Many years had been wasted roaming a world of lies and mechanics. It was a beautiful little town, yet left her with a few, well, adjustments to make. She didn't know how to deal with real people at all, and in a way, she almost hated her father for it. She cared dearly for these machines because she knew they had to be genuine, and they couldn't ever lie or trick or backstab her; they'd been programmed that way, and didn't have a choice in the matter. But real people were scary and loud and diverse and unpredictable, and she couldn't step foot outside her home anymore for fear of their gossiping, gluttonous, violent, selfish, cold, lying-
She was quivering at this point. It was July, and she was working up a rather unappealing sweat tangled in her damp mattress, but the cold infecting her heart made her tremble anyhow. She still didn't know what to do about it.
The world was a truly despicable place, right down to the core, but she knew she couldn't go back to her little safe haven of robots. The whole idea of St Mystere was for someone to save her and take her away from it all; she was open minded and eager, of course, to be whisked dramatically away from that lonely tower, and yet... somehow, the pungent London fog had managed to dampen her spirits, her excitement, her faith. She hadn't quite realised that these people had developed thoughts of their own, and no matter how sweet or caring or likeable or adaptive she acted, sometimes people just didn't want that.
Perhaps that was the thing that hurt the most.
Perhaps she wasn't too good at adapting after all.
But she was so, so much worse at identifying what exactly was wrong with her.